From Jelyna@rocket.com Sun May 18 22:21:55 1997 Subject: Monster (1/1) From: Jelyna@rocket.com -------- I don't normally do "watch and write" stories, but this one just kinda flowed out. Feedback is, as always, appreciated-- now that I've unzubbed from several lists, I actually have time to respond to my email. :-) SPOILERS: "Gethsemane"!!!!! Be warned now!!!!! Rating: PG-13-- one swear word Classification: V Summary: Scully muses on what did happen, and what could happen, after the events of "Gethsemane." Disclaimer: They belong to CC, 1013, and FOX. I just borrow 'em. *** Monster by Jelyna I am, when all is said and done, a coward. I never saw the basement office again.... I couldn't bring myself to walk in the door and see the nameplate proclaiming "Fox Mulder." Breaking down in front of the committee was bad enough. Crying in the office would have felt like breaking down in front of his ghost. Bill was still at Mom's house when I drove there. I'm not sure how I made it-- I remember nothing of the drive, and even then, the day's events were becoming a huge blur. Only one image remained, seared into my head. Mulder's face, as innocent in death as he had been in life, marred only by the wound. A surreal picture... I have seen many dead bodies, many in more horrifying condition. But nothing like that. To be honest, I don't even know how I told them. I don't remember Bill's words of that day. I only remember his words of the previous day.... "Where is he?" Where is he, Bill? He's dead, and it's as good as by my hand. What had I expected? What, indeed? Had I really thought to hear "Oh my god, Scully, you're right. The aliens don't exist. They've made it all up, and everything I've believed is all a lie."? He had stalked off that night after I had thrown my last weapon in his face -- my own death. I gambled my last dollars on the hope; nay, belief, that my life meant something to him, the foolish, selfish wish that he might focus some of that anger and passion on saving *my* life, instead of searching for his sister's. The dice came up snake-eyes, and I lost everything. He proved he cared in a way I'd never even imagined... I have no doubts that my last, sharp words to him were the final shove off the cliffs of sanity. In the twisted world he lived in, my illness was his fault. Damn him, it always came down to him. I cried in my mother's arms all night. Bill left after offering me empty words of solace, unable to comprehend what the last four years had done to me. I am a shell of the woman he called 'sister' for my first 30 years. I have been pushed, prodded, yanked, teased.... my head has been fucked with, my soul has been sold, my heart has been trampled, beaten, and finally broken. I only have myself to blame ... it would be so easy to blame Mulder, but I can't. I chose to stay in his world; I chose him, and the versions of the truth he chose to believe. I made it my life, as much as it was his. He took that life with him, and now I have nothing. Not even my own future. The FBI put me on a full-pay leave of absence, after I agreed to see a psychologist about my partner's death. I very nearly made an appointment, but my fingers dialed the travel agent instead, and I found myself on a plane to Florida before I could think rationally again. That was two months ago. I have been living at this boarding house in Fort Lauderdale, watching the college kids tear everything apart on their summer break. I sleep most of the day, and drink most of the night. I never went on spring break as a college student...I guess this is it. I haven't seen a doctor since I've been here, and quite frankly, I don't want to know. If I die, it might as well be here, while I sleep off the gin and tonic. Yesterday, a colleague called me. I don't know how he got my number ... my mother, probably, since she's the only one who knows where I am. He spoke softly, as if he was afraid of being overheard. After a moment, I found out why. He'd done the autopsy on Mulder, and found some very strange things, things that he'd been ordered to keep quiet. Things that made him wonder if the body that was cremated and buried in Massachusetts was really Fox William Mulder. I hung up on him. But yet I wonder. I've seen things that would explain why the body I identified would be Mulder, and yet not Mulder. Clones ... hell, it could have even been Eddie Van Blundht. But I cannot think of it. Even if it means more alcohol, even things of a stronger nature, I cannot follow that path. Because, to grasp that shred of hope would cause me to believe. And, to believe would make me a monster. It would make me Mulder.