From: jstoy Date: Fri, 07 Jan 2000 21:42:35 GMT Subject: NEW: In the Well (1/1) In the Well by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu) website: http://members.tripod.com/~j_stoy/writing.html rating: PG-13 classification: VA spoilers: Irresistible summary: Bells and footfalls and darkness and fear. And she can't stop what's coming her way. archive: Gossamer, all others by permission disclaimer: I don't own Scully, Donnie, et al. 1013 and CC and FOX do, no infringement intended. She can hear the church bells in her head. She tells herself there are no church bells, only the sounds of the motor running and the noise of the road under the tires. But her bells ring so loud, like it was Easter Sunday, Judgement Sunday, bright and cold and endless, tolling her life, maybe signaling her death. She can hear them as clear as day, ringing-- Ding dong ding dong ding ding ding dong-- ding-dong-bell, pussy's in the well-- Who put her in? Put her in this trunk in the dark and the cold the dark and the cold the dark the cold the dark cold dark-- she bites back a frightened, hysterical sob. She won't be afraid. She's not afraid. She's an adult, after all. Children are afraid of the dark and she's supposed to protecting the children, isn't she, protecting the world against the predators and monsters wearing button-down shirts. It's her job to defeat the bad guys, not to cry about them. Fine job she's doing, too, thinks, shivering in the darkness, feeling weak and sick in the cold airlessness. She has a gun and a shitload of FBI training and a clever mind, but she can't seem to stop anyone. Instead she collects monsters the way her sister used to collect phone numbers. Shivering and weary, she tallies her monsters and refuses to cry. Monsters in sweatshirts who won't let Them take him again, oh no, and monsters who would kill her not for herself, but just for her red hair-- and she almost cries then, being trapped in a car trunk just because her hair is a pretty Irish red and her mother had begged that they go together and get a manicure just the week before. But she's a grown woman, stronger than most women, and most men, too. No tears, even if the rocking and bumping around in the darkness remind her of the last time she was-- The church bells start to ring again. Why are the church bells ringing? It's not Sunday and it's been four or five years since she's been at a church except for Christmas and Easter. There's no sense at all to it, none at all. But what sort of sense is there in a world like this? It's a place full of irrational, dark shadows that grasp at her like the hands that put her in the trunk, tying her hands together, putting a handkerchief in her mouth so she wouldn't scream, stealing her voice. She struggles with the ropes at her wrists again, feeling the smooth nylon fiber rub painfully against her wrists and it's deja vu all over again, tied up in the trunk and the devil is controlled and directed by his red right hand and she's alone and the church bells keep ringing. She has to breathe in slowly so she doesn't scream or cry. Much good it would do her, alone in a tiny car trunk that feels like a coffin. Nobody would hear her. The monster has her voice and she's the pussy in the well, thrashing around, drowning, for someone's twisted pleasure. Who put her in? Little Duane Barry, little Donnie Pfaster-- and she wonders, not for the first time, why her. Eyes closed, teeth set in her lower lip, she thinks this to a silent God, the whys of the situation. Once is coincidence, twice-- if only the bells would stop ringing, ding dong bell, in the still of the night. If it could only be a dream, she could stop asking why. She twists her hands again and the sting of rope against skin reminds her this is no nightmare. This is real. She's trapped in a car trunk that could be her tomb or a portal to something worse. Knowing who's sitting behind the wheel of the late-model white Ford, it's going to be much, much worse. With her eyes closed, alone with her mental church bells, she can see her future if someone doesn't get her out of this well. If Mulder doesn't get her out of this well-- Cold hands. She had felt them on her before, while she groggily looked up from the steering wheel. Her vision had been blurred. If she had been just a little more alert, she might have been able to get away, get to her gun, but he had looked like something else. Something not of this earth, but something strangely, sickeningly familiar. And her breath had caught in her throat as she, stunned and frightened, froze, a deer in the headlights and by the time she recognized the man as Pfaster, he had her pinned against the seatback-- then those reptilian hands on her skin-- god make him stop make him stop, she prayed as her stomach turned in terror-- wrapping a lock of bright red hair around his filthy finger-- the sensation of it tickling her cheek and she couldn't move a