From: LookABloom Date: 26 Jan 1999 22:01:19 GMT Subject: NEW: My Death, by L. Bloom (1/1) Title: My Death Author: L. Bloom Rating: PG just because.. Category: Post-Episode Navel-Gazing Spoilers: Tithonius Acronyms: V, A, H. Mostly just a V. :-) Archive: Most assuredly, just drop me a love note. Summary: Scully POV, pontificating, deep thoughts, and just a smidgen of angst here and there. It's like a post-episodic stew. Without the carrots. I hate carrots. Disclaimer: Not mine. Title and influence comes from the Black Romantic, Jacques Brel. You can hear the song at www.jacklukeman.com, in the Music section (requires RA). Does that make this SongFic? Should I start running now? Note: There should be a companion piece to this following shortly, Mulder POV. I welcome encouragement. My Death By L. Bloom "My death waits like a Bible truth At the funeral of my youth, Weep loud for that and the passing time-" My mother worries that I don't make enough time for myself. My sister used to refer to it as "Me-Time," the moments of the day she set aside for meditation, spiritual contemplation, or whatever modern term she liked to throw into an otherwise coherent conversation. Both my mother and my sister enjoyed what I call a feminine compulsion to navel-gaze, whether by the light of a single candle, as Melissa would do, or, as my mother prefers, between the covers of a thick Stephen King novel. Together and apart they would accuse me of workaholism, or, avoiding self-confrontation, which sounded more like annoying talk-show psychobabble than relative concern for my well-being. It's not true, I insist. I have plenty of time to myself these days. Long car trips provide me with countless hours inside my own head, the occasional stakeout is fine for thought, despite Mulder's constant, seed-crackling presence beside me on both occasions. It doesn't bother me, a lot of times my thoughts tend to hover in his realm, anyway. Though not always. Sometimes, they hover around Ralph Fiennes. Make that most of the time. But the period of time where I get the most constructive self-analysis done is when I am in the hospital, something I used to dread when I was a little girl of tonsilitis and an uncooperative appendix. Now, though, I admit that it is rather macabre to say that I am used to being prone in a mechanical bed, with stinging little hoses sprouting from my wrists like clear plastic vines, attached to beeping machinery designed to keep me alive, at least until the Bureau insurance claim goes through. So, as I said, I am used to it, and it is with little surprise that, once again, I awaken one fine spring evening to an intense ache in my lower abdominal regions, the familiar peeping of a heart monitor in my ear like an eager little bird. It only takes a moment before I can conjure up the memory of standing behind an old man with a camera, seeing the bullet pass through his body like a tiny, speeding comet and feeling its impact into my own flesh. Pain is metallic, much in the way blood tastes and smells. If it is intense enough, it leaves an aftertaste in your mouth and a lingering memory of its visit in your throat. I clear it, rattling it around in my esophagus like pebbles in a brook. There is still a small rock of pain caught in there, making it hard to swallow. I haven't the foggiest idea what actually happened. I think Agent Ritter may have shot me, but who can be sure? The only thing I'm even remotely certain of is that Mulder is in the building - the FBI's answer to Elvis Presley - and if 'MonkeyBoy' did shoot me, whether by accident or otherwise, he more than likely has a new asshole or two by now. I smile to myself, and the slight motion of my lips makes my jaw ache. I hadn't realised I'd been clenching it. I wonder why. I suppose I've been subconsciously tense since Felig turned to me in his darkroom and told me to 'count my blessings.' His expression was the same, almost-sad mask of indifference he'd had when he'd pointed out the hooker who despite my attempts to interfere walked straight into the path of destiny, played by a large truck. I wonder what he saw, when he saw the marked. Did we have big neon signs above our heads? Marks on our brows? Were we mauve or green or did we have a subtle nightlight's glow? I'll never know. I just know that when he looked at me, I was marked. Chosen. He saw my death, waiting among the blackest, cowering shadows of that tiny darkroom. Mulder says I cheated death. But perhaps the reason I am here to listen to him say that is because Felig cheated me. To believe his story is to believe that he stole something - by his description, very valuable to me. Something I should have appreciated more, particularly now that it is gone. Is it gone? Felig took my death and ran, as if he'd wrenched the expensive shoes off the stilled feet of a death youth. Should I feel violated? Robbed? Does my death still coil about my head like my hair, waiting to be breathed in like some spectral mist, exhaled along with my life, in one, even breath? I can't rightly believe some old man with a maudlin fetish has stolen my death. This is not a singular event, first of all. How many times have I been prostrate upon a bed such as this one, recovering from some malady or another? So many times I should have died, perhaps I am dead already but without the sense to lay down and be done with it. Of course my work keeps me alive (as often as it tries to kill me), and Mulder, and my mother. I have made more than one miraculous recovery from more than one miraculous ailment. And Mulder has had as much trouble dying as I do. It is so tempting to take out these I.V.s and disconnect the machines, to see if I can recover on my own. Walking wounded, like Felig and his knife-wounds to the shoulders. Healing on my own like some divine, untouchable thing. My fingers flutter over the needle in my right wrist vein, for only a moment, before I let them fall lightly to the sheet once again. Best not to tempt the fates too many times. Who knows when they will tire of this game, tire of their little redheaded action-figure and tire of fixing her up when she breaks. I honestly thought that was Death walking through that curtain. I will admit that to myself, in this silent room. Death looked like a young FBI agent, a hedgehog named Ritter. I suppose I could reason that death takes whatever form necessary, and when I rescued that hooker - attempted to, that is - I did nothing to affect the outcome of her destiny. She was meant to die. Had I not been there, that thug may have killed her. Had someone else intervened, the truck surely would have. A piano could have fallen on her head as she walked home. No matter what, her time was up. Perhaps mine was as well, that following afternoon, and perhaps not. Had I been shot and Felig not there to steal my thunder, so to speak, I may well have died. How can I possibly know? I could know. Just rip these wires from my body, slide out of the bed and propel myself toward the door. To see if there is anything for me beyond it. Would I cause jaws to drop as I walked out healthy, nervous barefoot steps upon cold tile? Or would I crumple to the floor, quivering from laments said on my behalf and the final beat of my heart? It is tempting. But, as my thoughts wind down and the door opens with a visitor, I conclude that I have far too much to lose in life to investigate the disappearance of my death. I am not going to open the door. Because in front of it, Mulder, there is you. End. Feedback gets you into heaven where there is life after the seventh season. Flames come back to haunt you like a second-year plothole.