From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 5 Aug 2002 15:28:40 -0000
Subject: Purgatory (1/2) by Li\'l Gusty
Source: direct

Reply To: lil_gusty@hotmail.com


Title: Purgatory (1/2) (ninth part of the Trefoil Series)
Classification: SAR
Keywords: implied MSR, AU
Rating: R
Distribution: Sure, just let me know where
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to 
            Mr. Chris Carter, lucky, bastard
Spoilers: None
Feedback: yes!  to lil_gusty@hotmail.com 
Thanks: at the end
Notes: this is the ninth (and final) part of my Trefoil Series.  
       For missing parts, go to 
       http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/trefoil.html

Summary: Somewhere between Heaven and Hell where the sins are 
         purged and the soul is cleansed.

<><><><><><>

"Some say life will beat you down, break your heart, steal your 
crown.  So I started out for God knows where; I guess I'll know 
when I get there."

             ~ Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

<><><><><><>

"Do you see him?" he asks, clutching at my hand desperately.  "Do 
you see him?" 
 
I try and say that no, I don't, I have more important things on 
my mind right now, like why he isn't calling 911 and how I should 
be mentally assessing my vitals: respiration, heart rate, how 
much blood is pouring out of the gaping hole in my stomach, but I 
find it difficult to think in complete sentences, let alone 
communicate them aloud.  Instead, I just breathlessly moan, 
swallowing reflexively against the blood rising in my throat.  My 
stomach has been perforated, letting the blood seep in: not 
good.  Not good at all. 
 
He tilts the camera around his neck up to his face; the lens is 
broken, blood spilling out of it as well.  Undaunted, he reaches 
for another camera on his table, pointing it at me and focusing, 
seeming not to notice that I'm dying in front of him and he's 
doing nothing. 
 
Then, suddenly, he puts the camera down, taking hold of my hand 
again.  I can barely feel his old, wrinkled fingers on mine now.  
"Don't look," he says quietly, afraid that "He" might hear.  
"Close your eyes." 
 
Is he saving me?  Telling me his secret, how he avoided Death for 
over one hundred years?  Obligingly, I close my already leaden 
eyelids.  Immediately, I hear a gasp from the old man, then the 
jarring of the table as he leans back against it, dead.  
Everything goes white, then, and I hear voices shouting. 
 
This is how it ends.  In a dark, musty apartment in Brooklyn.  
Miles from home and people who love me.  Alone.  In pain, so much 
pain it makes me nauseous and dizzy.  This isn't fair.  It's not 
supposed to end like this.  Clyde Bruckman said so.  He said that 
I didn't die.  Not that I won't or that I can't, I don't, 
implying that I was supposed to die but now, for some reason, I 
just don't.  Death doesn't happen to me.  It skips me, like 
Alfred Fellig just taught me: how to skip Death. 
 
'Because I would not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me...' 
 
Except he won't stop for me, ever.  I don't die.  Not in a dark, 
musty apartment in Brooklyn.  Not from a single friendly-fire 
gunshot wound to the gut.  Never.

<><><><><><>

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the cold.  So, so 
cold.  I've never been this cold before, even in Antarctica, 
naked, being pulled out of freezing liquid.  I'm shivering 
violently, but yet, I can't move.  I can't feel anything below my 
wrists and ankles.  Maybe my fingers and toes are frostbitten, 
dead.  Am I dead?  Is that what this feels like?  If Hell is 
burning hot, it would make sense that Heaven is icy cold, though 
I can't imagine how that feeling could be Heavenly.  Maybe this 
is Purgatory, the cold a means of making you uncomfortable until 
God decides what to do with you for All Eternity.  I'll save you 
the trouble, God.  I killed myself; therefore, I go to Hell.  
That's one thing the nuns taught us that I actually still 
believe.

But somehow, I don't think Purgatory gives you a semi-comfortable 
mattress, thick, warm blankets, a soft pillow, and antiseptic-
smelling sheets.

I feel like absolute shit.  Aside from being so cold my bones 
ache, my throat is raw and my stomach feels like it's exploded.  
I feel nauseous, shaky, weak.  My head is throbbing behind my eye 
lids, my skin feels tight and itchy, and my mouth tastes like 
charcoal smells.  Yes, absolute shit.

Purgatory also doesn't offer you an oxygen canula and IVs.  When 
I can finally move my fingers again, I ache to scratch my eyes.  
As I pull my hands up, another thought occurs to me: Purgatory 
doesn't restrain you, either.  I must not be in Purgatory, then.  
I must be in Hell.

I futilely pull at my restraints some more, rattling the plastic 
bed rails and jostling the IV in the top of my right hand.  When 
my eyelids finally manage to drag themselves over the sand in my 
eyes, I squint at the midday sun spilling through the blinds on 
the thick-paned windows and turn my head away.  There's another 
window, one that looks out onto a Nurses' desk and all the people 
walking up and down the hallway.  Some are visiting loved ones, 
some are taking care of the sick.  No one even glances at my 
room.

I look down at my body: straps cross over my legs and hips, 
pinning me to the bed.  My arms, what I can see of them, are 
faintly blue against the bleach-white of the blanket and the 
dirty white of the well-used restraints.  I must be in the 
hospital, which means that someone found me in that motel room.  
I wonder who it was.  It wasn't Mulder; he's probably home by 
now, having forgotten about me.  It wasn't Ethan; he's probably 
drawing up the divorce papers right now.  Who else is there?  
There is no one else.

Tears start sliding from the corners of my eyes, down my temples, 
and into my hair.  No one else.  I'm alone.  Really alone.

Just then, the door swings open and a pretty young nurse comes 
in.  "Good afternoon, Dana.  It's about time you woke up," she 
chirps.  I look at her, my eyes wide, wondering how she knows my 
name.

"Dr. Jesus wanted to know when you woke up.  He wants to talk to 
you."  Finally noticing my bewildered expression, she pats my 
arm, checking my IV at the same time.  "Do you know where you 
are, honey?  Your name is Dana, isn't it?"

More tears: how does this woman know me?  And why is she being so 
nice to me?

"You're at North Fulton Regional Medical Center, honey.  A 
housekeeper at a motel found you unconscious in bed this morning 
and called 911."

My face crumples as I struggle to hold back anguished sobs.  No, 
no!  No one was supposed to find me!  No one was supposed to 
care!

"It's all right, honey.  You're safe now.  You're gonna be just 
fine.  I'll go page Dr. Jesus, okay?  Do you need anything?  Is 
there anyone we can call for you?  Your husband, maybe?"

I strain to sit up, pulling at the straps over my hips.  I want 
out.  I want back in that motel with my pills and sleep.

"Calm down, baby, it's okay.  Who do you want me to call?" she 
coos, pushing me back into the mattress.

Frustrated, I pound my fists against the bed, letting out a yelp 
when the skin stretches over the needle in the hand.  I let the 
sobs come, not caring who hears me.  Who is there to care anyway?

The nurse slips her hand into mine, pulling my fingers out of a 
tight fist.  "Calm down," she repeats.  "You don't want to pull 
the IV out."

Yes, I do!  I want to leave!  I want to go and sleep forever!  
Dammit!  I'm too weak to keep fighting, though.  My head lolls 
back onto the pillow and my taut muscles go slack.  I whimper 
miserably and the nurse just smoothes my hair away from my face, 
making shushing sounds.

"You just lay right here, baby.  I'll go page the doctor, okay?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, just walks slowly out of the 
door.  I watch her as she approaches the desk, picks up a phone, 
and dials a few numbers.  She chats with one of the other nurses, 
then picks up a chart and walks back down the hallway, away from 
me.  Always away from me.

A few minutes later, a tall, dark skinned man knocks on the door, 
then walks in, scribbling on a chart and not watching where he's 
going.  "Mrs. Minette?  I'm Dr. Jesus," he says with a slight 
accent, finally looking up.  "How are you feeling?"

The way he's towering over me, steeling his dark eyes on me, 
intimidates me.  I sink further into the mattress, cowering away 
from him and not answering.

"Mrs. Minette, did the nurse tell you what happened?"

Yes, she did.  My chest heaves, wondering what the repercussions 
of that will be.

"From what the police have told us about the way they found you, 
it strongly suggests that you took those pills with the alcohol 
in order to kill yourself.  Is that what happened?"

More whimpering.  I took enough of those pills so that I wouldn't 
have to worry about this.

The doctor makes a gruff, dissatisfied face while he frowns.  
"You're going to have to talk to me, Mrs. Minette.  If you don't, 
I'm afraid I'll have to assume that your intention was lethal and 
we'll have to hold you here until we can arrange a transfer to a 
hospital where you can recover."

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, wondering if this is just one of 
those phases of hell Dante talked about.

"Okay, it's your choice.  We tried to contact your husband at 
home and at work, but were unable to reach him.  Is there anyone 
else we can call?"

No.  No one else.

"Mrs. Minette, I've asked that a Psychiatrist come down to talk 
to you.  He's going to evaluate you so that we have a better idea 
of how to proceed with your care, but you're going to have to 
talk to him."

I don't want to talk to anyone.  I don't want to proceed with my 
care.

Dr. Jesus sighs.  "He'll be down in a few minutes."  With that, 
he leaves.

I don't want to talk to a fucking Psychiatrist.  I want to leave 
here, go someplace warm and secluded where no one can find me and 
sleep.  I just want to sleep... 

Tapping on the door.  "Dana?  Are you awake?" 

What is this, the Bullpen at the Hoover Building?  Go the fuck 
away! 

He walks in, standing between the window and me, blocking the 
sunlight.  Pulling the chair up from the wall, he settles himself 
in front of me.  "Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson.  I'd like to talk to you 
for a few minutes, okay?"  

No, not okay.  Go back to your Sesame Street.  You're not old 
enough to be a doctor.

"Dana, Dr. Jesus has told me that there's a strong suspicion that 
you tried to kill yourself last night.  I want to talk to you 
about that, okay?  You can tell me anything that you feel like 
you need to and I'll listen.  I just want to help you, okay?  Can 
you tell me what happened last night?  Why you were in the 
motel?"

Because my husband threw me out after I confessed the truth, my 
infidelity with a man that I'm irrevocably in love with who, as 
it turns out, has abandoned me because I wouldn't tell my husband 
the truth.

The doctor waits patiently for me to respond aloud.  When I 
don't, he writes something on his chart, then studies me for a 
moment, methodically scanning my hair, face, eyes, and what he 
can see of my body.  Unnerved, I turn my head away, towards the 
Nurses' station and close my eyes.

"Can you tell me why you felt like you had to take your own life, 
Dana?" he asks in a soft, placating tone.

Because, I don't want to be alone.  I don't want to live a life 
that I've screwed up so badly.

"Dana, are you going to talk to me?"

No.  Go away.

I hear him stand, then, the chair scraping across the tiled 
floor.  "Okay, Dana.  I'm not going to force you to talk, but I 
do want you to listen," he says as he ambles to the other side of 
the bed to face me.  I don't give him the satisfaction of opening 
my eyes.  "I'm going to 1013 you.  That means that we're legally 
allowed to hold you here because we feel that you're a danger to 
yourself.  Tomorrow, we'll probably transfer you to another 
hospital so that you can rest and get better.  If you want to 
talk to me before you go, though, you can, okay?  Is there anyone 
I can call for you?  Someone that you would talk to?"

Why do they keep asking me that?  Just go away...

"Okay, Dana.  I'll try and come see you later."  His shoes squeak 
as he walks to the door, opens it, then disappears behind it.

No one else comes to bother me until the sun starts to turn 
orange and gold.  A nurse, not the same one as before, comes to 
change my IV bag and leaves a tray of food.  She tells me that 
it's chicken noodle soup and that Dr. Jesus wants me to eat so 
that I can start getting my strength back.  I don't touch the 
food, knowing that there's no reason to get my strength back.

About an hour later, she comes in to retrieve the food, chiding 
me when she sees that it's uneaten.  When she leaves this time, 
she tells me goodnight even though it's not even dark outside 
yet.

I'm finally alone.  The sounds of the hospital echo around me: 
machines, people's voices, movement.  I turn my head into the 
pillow as much as I can and let it absorb my silent tears until I 
finally fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

At eight a.m., the cheery young nurse from yesterday comes in 
with my breakfast: cream of wheat, toast, and orange juice.  My 
throat is still scratchy and raw, my stomach still aching, my 
mouth still tastes like charcoal.  I don't feel like eating.