millimeter, not one stray breath escaped her-- she sat like an ice sculpture and stared forward hoping she would melt-- and she couldn't cry, no tears no tears-- he might kill her right there with that knife, let her blood trickle onto her suit, waiting for her to die so he could take her hair, sniff it, run her hair against his cheek and smile-- she had wanted to vomit then, but remained ice, ice that couldn't melt as he tied her hands together, admonished her to stay quiet, and thrown her into the trunk, a proud new acquisition. The future is coming for her. He is waiting to get them off the road and she can see him in the upcoming moments. His eyes will be alight with pleasure as the other hand fondles a knife, waiting only for the water to get deep and cold-- oh God. Oh God, oh God, she whispers to herself, sick to her stomach, freezing with fear and the cold in the Minnesota winter air. She closes her eyes very tight and the bells toll, marking her heartbeat, marking time before her important parts can be cut away, leaving the real, corrupt woman behind, dead. His thoughts are in her head and she wants to die now, die before he can touch her again with his sick thoughts or his cold, cold hands. The car hits a fierce bump and she's slammed against something hard, and before she can stop it, she cries out and tears of pain slide down her cheeks, prompting a rush of sobbing as she thinks of dying in a cold bath as a demon leers over her head, waiting for her body to still so he can defile it. She doesn't want to die, she doesn't want to be in another trunk waiting for a great white light-- She wants to get out, out out out, kick this motherfucker in the shortribs when he comes around to the trunk, mild and meek and utterly deadly. Her body is swimming with adrenaline, shivering with it even as the tears sting her cheeks with salt and make the scrape on her chin burn. Her hands pull against the rope, doing nothing, as something quivering and idiotic panics in her, thrashing in fear as icy as well-water. Don't let me die, she thinks, kicking and thrashing and sobbing, please please God please Daddy please Mulder someone please, don't let me die. Not tonight. Her sobs tear against the air, in counterpoint to her bells. Please please please, she thinks, shuddering as the car rumbles and bounces towards eternity. I don't want to die, please! Reality hits her like another bump on the road as the car starts slowing. Nobody's going to save her but her, she realizes as the car turns and she bumps her head against the metal again. She can't count on anyone, maybe not even God, and she can't stop that trunk from opening and Donnie being there and wanting her for her bright red hair. But she can be brave. She can fight this time, because there's no way in hell she's just going to roll over and give up the ghost. Oh hell no. She didn't just come back from God knows where and fight a mystery disease to let this be the end. Not tonight, even as her fingers get numb from the cold and the way the ropes strangle her circulation. Make the bells stop, she tells herself, slowing her breathing down. Just make them stop. It's in your head, it's your fear, you can stop it. It's cold, you're afraid, you're locked in a trunk and you can't breathe but if you don't make the bells go away you'll be paralyzed by the fear and it'll be the bright light and the cold water and this time you won't find yourself in a bed somewhere. She forces her gasps to quiet, to get still, to think and push that fear down, somewhere beyond her fingertips. When he comes for you, let him, she thinks. Let him take you in the house, wherever. Somewhere you can see. Somewhere that's not icy and cold and full of tools he can use to beat your head in if you struggle. Discretion is the better part of valor. Her breathing gets calmer even as her heartbeat continues to race and a few stray tears remain, cooling, on her cheeks. She's going to fight, to protect the world from the monsters that prey on the innocent. And if she's the innocent-- well? She has still been trained to combat those who would victimize her. Her fight won't be in vain even if it's to survive. The future is not white light and the cold, reptilian fingers of the thing driving the car, she thinks to herself, closing her eyes, but not tightly. The future is unwritten. She's not the pussy in the well. The bells are only in her head and they're not ringing for a funeral. She's strong. She can be brave. She has to be brave. There will be no more tears, just the whisper of her own breathing and the beating of her own heart as she waits for the roar of the motor to stop. stop. stop... THE END Thanks go out to my beta readers, and to the OBSSE mailing list with all the discussion on the ep this week. You guys are the best. It may be pathetic, but I'm not too proud to beg: Please send feedback! jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu