Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
From: Bryherl@aol.com (Dan Mcafee)
Subject: A Poem of Scully's
Date: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 19:17:11 GMT


	Dana Scully was alone.  She sat looking out the window of her
darkened apartment at the night.  She took a sip of the red wine she'd
been nursing since dinner, a TV dinner she'd only picked at.  She was
still dressed in her work clothes, a light green skirt and jacket over
a white blouse, but she had removed her heels and hose.  She held a
slip of paper in her left hand.  Her apartment was quiet, with even
the white noise of printer having died away when she had turned it off.

	Her mind wouldn't stop, nor would it move ahead.  She felt she
had lost control.  The areas of her life where she felt the most
competent, areas like teaching, medical and physical science, law 
enforcement and many others, were also the areas she had spent the
least amount of her time these last two years.  Worse, the way she
*had* spent her time made her feel downright incompetent.  She had
been overpowered by ordinary citizens involved in cult activities
at least three times, by the serial killer Donny Pfaster, by the
ex-FBI agent Duane Barry... she'd had to give up important criminal
evidence in trade for Mulder, she seldom had any instincts at all
about what was going on, or who was telling the truth or even what,
in the end, was possible in the world.

	Her abduction by Pfaster had been the worst of all, perhaps
because she could remember it so well... and that was where her mind
was stuck as if wallowing in quicksand.  She raised the paper to read
again the poem she had written.

 	In silence but that night can give,
 	my lover soughs a breath that summons me
 	to shadows.  He holds me there a captive
 	of unconfessed desire till I agree
 	to let him penetrate my flesh tonight.
 	Shall I sleep forever?  Or shall I flee.
 	My will evacuates that he might
 	wax the greater.  I move, with him within,
 	and touch my lips to his in quick delight.
 	I do not let him come, but just begin--
 	these nights I know he cannot stay, I kiss
 	his wrists, my tongue a blade upon his skin.
 	My lover is my death.  He finds his bliss
 	in silence but that night can give.

	   -------------------------

	She wished she could call Mulder and tell him... tell him
what?  That she was losing herself?  That she wasn't sure of who
she was anymore?  That she found herself thinking about how the
world would look if she hadn't survived her brushes with death?
That sometimes a thin slice from her razor across her forearm and
the sight of her own blood made her feel more alive than anything?
Nothing dangerous, nothing deadly... just a scratch, a kiss of the
blade along her arm. 

	She couldn't tell him.

	Dana envied him so much.  People thought he was a loose
cannon, but he was anchored by his belief and by his cause.  She
envied him his anchors... she had none.  She let herself cry now,
but no release from her thoughts came with it.  She knew that
tomorrow she would be Scully again, smiling at his dry humor,
trading barbs with him, holding him down to earth with a center
she no longer had.

	A knock at the door.  "Package for Dana Scully."

	"Just a minute."

	Dana wiped her eyes and opened the door.  The delivery boy
was young, uncurious.  She signed for the package, tipped him, and
he left.  She returned to her chair and wine and opened it.

	It was a colored, leaded glass music box.  She could see the
works inside, and there was a small compartment to put earrings or
her necklaces.  When she opened it, it played a song she recognized
as "There's Got to be a Morning After."  She smiled.  Wiped her eyes
again.  There was a card.


   	            This Is My Heart

  	This is my heart and everything inside
 	becomes a treasure, captured and complete.
  	On nights you gently open it beside
 	you on your bed, remember, bittersweet,
 	the laughter in our words when we're alone,
 	the tether of our minds when first we met.
 	Return.  Return.  Remember all we've known
 	and keep it in this box:  an amulet
 	against the distance and our times apart.
 	This is my heart, and when you come inside,
 	you'll cast your bowing sunlight's gentle art
 	across the walls.  Lie with me beside you
 	till the colored afterlight shines through.
 	Hold this in your hands, and I'll be with you.

	 -----------------------------------

	Dana,
           I saw this and thought of you.  Hope you like it.

		- Fox

			 - dan