"Did you sleep well last night, Dana?" she asks as she changes my 
IV bag.

I turn on my pleading look, wanting sympathy from her, even 
though I don't know what good it would do me.  I didn't wake up 
at all last night, sleeping for over twelve hours.  Now, though, 
I'm still exhausted and just want to go back to sleep.  Maybe I'm 
pleading with her so she'll give me a sedative that will knock me 
out.  That way, I won't have to deal with the doctors.

"I'll bet you're hungry," she says softly, rolling the bed-side 
table over my legs and pressing the button at my side to raise 
the head of the bed.  "Just don't eat it too fast.  Your stomach 
is still a little weak.  Do you need anything?  Did you think of 
anyone I could call for you?"

I stare absently at the tray as she unties my restraints.

"Dana, I hate to see you all alone.  Even if they live far away, 
I can still try and get in touch with them.  I'm sure your family 
is very worried about you by now."  She pats my arm, uncovering 
the tray.  "Well, if you think of anyone, just push this button 
right here," she indicates the little black button with a white 
outline of a nurse's head on it, "and I'll be here."

She leaves and returns half an hour later with Dr. Jesus at her 
heels.  "It doesn't look like you ate anything, Dana," he states.

Wow, what a genius he is.  Leave me alone.

"Dr. Wilson said that you wouldn't talk to him yesterday.  Are 
you ready to talk today?"

I turn my head on my pillow, looking outside the blinds and away 
from him.  

"In a few minutes, we'll be transferring you to Ridgeview 
Hospital.  It's not far from here, but they're more equipped to 
take care of you.  I think you'll be more comfortable there."  He 
waits for a reaction, but I don't give him one.  Disgusted, he 
walks out, leaving the nurse with me.

"Dana, honey, we finally got in touch with your husband."  Her 
voice tells me what I already suspect: he doesn't care about me.  
He's probably angry that his insurance is responsible for paying 
for all of this.  "His lawyer actually contacted the police who 
referred him to one of our Social Workers.  She called your 
husband and told him that you were brought here Thursday night, 
but she couldn't get him to say whether or not he would come see 
you.  Apparently, his lawyer left some divorce papers with her."  
She wisely stops there, figuring that I can put two and two 
together.  Of course he won't come, he hates me.

The nurse stands silently beside me, stroking my arm reassuringly 
as the orderlies come in with a gurney.  She disconnects my IV 
and takes my oxygen canula away.  When the orderlies ask me to 
move onto the gurney, I go limp, making them drag my deadweight 
like a rag doll.  As they strap me down and start to wheel me out 
into the hallway, tears start to roll down my temples again and I 
try and stifle the sobs in my throat.

I'm scared, lonely, and tired.  I just want this to end.  I want 
someone to explain to me what's happening.  I want that nice, 
perky nurse to hold my hand and tell me that everything is going 
to be okay.  I want Mulder here to tell me what they think 
happened to me and what kinds of evaluations they're going to do 
on me...

No, I don't want Mulder.  He won't come, even if I tell the nurse 
to call him.  He'll laugh and say that I deserve to be like this.  
He hates me.

I cry quietly in the back of the ambulance on the way to the 
other hospital.  When I get there, the new nurse makes me stand 
up and dress in white scrub-like pajamas and leads me to my room.  
She brings me papers and tells me to sign them.  My vision is 
blurry, but I'm supposed to attest that I'm here on my own free 
will, which is a lie.  I don't sign them.  The nurse calmly tells 
me that, until I do, I won't be allowed out of my room which is 
fine with me.  I lay down on my new bed with softer sheets and 
warmer blankets, curl into a tight fetal position, and cry.

In one of my classes in med school, we learned about this 
Ukrainian immigrant who had been held at a mental institution for 
nearly fifty years.  The police had found her wandering on the 
streets speaking to people in Ukrainian, which they mistook for 
schizophrenic babble.  She was locked away until a new faculty 
member at the institution finally realized that she was normal, 
not schizophrenic, and that she just didn't speak English.

I feel like that woman must have.  I don't want to be here, I 
don't need to be here.  This is a place where the sick are 
treated.  A place where people come to get better so that they 
can be released and live their lives again.  I don't want to be 
treated, though, and I don't want to be released.  I have nothing 
waiting for me on the outside.  My husband is divorcing me, my 
mother will disown me, ashamed at my selfishness and cowardice, 
my only friend in the world, the only person who's ever truly 
loved me, I pushed away.

With a suicide attempt and a stay at a mental institution on my 
record, I won't be able to get a decent, respectable job.  I have 
little savings, not even enough for a down payment and a month's 
rent for an apartment.  I would just try to kill myself again, 
knowing that there's nothing better for me here.  Hell would be 
better than living alone, broken, and afraid.

At lunch time, someone dressed in white brings me a tray of food, 
but doesn't speak to me.  A half-hour later, they come to collect 
the untouched tray.

At dinner time, a doctor comes to tell me that if I don't eat, 
he'll put a feeding tube into my stomach.  I don't even look at 
him while he speaks.  He asks me more questions as to why I tried 
to kill myself and I turn away, huddling under my warm, safe 
cover.

When he sends for nurses and orderlies to hold me down, I don't 
fight them.  When he shoves the tube up my nose and down my 
throat, I don't flinch or cry out.  When they leave me alone in 
my room, I lay still.

It's possible for people to will themselves to die.  Despite 
everything that medical science can do, they can't make a person 
live if they don't want to.  And I don't want to.

And no one cares.  No one will even come to my funeral, I'll bet.  
They'll just bury me with a non-denominational service.  The only 
person that will be there will be the preacher.

How did my life come to this?

<><><><><><>

The next morning, the nurse comes back with the same papers from 
yesterday.  She hastily explains that they can't help me until I 
first help myself and again asks me to sign them.  I still 
refuse.  She huffs and puffs and finally leaves.

Another nurse comes in every four hours just to make sure I'm 
still alive, I guess.  She checks my feeding tube, respiration, 
and heart rate, then leaves.  They always leave.

After lunch, a tall, lanky man with graying hair comes in and 
introduces himself to my back as Dr. Robert Clemmons, my 
psychiatrist.  He recites from his long-memorized script about 
how they're going to help me, that he's here to talk to me and to 
be my friend and confidant.  That together, I'm going to get 
well.  He says that the doctors at the other hospital told him 
that I had refused to speak to anyone and that he hopes I'll 
speak to him now.  I have nothing to be afraid of, according to 
him, and I have no reason not to speak.

I focus on taking deep, even breaths, giving every indication 
that I'm not listening.

"Dana," he starts in a soft voice that they teach all psych 
residents, "I want to do something called a Mental Status Exam.  
It will help me determine if there are any medical reasons such 
as dementia explaining why you attempted suicide.  I'll just need 
to ask you a few questions, but you're going to have to respond 
to them.  We can't move forward until you do."

That's fine.  Let's just stay stuck in neutral forever.  Behind 
my too-thin eye lids, I pretend that my I'm still locked in that 
perfect stillness between asleep and awake, not answering.

Sighing, the man drags a chair over in front of the bed, sitting 
down heavily and exhaling in relief.  "I understand that you 
haven't been talking much since you woke up the other morning."  
He pauses, maybe for dramatic effect, maybe to see if I'll talk 
to him.  No luck.  "I need to ask you some questions, Dana, and 
begin evaluating you.  The sooner we can get to know each other, 
the sooner we can understand what's bothering you so that we can 
fix it."

No, no need to fix it.  There's nothing to fix; nothing to 
salvage.  Go help someone who wants to get better, I'm a lost 
cause.

"Dana, everyone who tries to kill themselves has their own 
reasons.  I'd like to know yours.  Would you share that with me?"

Inside me, I can feel the cold, thick liquid from the feeding 
tube enter my stomach and slide around the shriveled cavity 
there, reminding me of how I've become dependent on a machine to 
live against my will.  Reminding me of the mockery that my life 
has become.  A year ago, I was a healthy, happy, independent 
woman who had everything she never knew she'd always wanted but 
wished for everything she thought she didn't have.  Today, I'm a 
hollow shell of that strong person.

"I spend an hour with each of my patients every day, Dana, and 
you're going to be no different.  Part of your treatment here is 
an individual counseling session in addition to group therapy and 
medicinal supplements.  So, for the next hour, you can talk to me 
and tell me about why you think you're here or we can sit in 
silence.  It's up to you, but I'll give you the opportunity to 
make the decision," he says in a slow, soothing tone.

I take a deep breath, wincing as the tube scrapes the inside of 
my throat and nose.  Pain means I'm still alive.

For the next fifty-five minutes, Dr. Clemmons and I sit in a 
comfortable silence.  I hear him scribbling with his pen 
intermittently, but he never sighed in frustration or raised his 
voice in anger.  When our time is almost up, he stands and puts 
the chair back in its proper place, speaking again.  

"Okay, Dana, I'll be back at the same time tomorrow.  Maybe by 
then, you'll have thought of something to say.  This afternoon, 
if you're feeling up to it, I want you to attend one of our group 
sessions for suicide survivors.  The nurse will let you know when 
it's time.  Good-bye."  The door squeaks open and closed as he 
leaves.

Except for the every-four-hours nurse, no one comes into my room 
for the rest of the day.  The nurse doesn't speak to me.  I watch 
the sun as it slides across the floor, elongating the shadows 
from the slats of the blinds and the bars on the floor, making 
little checker-board patterns.  Occasionally, the silence of the 
hall is broken by loud vehicles outside and once, the scream from 
another patient.  Nurses and doctors bustle up and down the 
hallway, having a purpose and being productive.  Family and 
friends visit relatives and loved-ones.  I lay still, waiting to 
die.

Shortly before the sun sets, I fall asleep, waking every time the 
every-four-hours nurse comes in to check on me.  At eight a.m., 
another nurse comes in, waking me as she slams my door closed 
behind her.  "Dana," she coos.  "You need to wake up.  You have 
visitors."

My eyes fly open, my fists unconsciously squeezing the sheets 
between my fingers.  Visitors...who could it be?  Mulder?  Did he 
come after all?  I turn my head towards the door, squinting at 
the bright light from the hallway.

"I'll send them in, okay?"  The cheery woman says, smiling, then 
stepping outside the door and telling whoever it is that they can 
see me now.

Footsteps in the hall.  My heart is slamming in my chest.

No, it's not Mulder.  It's my mother with Ethan at her heels like 
a dutiful puppy dog.  Neither of them looks very happy.  My 
mother's eyes are cold and squinted in disbelief and horror; 
Ethan looks pale, slightly embarrassed.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," the nurse tells them 
quietly, then closes the door softly on her way out.

Mom just stares at the floor for a few minutes taking deep 
breaths which whistle as she exhales through her nose.  Ethan 
takes in the room, peaking into the tiny bathroom and looking out 
through the bars on the window before returning to his spot 
behind Mom.  In her Sunday best and low-heeled shoes, she taps 
across the floor to stand within an arm's reach of the bed.  
Finally, she speaks.  "Dana," she declares in her carefully 
controlled anger voice, in case there was any doubt.

Figuring that they've come to officially disown me, I put my head 
back down, studying the tiny cracks in the paint on the wall.

Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she starts again.  
"How are you feeling?"

I rearrange my arms underneath my head, getting comfortable and 
not answering.  Ethan sighs, walking back to the window.

My mother's eyes follow him, then she steps closer to the bed so 
that she can speak more softly.  "The nurse said that you tried 
to kill yourself.  Is that true?"

My shoulders start trembling, but I still don't raise my head to 
look at her face.  I couldn't stand what I'd see there.  I wasn't 
supposed to have to worry about all of this.  I was supposed to 
die alone in that motel room; my little secret.  It wasn't 
supposed to be like this.

"I told her that that's not what happened.  I told her that my 
daughter would never do something like this, but she was 
insistent.  She said that they found you unconscious in a motel 
room and that you had taken an overdose of pain pills with 
alcohol and that if you hadn't vomited most of it after you'd 
lost consciousness, you'd be dead right now.  But I still told 
her that my daughter would never do something so selfish and 
irresponsible.  She would never do something so immature.  But I 
guess I was wrong," she finishes softly, still studying the 
floor.

In the corner, at the window, Ethan hangs his head, puts his 
hands on his hips, and looks angry and pensive.

"Do you have anything to say to me, Dana?  Or to Ethan?"  Mom 
asks.

No.  Nothing.  I close my eyes as a few tears slip out from 
underneath the lids.

"Well, I have a few things to say to you," she snaps.  "First of 
all, I don't understand how you could do something like this 
after everything that has happened to you.  Your cancer, your 
abduction, when you were shot...after fighting so hard to live, 
you just want to throw it all away!  And what about your sister?  
She gave her life so that you could keep living!  Missy would've 
never done something like this, Dana!  She would've been grateful 
that her sister had made such a sacrifice for her instead of 
wasting it, acting like life doesn't mean anything!"

My lower lips trembles and I bite it, stifling a sob.

"Second, what about your family?  Me, Ethan, your brothers, your 
daughter?  What about them?  How were we supposed to react to 
something like this?  Did you even stop to consider how this 
would hurt us?  What this would do to us?  How could you be so 
selfish?"

Under the blankets, I dig my nails into the skin of my legs, 
trying not to scream.

"And what are you going to do now?  This is a sin, Dana!  I don't 
even know if the Church will take you back or excommunicate 
you...I'm glad your father isn't here to see this.  He would be 
so disappointed..."  She dissolves into well-placed, lady-like 
tears and Ethan comes over to pat her on the back, whispering 
that it will be okay and dragging the metal chair over for her to 
sit in.

It must be his turn to yell at me now, as he begins pacing the 
length of my bed, carefully watching the shiny tips of his 
expensive shoes.  I swallow thickly, turning off my emotions and 
going still like a zombie.

"You see what you've done to her, Dana?  Imagine how I felt 
having to call her and tell her what happened.  Imagine how I 
felt getting that call from the Social Worker."  He pauses, 
pivots, and then starts again.  "No, don't try and empathize with 
anyone.  It must be beneath you.  You just don't care about what 
you do to other people, do you?  It doesn't even matter to you."  
He stops pacing and crosses his arms.  "I told your mother why 
you were at a motel that night.  I told her everything you told 
me.  I half expected to see him here, too.  I thought maybe that 
you'd found him after I threw you out and had gone back to DC 
with him, but on the way here, I guessed that you had already 
called him and he had rushed back to be here with you.  But no.  
He's not here, is he?  Where is he, Dana?  Where is that son of a 
bitch that you risked everything for?"

Mulder.  He's not here.  He's at home, moving on with his life 
without me.  Forgetting about me.  Slow, hot tears start sliding 
down my cheeks, soaking into the sheets, disappearing.  I wish I 
could be one of those tear drops, just disappearing from 
everything.

"I guess he doesn't love you as much as you thought, huh?  He 
just leaves you here to pick up the pieces of this mess that he 
helped you create," Ethan finishes snidely, walking over to my 
mother and asking if she's okay.  She's fine, she's just gearing 
up for another round.

This time, though, she actually sits on my bed and touches me.  
She strokes my dull, matted hair, traces the feeding tube from 
where it's tucked behind my ear to where it disappears into my 
nose.  She wipes the tear tracks off of my face.  I lay still, 
her touch burning me, mocking me.

"Dana, look at me," she requests softly, tilting my chin up to 
her face and holding it there.  "I still love you, you know that.  
I will always love you."  Her voice quivers dramatically, adding 
an extra hint of genuineness to her otherwise stoic and cold 
pleas.  "I just don't understand this.  I don't understand how 
you thought that dying would fix everything.  I don't understand 
why you didn't tell me all of this.  I could've helped you, Dana.  
I still want to help you, but I'm just so angry at you right 
now!" she spits, disgusted.

No, you don't understand, Mom.  You don't understand what it 
feels like to be helpless and alone.  You don't understand what 
it feels like to be dead inside and to only want the outside to 
match.

Ethan just stands still, staring out the window, not saying a 
word.  The only reason that he's here now is because my mother is 
here, because he has to play the role of the tragically wronged 
husband.  If not for her, he probably wouldn't have come at all.

She pushes my hair behind my ears, trying to control her rage.  
"You're going to have to start eating again and you're going to 
have to take better care of yourself.  You'll have to let the 
doctors here help you.  We can only do so much without your 
help."

I don't want your help.  Help won't do me any good.  There's 
nothing to help, nothing to improve, nothing to salvage.  It's 
all wasted, wrecked.  I've wasted my life, my body, my only 
chance for happiness.  There's nothing left now but to wait for 
the end, for my end, to wait to die.

Someone knocks on the door, then, and Dr. Clemmons pokes his head 
in, entering and introducing himself to my visitors as my 
psychiatrist.

My mother, never one for subtlety and grace, gets right to the 
point.  "Doctor, what's wrong with her?"

He takes a deep breath, crossing his arms and looking at me out 
of the corner of his eye.  "Right now, all we know is that for 
some reason, Dana felt like she didn't need to continue living.  
There are many reasons that people attempt suicide, Mrs. Scully, 
but until Dana tells us hers, we can't begin to understand what 
is wrong with her," he explains calmly.

"She won't talk to you, either?"  Mom asks, frustrated.

"No.  Dana and I had a session yesterday morning, but she refused 
to speak."

"What does that mean?  I don't understand why she won't let you 
help her."

"Right now, Dana's silence tells me more than any words she could 
say," he says softly, his eyes sliding back over to me.  "She may 
not be ready to admit that she needs help or to accept it.  Until 
she is, I'd like to talk to both you and Mr. Minette about Dana 
to get a history on her.  It'll help me understand more about her 
current emotional state."

Mom looks back at Ethan for a reaction but gets none.  He's 
stone-faced and apathetic.  At a loss, she drops her head and 
stares at the cracked tiles on the floor.  "All right."

"We can begin to treat Dana medically as well.  As you can see, 
we've already begun feeding her since she refuses to eat.  In 
addition, we can start her on a low-dose anti-depressant or 
something similar to try and improve her mood.  If that's 
successful, she may begin to talk to us."

She nods along.  "All right," she repeats.

"Since Dana has refused to sign her admission papers, I'll have 
to get your authorization before we progress.  If you could sign 
right here," he says, holding out a chart and a pen.  Mom 
dutifully signs and hands them back to him.  "I'd like to get 
started on the history as soon as possible, if that's all right 
with you.  Until then, I'm afraid that our visiting hours 
prohibit you from visiting Dana any longer.  You can come back 
tomorrow, if you like."

Ethan sighs and leans on the wall, thankful for the excuse to 
escape my presence.  He must be worried about what to tell the 
neighbors.

"Of course," Mom whispers, then walks back over to the bed, 
bending down to kiss my cheek.  "Rest, Dana.  Think about what I 
said.  I'll be back tomorrow."

She and Ethan follow the doctor out the door like little baby 
ducks following their mother to a pond.  Dr. Clemmons puts a hand 
on my mothers back trying to encourage her.  "When you come, 
you'll need to bring Dana some clothes and toiletry items, plus 
any personal affects you feel that she'd want or need.  The nurse 
can give you a list of items that she can or can't have as you 
leave," he explains as they walk out into the hallway.  He must 
do this a lot: explain to confused families how their once strong 
and independent relative is now forced to live in a prison-like 
facility.

The door closes after them, slamming and locking me in.

As he'd promised, a large nurse comes in with a syringe a couple 
of hours later.  She doesn't speak as she injects the liquid into 
my arm or as she checks the bag connected to the feeding tube.

My heavy eyes flutter open and closed on the verge of sleep until 
the drugs start to take effect.  Immediately, my pulse and 
respiration increase.  I fight it, closing my eyes firmly, trying 
to grasp at my peacefulness that was so close.  The medication 
fights back, though, and my body starts to shake in its desperate 
attempts to move and my attempts to hold it still.

Frustrated at my body's betrayal, I start to cry, but no tears 
come.  I'm dehydrated and all that my crying amounts to is 
pathetic shrieks and a bloody nose.  A few minutes later, 
unconsciousness beckons again, stronger this time, and I finally 
succumb.

A year ago, I could've never imagined myself in this position.  I 
never thought that it could get this bad.

<><><><><><>

Later, a young, obviously new nurse knocks on my door and 
announces that it's time for "group."  I'm laying on the bed, 
facing away from her, and I pretend not to hear.  She comes over 
to me, peaking over my shoulder and trying to see if I'm awake, 
trying hard not to let any part of her body touch mine.  Insanity 
might be contagious.

Apparently noticing my irregular breathing, she surmises that I 
am awake.  "Dana," she whispers, "Wake up.  It'll be over in an 
hour and then you can come back and sleep for the rest of the 
day, okay?  C'mon."  Getting no response, she peaks over her 
shoulder, searching for someone to help her.  "Dana," she says a 
little more forcefully before heaving a frustrated sigh and 
walking to the door.

Another nurse comes to the party, squeaking her way across the 
floor in her rubber-soled shoes.  "C'mon now, Dana.  Everyone has 
to go to Group and you're no different."

I am different.  They want to get well, I don't.  Big difference.

"Nancy, go get me a wheelchair," she tells the younger nurse, who 
scampers off to find one.  Returning momentarily, the older nurse 
yanks the covers off of me, picks me up, and sets me down in the 
chair.  She must've gotten her insanity vaccination already.

After disconnecting the feeding tube, she starts to wheel me out 
of the room and down the hall.  I let my head loll against the 
back of the chair and take in my surroundings.  My vision is 
slightly blurry, but I can make out several other doors that dot 
the walls at regular intervals, hand rails occupying the space 
between them.  At the end of the hall, there's a large lobby with 
a television and several couches and chairs.  Other metal chairs 
are arranged in a circle, several other people occupying them.  
At the sound of the wheelchair, they all turn to look at me with 
their tired, hollow eyes.

The older nurse parks my chair in a gap in the circle, 
disappearing without a word.  "Are you Dana?"  A sophisticated-
looking woman asks me.  I wrap my arms around myself, shivering 
from cold and fear.  "I'm Dr. Shipp.  Everyone," she addresses 
the other people in the circle who I take to be the suicide 
survivors, "this is Dana.  She was just admitted Saturday after 
she attempted to kill herself."

They nod, some looking sympathetically at me.  I look down, 
wanting to melt into the floor.

"Dana, everyone here has been where you are, so we understand 
what you're going through.  This is a place where you can talk 
about those feelings openly and honestly, okay?"  When I don't 
respond, she looks to another member and addresses him.  "Now, 
when we left off, you were telling us about when you were fired 
from your job, right?"

The man nods and begins his story, the other members quickly 
jumping into a discussion with him.  They proceed as if I'm not 
even there.

An hour later, young nurse Nancy comes to retrieve me, watching 
me as I struggle to crawl back into bed.  She bites the corner of 
her lip, looking like she wants to do something but doesn't know 
what to do, so she just leaves me alone.

Just before sunset, another nurse comes in to inject me with more 
of the medication.  I go through the same thing as before, trying 
to fight its hold on me.  With no outlet, the extra energy in my 
system makes my body shake and my mind buzz.  Despite that, I 
feel so tired all of the sudden.  It's well before "lights out" 
when I fall asleep.

<><><><><><>

The next morning, Dr. Clemmons comes back, setting up his chair 
the same way he always does.

"How is the medication working, Dana?  Any side effects?"

I turn my head into the pillow as far as I can without pulling my 
tube out and stop thinking, still exhausted.

"Dr. Shipp told me that you went to Group, but that the nurse had 
to bring you in a wheelchair.  You can walk, Dana, if you try.  
Did you not want to go?"

Hell no, I didn't want to go.  Why should I?

He scribbles on his charts; I wonder what he's writing about me.

"I'm sure you were happy to see your mother yesterday," he 
begins, expecting me to agree and expand upon my feeling about 
seeing her.  Yes, I was elated to have her tell me how ungrateful 
and selfish I am, Doctor, it was wonderful.  "If there's anything 
you'd like to talk about, you can.  You can say anything to me 
and it'll be confidential.  Your mother never has to know," he 
says softly, like he's telling me some great and all-powerful 
secret.  I pull the covers up higher, covering my shoulders and 
chin.

Like always, we sit in silence for the remainder of the hour.  
When he leaves, a nurse gives me another injection and then, 
everyone leaves me alone.  I wonder how long it will be before 
they just give up on me and leave me alone for good.

At ten, there's a knock on my door and, when it opens, my mother 
follows young nurse Nancy in.  Nancy quickly leaves, locking the 
door on her way out.

Mom smiles as she enters, but it fades as she gets closer to the 
bed.  "Good morning, Dana," she says, touching my shoulder, 
trying to tell if I'm awake.  "I brought you some things from 
home.  Some clothes and your pajamas.  Some books and," she 
reaches into a bag, pulling something out.  "Emma drew this for 
you.  All Ethan has told her is that you're in the hospital, not 
why.  He couldn't come today; he had to work," she finishes in a 
rush.

I always forget how much more important work is to Ethan than I 
am.  It always was before, but somehow, I thought that this would 
be different.

When I don't answer her, Mom brushes the hair off of my cheek and 
behind my ear.  "Are you going to talk to me today?"

No.  I don't have anything to say.

She sighs harshly, then walks over to my little closet that 
doesn't have a door or removable hangers and starts emptying my 
suitcase.  "Do you want to change into your pajamas now or some 
clothes?" she asks over her shoulder, turning to look at me as I 
don't respond again.  "You can decide later," she says finally, 
returning to her task.

When she's done, it looks like she's unpacked all of my clothes.  
That means two things.  One, that Ethan has permanently kicked me 
out and two, that she expects me to be here for a while.

See, even she doesn't expect me to ever get well.

She takes something out of the suitcase before she closes it and 
pushes it to the back of the closet, coming to sit on my bed and 
holding it in her hands so that I can't see it.  "I never knew 
you had one of these, Dana.  I asked Ethan if I should bring it 
and he said he didn't know about it either."  She sets my 
nameplate on my night stand so that I can barely see it through 
my blurry eyes.

"Dana K. Scully, MD."  I remember when I was Dana K. Scully, MD.  
Now, I'm just a random mental patient.

"I thought you'd like to have it back," she says softly, brushing 
more imaginary hair away from my face.  "Dana, I don't know what 
to do.  I tried everything I know to get you to talk to me, to 
tell me what was bothering you, but you never would.  You never 
talked to me, even before all of this started.  Dr. Clemmons said 
that you can get better, though, but that you have to want to.  
Until you do, he said there's nothing that he or I or anyone can 
do to help you.  And I don't think that you want to get better, 
do you?  Dana, I don't understand that."

Even if I get better, what do I have?  I have no home, no husband 
or family, nothing.  Why should I get better?  She doesn't 
understand that there's no reason to.

She bends down to kiss my cheek, letting her lips linger on my 
dry, gray skin.  "I can't help you anymore, Dana.  I'm sorry.  
When you're ready to get well, you can call me.  I'll be here.  I 
love you."  A tiny tear drips onto my skin and she wipes it away 
before she stands and walks to the door.  "I called Fox.  I 
thought that he'd want to know you were here.  He wasn't home, 
but I left him a message.  Maybe he can help you; you always 
would tell him things," she tells the floor before knocking on 
the door, letting young nurse Nancy know that she's ready to 
leave.

She walks out without saying good-bye, telling Nancy thank you 
before disappearing down the hall.

Wait, she's leaving?  How can she leave me here?  She's my 
mother, she's not supposed to leave!  

I guess this is what happens when people finally give up on you.  

The sunlight makes the gold shine on my nameplate, drawing my 
eyes back to it.  Mulder gave this to the woman he loved who had 
no clue about how he felt.  She had no clue that the life that 
she was leaving was everything she had always wanted.  She gave 
that up for what she thought she deserved but that had been taken 
away from her.  Now, she's really getting what she deserves: her 
identity stripped away from her, her family and friends 
abandoning her.  She's finally learning what it is to be alone.

My hand shaking, I reach out for the nameplate, hugging it to my 
chest and crying quietly, mourning the woman that I'm not anymore 
until Nancy comes to take me to Group.  She has to call for the 
older nurse to pick me up and wheel me there, but neither of them 
takes my nameplate away from me.

I take special care to notice my surroundings today, knowing that 
I'll be here for the rest of my life.  I should start getting 
used to it.

After Dr. Shipp greets everyone, her eyes linger on me.  "Dana, 
what have you got there?" she asks.  Still sniffling, I turn it 
around so that she can read.  "You're a medical doctor?"

No.  I used to be, but not anymore.

"What are you specialized in?" she asks softly.

I blink at her, then clutch it to my chest again, bow my head, 
and sob in front of everyone, not saying a word.

<><><><><><>

Something outside the room hits the hallway floor, smacking 
loudly against the tile and waking me from my groggy, all-
encompassing sleep.  There's yelling outside, but not from the 
same patient as before.  Nurses trying to shush the voice, one 
hollers for security.  Another calling for someone to page a 
doctor.  The voice, a man's, won't be calmed.  He's enraged, 
demanding something.

"JUST TELL ME WHERE SHE IS...I DON'T CARE WHAT TIME IT IS, I'M A 
GODDAMMED FEDERAL AGENT...WHERE'S HER DOCTOR, I WANT TO TALK TO 
HER DOCTOR...WHAT ROOM IS SHE IN...TELL ME WHERE SHE IS, NOW!"  
Echoes loudly through the hall as the man paces heavily outside, 
peaking through the port windows on the doors and reading the 
name plates beside them.  Finding the one he wants, all the 
voices outside cease for a moment, like the eye of a hurricane; 
the calm before the storm.

"Open this door," the man orders in a low, barely controlled 
voice.

"Sir, I can't do that.  It's aft- "

"OPEN THIS DOOR NOW!"

Another woman's voice.  "Sir, please calm down -"

"YOU OPEN THIS DOOR OR I'LL KICK IT OPEN!"  Good luck; it's 
metal.

The first nurse huffs and jangles her keys, hastily unlocking the 
door.  "You have five minutes before Security will escort you 
from the premises, sir," she says haughtily, with a slight tone 
of fear in her voice.

"Thank you," he huffs, bursting through the doorway and stopping 
as soon as he sees me.

With my back to him, I can only guess at the look on his face: 
surprise - no, shock.  Shock and horror.  Fear.  Self-
recrimination and guilt.  Confusion.  Misunderstanding.  
Helplessness.  Hate.  He doesn't breath for a few seconds, 
walking softly over to the bed and placing a hand on my shoulder, 
trying to turn me or see if I'm alive.  The nurse is hovering in 
the doorway, her fat arms crossed over her double-D cup chest.

"She's sleeping, sir, and I'd advise you not to wake her.  Even 
if she was coherent, she hasn't spoken to anyone since she was 
admitted, not even her mother or husband."

"They were here?  When?" he asks in a thick tone, trying not to 
show too much emotion.

"Yesterday," the nurse snaps, probably missing her TV show.

Mulder leans in close to my shoulder, trying to see my face in 
the dark and shadows.  "Scully?" he calls softly.

I'm careful to control my breathing, acting like his whirlwind 
entrance didn't phase me from my drug-induced stupor.

"Scully?"  The sounds aren't words so much as they are 
vibrations, shaking me down to my core: intimate, concerned.

More footsteps in the hall.  "What in the hell is going on here?"  
A man asks, angry with the nurse.

Mulder turns, stalking towards him.  "Are you her doctor?"

"I'm the psychiatrist on call this evening yes, can I help you, 
sir?"

"I want to know everything about her condition: when she was 
admitted, what you've done with her so far.  Everything that's 
happened."

"And you are?"

"I am Special Agent Fox Mulder with the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation -"

"And what are you doing here?"  The doctor interrupts.

"Her mother called me."

"You know Mrs. Minette?"

"Yes, we...we're friends.  I'm also ABD in psychology, so please, 
spare me no detail," he says rudely, getting frustrated.

"Then you should be quite familiar with the rules and regulations 
that we have established so that our patients can rest 
comfortably.  I'll have to ask you to come with me, sir.  You can 
see Mrs. Minette in the morning."

Taking a few deep, obviously cowed breaths, Mulder glances over 
his shoulder at me, then looks down at the floor, his hands on 
his hips, his lower lip between his teeth.  "All right," he 
finally agrees hesitantly, pulling the door closed behind him as 
he follows the doctor down the hall.

No, he's not supposed to see me like this.  Why is he here?  Why 
did he even bother to come?  Dammit, Mulder, you weren't supposed 
to see this! 

I lay awake the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling and 
wondering when, if ever, Mulder will come back.  I want him here.  
I want him to sit beside me and hold my hand and make bad jokes 
about the mean nurses.  I want him to smooth my hair away from my 
face and kiss my forehead and promise me that everything will be 
okay.  I want him to tell me over and over again how much he 
loves me - how much he still loves me - and that he's still going 
to take me back after everything I've done.  I want him to say 
that he forgives me.

The same nurse as before comes to my room after nine a.m. with 
Mulder impatiently at her heels.  As she swings open the door, 
though, finally allowing him entrance, he stands in the doorway, 
starring at the floor instead of moving.  When he raises his 
head, his lower lip is between his teeth, his eyes slightly 
bloodshot and moist.  Slowly, he ambles into the room, pulling 
the dilapidated metal chair from the corner over in front of the 
bed, then sitting down heavily in it, burying his face in his 
hands.  The nurse appraises all of this from outside the door, 
shakes her head, and closes it.

We sit in, what is for me, an uncomfortable silence.  From 
Mulder's breathing pattern, I can tell that he's struggling to 
hold back tears, trying to be the strong one in this.  After a 
few minutes, he sits up and stares at the ceiling, rolling his 
head around on his neck like he'd slept in this same position and 
now was paying for it.  Finally, he speaks, his voice echoing off 
the tile floors.

"Your mother called me, left a message on my answering machine.  
She was upset - crying, barely able to talk - and she said that 
you were in the hospital.  I called her back, but she wasn't 
home.  I called Ethan and he wouldn't tell me anything...my God, 
Scully, do you know how worried I was?"

He wipes a tear away from where it's sliding across his temple, 
determined to get through this.  No, Mulder, I don't know how 
worried you were.  It didn't even cross my mind.  All I could 
think about was how it felt when you walked out the door and 
drove away, leaving me for what would've been the last time, how 
it felt to know that you hated me, how it would feel to feel 
nothing.

He slumps again, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his 
head.  "I kept thinking the worst: that you were in a car wreck 
or something, but I never even considered..." he fades out, 
shaking his head in disbelief.  "You've always been so strong, 
Scully.  I always thought that you could handle anything.  You've 
never needed me or anyone else, you just...you've always been the 
strong one."

My mother said those same words to me years ago, when I was dying 
of cancer.  I didn't believe them then and I don't believe them 
now.  If they only knew how weak I truly was, how much I needed 
them.

He continues, his voice rough and deep.  "Everyone has always 
said that people who try to kill themselves must be selfish and 
cowardly, but I've never agreed.  I don't think that you can ever 
truly appreciate how much bravery and strength it takes to try to 
end your own life unless you've been there yourself.  Unless 
you've ever experienced the hopelessness and despair and pain 
that accompanies it.  I've been there, Scully, more times than I 
care to remember."  His voice breaks and he bites his lip again, 
stifling the sob.  "I know what it feels like to want to die 
enough to take matters into your own hands.  When I was fourteen 
and my parents divorced, I thought it was all my fault.  When I 
moved to England and I was all alone in a place where I couldn't 
even count the money.  When you were taken.  When you told me 
that it was my fault that They gave you cancer.  It would've been 
so easy for me to just...end it all.  I wanted to.  I had the 
means and the opportunity."

He pauses and takes a deep, shuttering breath, looking everywhere 
except at me.

"I know what it takes, Scully.  I know how it feels.  I had no 
one, though.  No one that cared about me or if I lived or died.  
I really felt that my only option was suicide, especially the 
last time.  You're the only person that would've given a damn if 
I died, but you would've been dead in a matter of months anyway.  
But that's what stopped me.  I never told you this, Scully, but 
that night that I was in your apartment waiting for you, I had 
been so close.  

"But I kept thinking about you," he continues. "I imagined them 
telling you that I had shot myself and your reaction.  I thought 
about you laying in a hospital bed, sick and weak, without me 
there.  Just you, Scully.  You're what kept me living.  And it 
was enough just to be there to support you, to hold your hand and 
tell you that everything would be okay when we both knew that it 
wouldn't.  I couldn't die quickly and painlessly knowing that you 
would die slowly and agonizingly."  

He shakes his head again, finally looking up at me.  "I guess my 
point is that I know how it feels to be suicidal.  I never tried 
it, but I still know what it takes.  And I know you.  How damn 
strong and independent you are, how you never, ever give up on 
something you believe in.  I can't put those two together, 
though.  I can't understand how you of all people would think 
that your only option was suicide."

He stands, picking the chair up and setting it back in the 
corner, then going over to stand in front of the window, hands on 
his hips.  "I know you knew exactly what you were doing, that 
taking that many pills with that amount of alcohol would kill 
you.  I know that you thought a motel would've been the perfect 
place to do it because no one knew you were there and no one 
could save you.  You planned all this whether you realize it or 
not and you executed it almost perfectly.  But there's only one 
flaw in your logic, Scully," he explains to the metal bars on the 
window.  "You didn't really want to die."  He pauses then, 
letting his accusation sink in.

In my warm little cavern, I hold my breath, wondering if he can 
hear my heart pounding all the way across the room.  How dare he.  
How fucking dare he.  He comes here days after I tried to fucking 
kill myself and tells me that I wasn't serious?  How fucking dare 
he!

Undaunted, he continues. "You only did it for the attention, just 
so me and Ethan and your mother would all pity you and realize 
what horrible people we are.  You wanted us to feel sorry for 
everything that's happened to you over the past year and you 
wanted us to fix it for you."

He turns around, fixing me with a cold gaze.  "Your mother told 
me that you finally confessed your infidelity to Ethan and that 
he kicked you out, that he's divorcing you.  You figured that she 
would hate you because of that.  You thought that I'd finally 
abandoned you for good that night when I left your house; you 
thought I hated you.  You didn't want to go through the divorce 
and being all alone again, knowing that you'd failed at what you 
thought you'd wanted most of all.  So, you took the easy way out.  
You decided to show us what we'd pushed you to."

Ambling back over to the door, he stops in front of it and 
addresses the floor again.  "And that is selfish and cowardly.  
When my mother did this, she did it because she didn't want to 
face that disease she had, she didn't want to go through all that 
pain and suffering.  That was cowardly and selfish, Scully, but 
that's not you or, at least, it's not the Scully I know.  I know 
that you don't want to be here and that you didn't think about 
what would happen when your suicide attempt failed.  The doctor 
says that you haven't spoken to anyone since you were admitted 
and that you refuse to eat.  You're still showing everyone how 
much you want to die and why we should clamor to help you because 
this is our fault anyway, but you act like you don't care whether 
we're here or not, which pushes us away.  Then when we do finally 
get frustrated and give up, you cry and wonder why we left you.  
So before you develop any explanations of your own, let me tell 
you why I'm here and why I'm leaving."

I finally take a deep breath, my pulse pounding in my temples.  
He can't be leaving me, after everything he's just said.

"I'm here because I love you, despite everything that's happened.  
I still love you more than anything and nothing will ever change 
that.  I'm here because I want to help you get better because, 
whether you want to admit this or not, everything that has 
happened is no one's fault but yours.  You've done this to 
yourself and you're sick, but you can get better, and I want to 
help you because I love you.  But I'm leaving because that's not 
what you want.  You don't want to get better and you don't want 
anyone's help.  Until you do, you're not going to make any 
progress.  You have to do this on your own."

He looks at me again with those soft puppy dog eyes, almost in 
tears.  "I know you can, Scully.  The nurse told me that all 
patients have phone privileges everyday between six-thirty a.m. 
and eleven-thirty p.m.  You can call me when you're ready to 
accept responsibility for your actions and you're ready to move 
forward.  Until then, you can lay here and feel sorry for 
yourself and be alone, or you can decide to get better, let the 
doctors help you, and have my support.  It's up to you.  I'll be 
ready when you are."

He hesitates for a moment, waiting for me to respond.  When I 
don't, he opens the door and walks out, leaving me in my solitude 
and silence.

I lay there, staring at the door, certain that at any minute, 
Mulder will walk back in and pick me up, hold me and whisper to 
me that of course he would never say those things to me, of 
course he would never leave me.  He doesn't though.

<><><><><><>

A year ago today, to the best of my recollection, Mulder stopped 
by my apartment unannounced.  It was a Sunday afternoon and I was 
shaving my legs, and he came by to talk to me.  Having the 
advantage of hindsight, I know now that he wanted my permission 
to go out on a date with someone; otherwise, he would've felt 
like, in a way, he was cheating on me.  He was nervous about 
going out with her because he said that he hadn't been on a date 
in ten years.  So, in a friendly, concerned gesture, I offered to 
go out with him on a practice date.

Mulder is infinitely sweet and caring, gentle, loving, polite, 
and dumb as a rock about the fairer sex.  Our practice date was 
horrible, uncomfortable, and I feared that he would repeat his 
performance on his real date.  He did, of course, and showed up 
the next Sunday, two days after his date, to tell me how 
miserable it was.  During the course of our conversation that 
afternoon, I realized something about my best friend and partner, 
something that I denied and repressed until eight months later: 
Mulder was in love with me.

He didn't want his date to go well; he wanted the woman to lose 
all interest in him.  I accused him of not trying to find anyone 
to settle down with, someone who could make him happy and bring 
love and balance to his world.  He accused me of not doing that 
either.  He was right, as he is 98.9% of the time, but I told him 
that he had a reason to do so while I didn't.  I was - and am - 
damaged goods.  I was - and am - simply an empty vessel of no 
practical use to any man on the planet.  Even if I did find 
someone that I loved and who loved me, I would never do him the 
injustice of marrying him; it wouldn't be fair.  I encouraged 
Mulder to reach out to happiness, though, to chase it and grasp 
it with both hands, should it ever come his way.  He retaliated 
by asking me if neither of us were married by the time I retired 
from the Bureau, we could get married.  To each other.

I said no.  I couldn't do that to him.

He got angry because I told him that if I said yes, he would stop 
looking for anyone else, someone who could give him all the 
things I couldn't.  He yelled at me that he didn't want anyone 
else, then left.  The next day at work, we didn't speak until 
lunch, when all was forgotten.  Whoever those two people were 
that had briefly inhabited our bodies on that Sunday afternoon 
were gone, leaving stoic, rational, Mulder and Scully to avoid 
the big pink elephant in the center of the room, or office, or 
Lariat-issue Taurus, or random, nameless motel in Podunkville, 
USA.

A year ago today, I was unaware that Mulder was in love with me 
and even more unaware that I was in love with him.  Ignorance is 
bliss and I was insanely happy.  Only I didn't think I was.

I had a good job that I loved and did well.  I had a partner who 
respected me and listened to me (sometimes), with whom I worked 
well.  I had a best friend who would always listen to anything I 
had to say, who would always help me without having to be asked, 
who would do anything for me.  I had a life, as Daniel had 
reminded me just a few weeks earlier.  I told him that I didn't 
know what I had.

What I had was everything that I never knew I always wanted.  
What I wanted was everything that I thought didn't have, that 
thought I should have, that I deserved.  And when it offered 
itself to me, I took it, as I had told Mulder to do.  I grabbed 
it with both hands and ran with it, afraid that if I let it get 
away again, I would never have another chance.

And now, one year later, I'm laying in a tiny bed in a mental 
institution, being fed by a tube, being kept alive against my 
will, after trying to kill myself.  I'm alone and empty with 
nothing and no one to respect me, listen to me, or help me.

I finally got everything I deserve.

At ten o'clock, a nurse comes in and injects me with another dose 
of whatever medication they have me on.  The immediate effects of 
it are more pronounced each time they give it to me, but I guess 
that's just a part of the treatment.  This time, though, I start 
to shake more violently and my head gets heavy, cloudy, and I 
can't think.  When my eyelids fall closed on their own, I let 
them stay like that, slipping blissfully into the thick, dark, 
welcome unconsciousness.

<><><>End Part 1<><><>


<><><>Begin Part 2<><><>

When I wake up this time, the first thing that I notice is how 
heavy my body feels.  My fingers and toes are tingling and my eye 
lids are like lead.  I'm hot; I feel thick blankets on top of me.  
I'm not restrained, but I'm still not able to move my arms and 
legs.  My mouth is dry and achy, my ears buzzing so loud I can't 
hear, and the rest of me is so sore, like I felt that first night 
on the ice with Mulder in Antarctica after shivering violently 
for hours.  I feel like absolute shit.

I guess God finally decided what to do with me and that this is 
Hell.  It makes sense: Purgatory was just a middle ground so that 
I could be abandoned by my family, so that I could see what I'd 
done to them, but this is where I'll be spending the rest of 
eternity.  I deserve it though after everything I've done.

After rolling my eyes around underneath their lids, which are 
full of sand, I finally manage to flutter them open and take in 
my surroundings.  I'm in a room - what looks like a hospital 
room, though neither of the two I've been in lately.  It's nicer 
than those, with what looks like a wooden chest of drawers 
against one wall and a matching wooden bed frame and night stand.  
There's a door with a small port window opposite the bed that 
leads to a darkened hallway, another door behind it in the 
corner, what I assume is the bathroom.  Another, larger window, 
one without bars, looks out onto a bright, lithium-lit night in 
the city, thick gray clouds obscuring any stars in the sky.

Beside the bed is a comfortable looking chair with a man sleeping 
there.  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I gradually see the 
man's features: deep set eyes; strong, enlarged nose; full, pouty 
lips turned into a slight frown.  Mulder.

He's slumped in what can't be a very comfortable position, his 
head nearly touching one shoulder, his glasses, which I rarely 
have the pleasure of seeing, have slid down his nose to barely 
hold onto his ears; his mouth is slightly open and his arms are 
crossed tightly over his chest.  From this angle, he looks like 
he never meant to fall asleep, only to sit and stay for a few 
minutes, but eventually succumbed to exhaustion.  And he does 
look exhausted.  Stressed.  Sad.  Angry.  Beautiful.  My Mulder.

There's a stack of thick, old looking books on the night stand 
and one open on his lap.  I can't read the spines, but the glare 
off the gold lettering from the streetlights outside tells me 
that they're scholarly and important.  He must've fallen asleep 
while reading about something.

The buzzing in my ears gradually subsides and I can start to hear 
the low, angry sounds of car horns outside, the rumble of diesel 
trucks as they go down the road.  Mulder's soft snoring.  The 
bustle of people outside in the hallway.  It takes me a minute, 
but I eventually realize that the feeding tube is gone and 
there's a tiny IV line running from above the bed to the top of 
my hand.  I'm dressed in my own pajamas, different ones than 
those I remember putting on at the other hospital.  The stifling 
heat has subsided to comfortable warmth.  I relax, knowing that 
where ever I am, even if it's Hell, I'm safe if Mulder is here, 
too.  Hell can't be too bad.

He shifts, then, and I look back at him as he closes his mouth 
and licks his lips, stirring to a groggy consciousness.  I watch 
him as he opens his eyes and looks around from underneath his 
eyelashes, trying to place himself, until he finally looks at me.  
His eyes pop open and he sits upright quickly, inadvertently 
snapping his book shut and making it slide from his lap onto the 
floor with a loud, echoing slap against the tile.

Instead of speaking, he bends over to pick it up, his glasses 
sliding off his face to join the book on the floor.  He picks 
both of them up, clumsily placing the book atop the stack of the 
others, straightening them, then rearranging them in order from 
largest to smallest, placing his glasses on top.  He seems to be 
avoiding my gaze, but I hold it steady, wondering what, exactly, 
he's doing here when his last words to me were something along 
the lines of "I'm leaving."

He folds his hands in his lap nervously, then unfolds them and 
stands, walking to the other side of the bed and sitting down on 
the edge, his back resting lightly against my hip.  Facing the 
window, not me, he finally speaks in a voice so soft I can barely 
hear him.  "I was wondering how long it would take you to wake 
up.  The doctor said it wouldn't be long, but I didn't know what 
the long term effects of the medication would be."  He clears his 
throat and turns his body so that he's facing me now, but he's 
still looking down, picking at a thread on the blanket.  "You 
probably don't remember what happened; you were pretty out of 
it."  

Snapping the thread and worrying it between his fingers, he 
sighs.  "The doctor at the hospital in Atlanta talked to Ethan 
and your mother to get a psychological history, to try and figure 
out what might have been wrong with you, since you wouldn't talk, 
and whatever they said, he diagnosed you as having 
Schizoaffective Disorder, which is closely related to 
schizophrenia, since they're both characterized by bizarre 
delusions.  The difference is that Schizoaffectives also have a 
major depressive disorder.  He prescribed an anti-psychotic drug 
to you and it wasn't what you needed, so it messed you up pretty 
badly.  When I called the day after I'd left to check on you, 
your doctor told me what had happened.  He said that you started 
babbling about not being able to die, then you were completely 
catatonic..."  He ends his rambling, trailing off and running out 
of steam.

No, I don't remember any of that.  The last thing I remember was 
falling asleep after he walked out my door, nothing until now.

"Ethan was able to divorce you without your consent on 
psychological grounds and your insurance was terminated.  Your 
doctor told me that his only option was to send you to a state 
hospital, so your mother and I had you transferred up here 
instead."  He finally looks at me, his eyes round and soft, his 
brows climbing towards his hair line.  "You're at Potomac Ridge 
Behavioral Health Center in Rockville, Maryland, Scully.  You 
were unconscious for about thirty six hours while the effects of 
the medication wore off."

That must be why I feel so horrible.  "How?"  I whisper, my voice 
rough and scratchy from disuse.  "How is she paying for this if I 
don't have insurance?"  My father barely made enough money with 
the Navy to feed and clothe four kids; his retirement was just 
enough for him and my mother to live on with hardly any excess.  
She couldn't have the money for this.

Mulder takes a deep breath, looking away again, at his feet that 
are barely touching the floor.  "It was my idea, actually.  My 
father left me two houses on the Vineyard that I've been leasing 
through a Realtor since he died.  One of them sold just over a 
year ago and I put the money into savings.  Besides that, he left 
me nearly a million in savings bonds.  The money's just been 
sitting there accruing interest, so..."

I shake my head, looking away from him.  So, he's spending his 
father's money on me?  I can't believe my mother would let him do 
something like that.  She's always been proud, doing what was 
necessary to make ends meet with her meager income; she never 
accepted charity or handouts and she raised us not to do so, 
either.

"Scully, your mother and I talked about this.  There's no other 
way for you to get the care you need than to have you treated at 
a hospital like this.  Those state hospitals are dirty and 
overcrowded, you'd never get well in a place like that.  This is 
what you need and if you need it, we both agreed that no price is 
too high," he tells me in a low, serious voice that leaves no 
room for argument.

Since when did I ever back down from an argument with Mulder?  
"No, that's your money.  I don't need a hospital.  I don't need 
to be treated -"  I start to sit up, but he gently pushes me back 
down, his hands on my shoulders.  Not that I would've made it 
very far anyway, as all the blood rushed from my head and 
blackness overtook my vision as soon as I raised my head from the 
pillow.

"Listen to me: I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told your 
mother.  This isn't something that happened over night - your 
illness, whatever it may be, it's been lurking inside you for 
years, maybe forever, building and building until something 
finally set it off.  She thought that after we got you re-
hydrated and you gained a little weight, she could take you home 
and help you to get physically better on her own, but that 
wouldn't fix the problem, Scully, it would only fix one symptom 
of it.  In a few weeks or months or years, something else would 
set this off again and you'd end up right back here.  If we want 
you to get well, we have to keep you in a place where they 
understand what's wrong with you and they can help you to 
overcome it.  This is serious - probably more serious than you 
realize - and it's a disease, just like your cancer.  If we don't 
treat it, it will eat you alive.  And I'm not gonna let that 
happen," he finishes in a raised, angry tone.

"You told me that you were leaving," I say thickly, trying not to 
let any emotion into my voice.

"I know.  And from what your mother has told me, she said the 
same thing to you.  You've always been so strong and independent, 
Scully, that she - both of us - thought that you could do this on 
your own if we gave you the opportunity.  I still do, but your 
mother thinks that this misdiagnosis was some sort of sign from 
God that she's not doing the right thing.  Maybe she's right.  
Maybe He was trying to show her that she should be more accepting 
and understanding of you right now, I don't know.  What I do know 
is that this morning, me and her and your new psychiatrist all 
had a long discussion about where to go from here and we've 
decided that right now, you need support and patience from both 
of us."

I turn my head on the pillow again, looking for his face in the 
semi-darkness.

"I still don't believe that you actually meant to kill yourself, 
Scully, and I still think that you're gonna have to do most of 
this on your own.  I just don't think that you should be 
completely alone."  He raises his feet so that they're resting 
below the mattress, his knees almost touching his chest, and 
buries his face in his hands.  "Earlier, I was trying to imagine 
what I'd have done if my mother hadn't been successful when she 
tried to do this.  I tried to think if I would've let her recover 
on her own or if I would've been with her every step of the way, 
letting her know that I still cared about her and loved her more 
than almost anything, and the answer was that I never would've 
left her side."  

He pauses and looks at me again.  "But she wasn't as strong as 
you are, Scully.  She needed me and she needed that reassurance.  
I'm sorry I left you the way I did.  I said some very harsh, 
impulsive things to you, both at the hospital and that night at 
Ethan's house, but you hurt me, Scully.  You can't begin to 
imagine how much.  I honestly don't know that I can ever fully 
forgive you for what you've done.  But when I got home from the 
airport after I left Ethan's and heard that message from your 
mother, I turned around and caught the first flight back.  I was 
afraid...I was terrified that by the time I got there, you'd be 
dead or gone and I'd never get to tell you that I was sorry."  He 
pauses, then, taking a deep, shaky breath.  

"I'm sorry for so many things, Scully," he continues after a 
moment.  "I'm sorry I let you get on that plane to go to Atlanta 
in the first place, I'm sorry that I didn't do everything in my 
power to stop you from marrying him like I promised you I would.  
I thought about all those things on the flight and by the time I 
got there, talked to your doctor, and found out what had 
happened, I just didn't know what to say to you.  The only thing 
I knew for certain was that I needed to put myself and my 
feelings first if I was ever going to be able to help you and 
right then, I was most afraid of you hurting me again.  That's 
the reason I was so harsh to you and that's why I didn't even 
give you a chance to respond to me.  I couldn't let you hurt me 
again."

Hiding his face from me again, I hear him sniffling as he tries 
not to cry.  "I don't know what to do now, though.  I don't know 
if it would be better to just leave you to climb out of this hole 
you dug by yourself or if I should try and help you however I 
can.  I think I'll let that be your decision.  If you want me to 
go, I will and if you never want to see me or speak to me again, 
it's up to you.  If you want me to stay, I will.  I'll be here as 
often as you'd like.  Just tell me what to do, Scully."

"I thought I was alone," I begin, my voice shaking.  "I thought 
that I had ruined everything: my marriage, our friendship.  I 
didn't know how to fix it; I didn't want to fix it, I just wanted 
to sleep forever, pretend none of this had ever happened."

"You're only alone if you choose to be," he whispers, turning his 
body towards me again.

"I don't want to be," I breathe.

He nods, almost seeming relieved.

"Why are you here now, if you didn't know what to do?"  I finally 
ask him.

He grins, laughing slightly and looking away.  "I didn't mean for 
you to catch me.  I was doing some reading, trying to find 
something that would help your mother and me to better understand 
this, and I fell asleep."

Those are psychology books; he's really trying to help me.  "Oh."

"Speaking of sleep, you need to get some.  It's late."  He 
stands, tugging the already tightly tucked covers around me.  
"And I should go, too.  Visiting hours ended at seven - if the 
nurses knew I was here, there's no telling what they'd do to me."

He leans down, brushing imaginary hair from my brow and tucking 
it behind my ear before pressing his lips against my forehead.  
"Will you be back tomorrow?"  I whisper to him as he straightens 
up.

"If you want me to be."  I nod.  "Okay, I'll be here.  Goodnight, 
Scully."

I watch him as he walks to the other side of the bed and gathers 
his books and glasses.  "'Night, Mulder."

He lingers for a few seconds before turning around and walking 
out the door, closing it softly behind him.

This most certainly isn't Hell.  It's not quite Heaven, either, 
but it's definitely not Hell.

<><><><><><>

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep after he left.  When I 
had fallen asleep the last time, I was in a confusing, 
frustrating world where I had no control over anything: my 
schedule, my body, the people in - or out of - my life.  I had 
resigned myself to being there forever, willing myself to die and 
wondering why God doesn't put me out of my misery and send me to 
Hell.  When I awoke, it had been in a completely different world, 
one where I wasn't alone and I wasn't ready to push myself into 
death.  I like this new world better, but I'm afraid that if I 
fall asleep again, when I awake, I'll be back in the old world.

I run over the things that Mulder said to me in my head, trying 
to figure out how to feel about them.  On the one hand, I'm 
infinitely happy and grateful that he's back and willing to help 
me.  On the other hand, I'm confused about his motives.  He said 
in the other world that he thought it would be best for me to be 
alone and now, he doesn't think so.  Maybe he really was just 
afraid like he said, maybe the words really were impulsive.  Or 
maybe he feels so responsible for this that he thinks it's his 
duty to help me now, to pay for my hospital stay and to be with 
me while I recover.  Mulder has gone to some astonishing lengths 
to assuage his own guilt before and I wouldn't doubt that he was 
doing the same thing now.  He didn't tell me this time that he 
loved me.  Maybe he doesn't anymore.

Or maybe he's just as confused about himself now as I am.  I 
honestly can't figure him out sometimes.

He'd said I'd hurt him and I know that it's true.  I'd honestly 
never stopped to consider what would happen if I wasn't 
successful at suicide.  I didn't care what it would do to the 
people around me, how they would react, what they would think 
about me and themselves.  At the time, I thought no one cared, 
that no one would even notice and, if they did, they would be 
glad that one burden in their lives was gone.  I thought I'd 
finally pushed him away - for good this time - but I guess I 
should know by now that Mulder is nothing if not persistent.  The 
only way he'd ever leave me for good is if he were to die.

I wonder if he thought the same thing about me a year ago, before 
Ethan came back into my life: that I would never, ever leave him 
unless I died.  I had almost done that this time, abandoned him 
for good.  And that's what hurt him the most, I think.  That I'd 
willingly, consciously, abandon him.  Marriage is only temporary 
- it can be broken, annulled, ended - it's only a legal ceremony.  
It's finite.  Death is permanent - once you're gone, you don't 
get another chance to change things.  Mulder still believed that 
even after I'd married Ethan, I would come back to him and to my 
old life one day.  That I'd see the error of my ways, that I'd 
wake up and realize that I was supposed to be with him forever - 
maybe I still believed that, too.  When I tried to kill myself, 
though, I was giving up any hope that my life could get any 
better.  I was giving up on myself, on our relationship, and most 
of all, on him.  And that's what hurt him.

Part of me thinks that, just for spite, I should tell him to 
leave me alone forever, tell him that I'll show him that I can do 
this on my own, that I don't need him.  Another part of me didn't 
want him to leave tonight, doesn't ever want him to leave.  
Another part of me wants a happy medium, a balance between 
needing someone for support and needing someone for the 
continuation of my very existence.

I also wonder what Ethan and my mother told the doctor in 
Atlanta.  I'm sure that Ethan, not knowing any better, would've 
said that I made up wild, impossible stories to explain things in 
my life: aliens and men working for the government had abducted 
me and stolen my ova in order to create alien/human hybrids; I 
had a daughter that was part alien and that she died as a result 
of her body's alien DNA; I terrified of thunderstorms because 
they reminded me of my abduction; my cancer had been cured with a 
metal chip that Mulder had found at the Defense Department and on 
and on.  The doctor probably called those delusions - they 
certainly sound like delusions.  But they don't know what I know.  
They haven't seen what I've seen.  The only person who even comes 
close to understanding what happened to me is Mulder - that must 
be why he was here, to tell them the truth.  I wonder why they 
didn't give us adjoining rooms, then, if he reiterated everything 
that I'd told Ethan.

So, Mulder comes to my rescue again, convincing them that I'm not 
psychotic.  I'm just...what, depressed?  Confused?  Lonely?  Does 
he think that my suicide attempt was merely a cry for help and 
that now, he needs to answer that cry?  Could his motives really 
be so petty, or do I just underestimate him sometimes?

I turn my head towards the window and watch as the sky turns a 
dark purple, then lavender, then orange, and finally blue as the 
sun rises.  The traffic noises pick up outside as everyone rushes 
to start their days on time.  Voices from outside my room get 
louder and more numerous as the hospital wakes up.  I wait for 
something to happen: a doctor or nurse to come check on me, 
Mulder or my mother to visit.  When nothing happens, my eye lids 
begin to get heavy again and I close them, then finally fall 
asleep.

<><><><><><>

There's knocking on my door a little later, when the sun is 
slanting through the blinds in nearly horizontal stripes.  A 
woman enters wearing a long lab coat - this must be my new 
doctor.  Her heels click sharply against the tile floor as she 
approaches my bed, sitting demurely in the chair that Mulder had 
vacated just a while ago.  "Hello, Dana," she says softly, 
extending her hand to slip her fingers inside my tiny half-fist.  
"I'm Dr. Ayers, your psychiatrist.  Do you know where you are?"

I nod slowly and she smiles, nodding back.

"Good, good.  Do you know how you got here?"

Again, I nod.  She seems surprised at this.

"How?"  She asks.

I take a deep breath and lick my lips.  "Mulder told me."

She grins slightly, understanding.  "He was here already?"

"Last night."

"I thought he left with your mother.  I guess he couldn't stay 
away, huh?"  She laughs a little, trying to break some imaginary 
ice.

No, Mulder can never stay away, I guess.

"Well, your family is anxious to have you home and I'm sure 
you're just as anxious, so I think we should get started, what 
about you?"

I nod once, wondering if I even have a home to return to.

"I've spoken with your mother and with Mulder at length to get a 
history on you.  I must say, you've had some interesting 
experiences in your life lately."  She pauses, glancing down at 
her chart.  "How would you describe your current emotional state, 
Dana?"

"I don't know, really.  I've been depressed, I guess.  Irritable, 
moody.  I haven't really felt like doing anything."

"Have you had any difficulty sleeping or eating?"

"Yes," I admit.

She nods.  "How long has this been going on?"

"A year; since I got married."

"Oh."  Her eyebrows go up a little and she makes a note on her 
chart.  "Do you think that's just a coincidence?"

"No.  No, I think it's the reason."

"Why is that?"

"I didn't like being married."  That's oversimplifying the 
problem, I know.  For now, it's as good an answer as any.

She makes a sympathetic face.  "So, you didn't feel depressed and 
irritable before you got married?"

"No."

"How would you describe your emotional state at that time?

I hesitate.  "Good.  I was happy."

"Why do you think being married has caused such a dramatic 
change?"  She asks slowly, clearly thinking.

"Marriage wasn't what I expected it would be.  My husband wasn't 
what I expected he would be.  Nothing had worked out the way I 
wanted it to," I say softly.

Staring at me long enough for it to be unnerving, she doesn't say 
a word.  Maybe she's waiting for me to elaborate.  A few seconds 
later, there's another knock at my door and my mother pokes her 
head in, dangling a suitcase from her arm.  "Oh, I'm sorry," she 
says to the doctor, looking a little flustered and nervous.

Dr. Ayers stands.  "It's okay.  I think this is a good start, 
Dana," she says to me, squeezing my hand again.  "I'll be back 
later."  She smiles slightly at my mother before walking out the 
door, closing it firmly behind her.

After she's gone, Mom takes the suitcase to the chest of drawers 
and opens it, emptying my clothes into the drawers and placing my 
nameplate on top of the chest.  A sense of deja vu washes over me 
as I watch her in silence, waiting for her to say something.

When she's finished, she goes to the window and adjusts the 
blinds so that the morning sun isn't too bright in the room.  
Happy with the new lighting, she turns towards me, crossing her 
arms tightly over her chest and looking at the floor.  "How are 
you feeling, Dana?"  She asks in a low voice.

"Fine," I tell her.

She nods at her reflection in the shiny tile.  "What were you and 
Dr. Ayers talking about?"

I sigh.  "Same things she probably asked you; how I've been 
feeling lately."

"It's better that she hear it from you," she says carefully.  
"I'm glad you're talking now."

I look down at my hands, fisting the blanket in between my 
fingers.

"Dana..."  She pulls one of my hands away, holding it between 
both of hers, and sits on the bed beside me.  "Dana, I'm so 
sorry."

"For what?"  I whisper.

"For everything.  For leaving you at that other hospital, for...I 
feel like, in some way, this is partly my fault."  A thin tear 
slips out of her eye and slides down her cheek.  She reaches up 
with shaking fingers to wipe it away, closing her eyes tightly to 
stave off any more.

"No, Mom.  It's not."

She nods like she's heard that before.  "I had no idea how 
unhappy you were with Ethan.  I just thought," she wipes away 
another tear.  "that you were having trouble adjusting to being 
married, I didn't realize that you were honestly unhappy."

I look away from her, wondering how she could've missed that.  
How many times did I try to tell her that I was unhappy with the 
things that Ethan demanded from me?  That I not work, that I go 
to a fertility specialist?  How could she just blame that on my 
not adjusting to him?  Maybe it is partly her fault because she 
didn't realize that I was serious.  Maybe it is partly her fault 
because she didn't offer to listen to me and to help me.  I bite 
my lip and don't give her a response.

"Fox told me what happened, Dana.  He didn't know that Ethan had 
already told me, but he confessed that you and he..." she shakes 
her head, not able to say it.

"That we had sex?"

"Yes."  She sighs, sounding somewhere between disappointed and 
confused.  "There's still no excuse for that.  Even if you were 
unhappy, infidelity wasn't the way to fix that.  Neither was 
trying to kill yourself."

"I know, and neither was starving myself or yelling at Emma.  I 
should've left Ethan a long time ago, but I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want you to be ashamed of me.  I guess I achieved that 
anyway, though."

She brings her hands up to either side of my face, turning my 
head towards her and forcing me to look at her.  "Dana, you're my 
daughter.  You're the only daughter I have left.  I could never 
be ashamed of you.  I may not understand you or what makes you 
happy, I may be ashamed of some of the things you do, but I could 
never be ashamed of you."

My chest gets tight as tears spring up in my eyes, too.  She 
pulls me to her, wraps her arms around me tightly, and rocks me.

"You know I love you, Dana.  I could never stop."

I rest my head on her shoulder and nod.  "I know."

"I'm so afraid, Dana.  I just don't understand...tell me...tell 
me that you really didn't mean to kill yourself.  Tell me that 
you still want to live."

"I don't want to be unhappy, Mom.  I don't want to be miserable 
and alone.  I don't want to live like that," I say through my 
hiccups.

"You don't have to.  You don't have to be miserable and alone."

"But what do I have left?  I don't have a husband, I don't have a 
job, I don't have any money, I don't have anything."

"You have me, don't you?  And you have Fox."  She pulls back, 
tucking my hair behind my ears.  "You know that both of us love 
you.  We'd never leave you.  We both love you so much.  More than 
you can imagine."

I collapse into her chest again and she holds me as I cry, 
shushing and rocking me like a child.  We stay like that for a 
long, long time.

<><><><><><>

After my mother leaves, a nurse comes in with my breakfast: more 
cream of wheat.  When I was younger, I used to love this stuff 
with butter and salt.  Now, without those things to make it 
better, it's all I can do to force myself to empty the bowl.  I 
need to eat, though.  If I don't, they'll put in another feeding 
tube, and I certainly don't want that.  The nurse also must've 
paged Dr. Ayers when Mom left, because no sooner than I've 
swallowed the last bite of food, she knocks softly on my door and 
enters.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Dana," she begins, sitting in the 
chair beside the bed again, crossing her legs and getting 
comfortable.

"No," I answer, staring into the covers.

"Did you have a nice visit with your mother?"

I nod silently.

"Good.  I'd like to continue our conversation, if that's all 
right."  I nod again and she glances down at her chart.  "Most of 
our patients only stay here for a couple of weeks at the most, so 
we have a lot of work to do.  Now, you said something about how 
marriage wasn't what you thought it would be, can you expand on 
that?"

Shrugging a little, I repeat the last thing I'd said.  "It 
just...wasn't what I expected."

"Okay, tell me what you expected."

"I thought that it would give me a sense of...purpose, I guess.  
I would feel like someone cared for me, cared whether I came home 
at night or wasn't feeling well.  I thought it would mean someone 
loved me."

"Did it not?"

"No, not really."  She stares at me, waiting for me to elaborate 
again.  I take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly through my 
nose and hoping she asks another question.

"Well, tell me how it disappointed you."

"Mulder said something to me a while ago, that a marriage was a 
mutual union.  My marriage was not mutual," I say tensely.

"How so?"

"My husband expected me to cater to his every desire and wish 
without regard for my own.  He didn't want me to have a job, even 
though I nearly begged him to let me work.  He just...didn't act 
like he cared about me as a person, an individual."  She nods, 
again waiting for me to continue.  "He worked long hours, odd 
schedules.  Some days, I wouldn't even see him.  When I did, he 
was ordering me to do something for him.  Whenever I tried to 
confront him about it, we would get into an argument.  
Eventually, I just stopped confronting him.  It seemed easier 
that way."

"So, you would've rather repressed your own desires and opinions 
just to avoid an argument with him?"  She asks, writing it down.

"Yes."

"Why was that?"

"I don't know.  It was just easier."

"So, you were unhappy in your marriage.  Why didn't you seek a 
divorce?"

I shake my head, looking out the window.  "I couldn't have done 
that.  I would've been disappointing my mother and myself...it 
would've been like admitting defeat."

"Defeat against who?"

"That part of me that likes to succeed at everything I do."

"Well, from what you're telling me, your marital problems weren't 
entirely your fault.  Some couples just aren't compatible.  Did 
you ever consider that?"

I look back at her sharply.  "We used to be engaged a long time 
ago, before we got married last year.  When I starting seeing him 
again, he assured me that he'd changed since then, and I believed 
him.  It wasn't just him; I'd misjudged him by ever thinking he 
could change."

"Then was there something that drew you to him again?  Something 
specific?"

Looking down, I grin - or grimace - slightly.  "He had a 
daughter...she was about the same age as a daughter I had, who 
had died."  Dr. Ayers tilts her head, silently apologizing.  "I 
thought that Ethan could give me the life that I hadn't chosen 
when we'd broken up before, a life where I could've had children 
and been happy and safe.  He filled a void inside me."

She sits back in the chair, bracing her chin on her hand.  "He 
filled a void inside you," she repeats, seeming struck by this 
phrase.  "That's a very powerful way to put it."

I nod, looking away again.

"And he didn't fill that void, I suppose?"

"No," I whisper.

"Dana, did it ever occur to you that no one can fill that void?" 
she asks slowly, sitting up again.

I blink at her, confused.

"Did you ever think that the void inside you has to be filled by 
you and no one else?"

My mouth falls agape.  "N-no."  

"It's definitely something to think about," she says, grinning 
softly, standing and smoothing her skirt.  "I'm going to go now, 
let you think about it, and we'll talk some more tomorrow, okay?"

Before I can respond, she floats out the door, leaving me alone 
and perplexed.

<><><><><><>

The rest of the day goes by slowly.  Nurses come in and out to 
check on my IV, bring me food, take away the empty trays.  No one 
else comes to visit and no one calls.  I wonder where Mulder is, 
but remember that he has to work, unlike me, and he's probably 
too busy to come by.  In the past, he would've made time, told 
the Director himself to kiss his ass if necessary.  Now, he's 
biding his time.  Maybe this is a part of that "do-it-yourself" 
angle he's so intent on.

I wonder what he would think about what Dr. Ayers had said, that 
the void inside me could only be filled by me.  It sounds so 
simple, but when I actually start thinking about it, it's much 
more complex that I imagined.

So, what was the void, first of all?  The emptiness I felt 
without a husband, someone to love me; without children, without 
a greater responsibility to someone other than myself?  I 
certainly remember having some of those feelings before.  I felt 
like I didn't matter to anyone, that no one, outside my mother, 
cared if I lived or died or if I was late getting home at night.  
When I walked into my dark, lonely apartment at night, it was 
nearly suffocating not to be greeted by someone who had dinner 
ready and kissed me, telling me he'd missed me all day.  When I'd 
go to bed, I felt so alone not having anyone beside me to curl up 
to my back, telling me he loved me and keeping me warm.  I'd see 
little girls in airports or grocery stores who looked like Emily 
and wonder if they were adopted, if they could be my daughters.  
When I would drive to and from work, I would purposefully take a 
route that would avoid day cares or schools, not wanting to see 
all the children and their happy parents, dropping them off or 
picking them up.  My job at the FBI was stimulating and 
interesting, certainly, but I'd always heard that being a mother 
was the hardest and most rewarding job a woman could have, and it 
saddened me deeply to think that I'd never get to experience that 
myself.  I wanted something more, something that the X-Files and 
Mulder couldn't offer me.  I wanted that motherhood.  I wanted 
that omnipotent companion.  I wanted what I didn't have, and I 
felt empty because of it.

And, of course, when Ethan came back after eight long, lonely 
years, offering me those things that I wanted so badly, I was 
enticed by it.  It seemed so easy, like God had just dropped that 
other life into my lap, and all I had to do was accept it.  So, I 
did.  I filled that emptiness with Ethan's life.  Emma gave me 
motherhood and he gave me companionship, but I still felt like 
something was missing.

I assumed what was missing was love.  Neither Ethan nor Emma 
acted like they loved me or appreciated me; I was just the 
convenient maid, cook, or whore.  I still had my companionship 
and motherhood, but none of the emotions and feelings that went 
along with it.  On the surface, it was everything I had asked 
for, but on the inside, it was hollow.  I was still empty.

So, Ethan and Emma didn't fill the void.  According to Dr. Ayers, 
I was in charge of that.  Only I had no clue how to do it.

Finally, at five thirty, there's another knock on my door and a 
hesitation before it swings open, revealing a very tired looking 
Mulder.

"Hey," he says softly, crossing to the bed in three strides and 
sitting next to me.  "How're you feeling?"

"Fine."  He grins a half-angry, half-teasing grin at me and I 
rephrase that.  "Better than I was yesterday, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I nod.

He grins again.  "That's good."

"How was your day?"

"Long, tedious, boring.  I got yelled at by three separate ASACs 
before noon, then had to give a lesson in basic crime scene 
analysis to two rookie agents who think they know everything 
there is to know about profiling.  Just a usual day at the BSU."  
We nod at each other, neither knowing what to say, for a minute.  
"How was your day?" he eventually asks.

"Good, I guess.  Mom came this morning and we talked for a little 
while.  She..."  I sigh.  "She thinks this is her fault."

"Is it?"  He asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.

"No."

"I don't know, Scully.  In a way, I think we all share a little 
of the blame."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, we're the two people who're supposed to know you better 
than anyone, but yet we failed to recognize how serious this 
was."

"That's what she said, that she didn't know I was truly unhappy."

He reaches for my hand, lacing his warm fingers with my cold 
ones.  "Do you think it would've made a difference if she had?"

"I don't know," I say honestly.

"It would've for me."  I look up at him, not understanding.  "If 
I'd have known that you were so unhappy right after you left, you 
never would've gotten a moment's peace until I'd convinced you to 
come back here with me.  I would've never let you get to this 
point," he says, his voice deadly serious.

But you're the one who wouldn't speak to me during that time, I 
want to say.  Instead, I just avoid his eyes and nod my head.

"Did Dr. Ayers come by?"  He asks, changing the subject.

"Yeah, right before Mom came and again a few hours later."

"What do you think of her?"

"She seems nice, I guess."

"She does, very patient and concerned.  I like her."

Again, I nod.  "She said something to me today that I've been 
thinking about and I still don't quite understand."  His eyebrows 
go up a little, those vertical creases appearing between them.  
"I told her that I married Ethan because I thought he could fill 
some void inside me and she said that I was the only one who 
could fill that void."

"Spoken like a true psychologist," he muses.  "What do you 
think?"

"I don't know.  I don't know what she means."

"Are you sure?"

I shrug.  "What do you think?"

"I think that if you think about it long enough, you'll figure it 
out."  I wonder if he already knows and he's just teasing me.  "I 
need to go," he says, standing up but not releasing my hand.

I tighten my fingers around his.  "So soon?"

"You have some thinking to do, right?  And I have some work to 
do."

"But you're coming back tomorrow?"

"If you want me to, I will."  He bends down to kiss my forehead, 
then whispers against my skin, "I love you."

"I love you, too," I tell him as he pulls away.  Impulsively, I 
lean up to him, closing the slight distance between us and 
kissing him lightly on his lips.

His slight smile falls a little.  "I'll definitely be back," he 
says, though he doesn't sound as serious or mirthful as I'd 
hoped.  As he walks away, I hold onto his hand until the last 
second.  He doesn't look back at me as I let go and watch him 
walk out the door.

<><><><><><>

For the next week, all I could think about was how I was supposed 
to fill this void inside of me.  In my sessions with Dr. Ayers, 
it's all we talked about: had I identified the void?  What were 
the components of it?  If Ethan hadn't reappeared in my life, how 
would I have filled it?  Do I think I would've been successful?  
Why or why not?

It's all that Mulder and I talked about, too.  He still stopped 
by every evening, only staying for a few minutes each time.  
Aside from holding hands and his light kisses on my cheek or 
forehead, he barely touched me, but he still told me that he 
loved me every day and I told him that I loved him.  He always 
seemed to leave a little sadder than when he arrived and, after 
that, I never got much thinking done on my "central issue," as 
Dr. Ayers had called it.

According to her, my actions over the past year had all centered 
around the same thing, my not feeling fulfilled in whatever I was 
doing, be it the X-Files or a stay-at-home-step-mom.  She said 
that until I figure out how to fill that void myself, I would 
continue to feel empty and restless.  I was still confused about 
how I was supposed to fulfill myself and in one of our sessions, 
she handed me a piece of paper and a pen and asked me to list all 
the qualities I thought I was missing in my life, characteristics 
that a perfect companion would have.  She sat silently while I 
wrote down a few words, unsure as to exactly what I was doing, 
then asked me to read it once I had finished.

"Well," I began in a resigned voice.  "Qualities would be that 
what I was doing mattered on a greater scale, beyond just me and 
my life.  I would like to feel that other people accept me and 
what I'm doing without mocking it or questioning the value of 
it."  I looked up at her then, to see if she was nodding or 
shaking her head, telling me I'd done the wrong thing.  She was 
nodding, eager for me to continue.  "Characteristics of a 
companion would be intelligent, good sense of humor, confident, 
open with themselves and their emotions, accepting of me and 
willing to listen to me, patient, mature...I'd want them to love 
me, most of all."

Dr. Ayers smiled.  "Is that all?"

"I guess, yeah."

"Okay," she took the list from me.  "Dana, how many of these 
qualities and characteristics would you say you possess?"

I opened my mouth to speak, stopped myself, then closed my mouth.  
"What do you mean?"

"If you were to make a list of qualities and characteristics 
about yourself, how many of those would appear on both lists?"

"I don't know."

"Well, think about it for a minute.  Do you think that what 
you're doing matters on a greater scale?  Do you accept yourself 
and what you're doing?"

I gaped at her again.

"Do you think you're intelligent?  Do you think you have a good 
sense of humor?  Do you think you're confident?"  She looked from 
the list to me, waiting for an answer.

I raised my right eyebrow at her.  "Well...no, not all the time."

"What about the rest of these things, would you say that you have 
these characteristics?"

"N-no."

She nodded.  "Why do you think you look for these things in other 
people when you don't have them yourself?"

"I don't..."  I struggled for a few seconds, eventually just 
shrugging.  Then, I realized what she was getting at.  I look to 
other people to give me these things, to balance myself and my 
life.  And as long as I did that, I'd never be happy with them 
because I'd never be happy with me.  We sat in silence for the 
rest of the hour as I stared at the list, wondering how I 
could've missed something so simple and obvious.

It makes so much sense now, though.  I need other people in my 
life to give me the things that I lack within myself.  I've 
always felt the need to compete with others, to be the best at 
things, especially intellectual things.  In school and college, I 
always had to have the highest grades, not just in my family, but 
among my friends as well.  I don't have a good sense of humor - 
hell, I barely have a sense of humor at all.  I'm always so 
serious about everything, taking jokes and light comments 
personally.  I'm not as confident as most people assume I am.  
The reason I hold my head high and never back down from 
conflicts, both mental and physical, with men twice my size is 
because I don't want them to know how unsure of myself I really 
am.  It makes me feel better about myself to watch a two-hundred 
pound man stutter over his words and not be able to look me in 
the eye.  I'm not open with myself and my feelings at all.  I 
expect others to talk openly with me about themselves when I 
can't do that about myself.  I don't accept myself as the person 
that I am, whether I'm middle aged, infertile, and single or 
married and with a step-child.  I have little to no patience with 
myself and others.  I crave maturity around me - maybe that's why 
I've always been attracted to older, more distinguished men.  And 
most of all, I discovered that I don't love myself.

All this time, I've thought that I needed someone else to make me 
whole when really, I've just needed the other side of me.  No 
wonder I've been miserable no matter what I've tried to do: I 
wasn't doing it right.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Ethan 
didn't have many of those characteristics: he didn't accept me, 
he wasn't open with me, he had no patience towards me.  He was 
just convenient.  He was there and ready when I was.

Just as Mulder had been saying all along.

Mulder, on the other hand, has all of those characteristics.  
Maybe that's why I missed him so much this past year - I didn't 
have a part of myself with me.  

I wonder what he'll think of that.

<><><><><><>

At five thirty today, I got out of bed, put on jeans and a thin, 
button-up sweater, and combed my hair, ready to tell Mulder my 
big break-through.

He knocks on the door at five thirty-seven and enters, pausing 
his steps when he sees me standing in front of the window, 
looking out at the city and all the cars zooming by.  I turn my 
head towards him and smile.  "Hey," I say softly.

"Hey," he repeats.  "What's up?"

"I think I finally figured it out."

He nods, confused, and walks over to the chair on the other side 
of the bed, sitting down heavily and watching me expectantly.  
"What's that?"

"Why I married Ethan.  Why I was so miserable.  Why I tried to 
kill myself."  He nods.  "I was looking for fulfillment and 
happiness in the wrong places.  I was looking outside myself when 
I should've been looking within," I finish proudly.

He bows his head, leaning over on his knees.  When he raises his 
head, he's smiling slightly, looking off to the side.  "Yeah, 
that's it," he whispers to the floor.  Matching his smile, I walk 
towards him and he stands, meeting me halfway and pulling me 
against him tightly.  "That's definitely progress, Scully."

"Progress?"  I ask in surprise.  "What do you mean?  That's it.  
That's the reason that I wasn't happy on the X-Files or with 
Ethan, that's it.  It explains it."

"It does, you're right.  But there's more to it than that."

"Like what?"

He fits my head underneath his chin, his throat vibrating against 
my forehead as he speaks.  "It's something that I figured out 
about myself, too: that true happiness comes from inside of you, 
not outside.  A few years ago, when I told you that you made me a 
whole person, I thought that was the truth.  When you left, I 
felt like I'd lost a part of myself and I was miserable.  I felt 
the same way you did: empty, alone.  Then, one day, I realized 
that if I wanted my life to get any better, I'd have to make up 
for the part of me that you had taken with you.  I had to make 
myself a whole person."  I squeeze him tighter, thinking how 
eloquently he could always phrase things.  "I still love you 
Scully, but not because you fulfill me.  I love you because of 
you, the person that you are and the way that you make me feel 
when I'm with you."

Pulling away, he takes a step back from me and leans against the 
foot board of the bed.  "That's only the beginning, though.  The 
rest is figuring out how to fill that void."

"How did you do it?"  I ask him, stepping between his legs and 
laying my head on his shoulder.

Hesitating, he strokes my hair but doesn't put his arms around 
me.  "I faced a lot of things in my life that until recently, I 
had been running from.  I forgave my parents for divorcing and my 
father for letting Samantha be taken away.  I forgave her for 
dying.  I forgave my mother for dying.  I forgave you for 
leaving."  Shocked, I look up at him, afraid of what, exactly, 
that means.  "I had to, Scully, or it would've eaten me alive.  
That's what you have do: come to terms with all the things that 
have happened to you and accept them as part of who you are, not 
resent them.  You have to find peace."

"How?"  I whisper.

He shakes his head.  "You have to figure that out on your own."

I sigh, so tired of being sick, unhappy.  I just want this part 
of my life to be over with so that I can move on to better 
things.

"You're off to a good start, though," he reassures me.  "Just 
take some time alone, after you get out of here, to try and find 
that balance within yourself."

I take a deep breath and look him directly in the eye.  "I don't 
want to be alone anymore.  I want to be with you."

He looks very far away for a minute, then says slowly, "We have 
the rest of our lives for that.  Right now, you need to get 
better.  And I," he says after a tense beat of silence.  "I still 
have some work to do, too."

"You do?"

He looks down at his shoes and nods, biting his lip.  "Scully, I 
still haven't forgiven you for marrying Ethan.  Forgiven you for 
leaving, yes, but not for marrying Ethan, and not for trying to 
kill yourself.  I haven't forgiven you for giving up on me and 
us.  I know that you're anxious to start pursuing a more romantic 
relationship together and I'm anxious to do that, too, but right 
now, I'm not ready for that.  It's gonna take some time before I 
can trust you with that part of me again."

My face falls and tears spring up in my eyes.  "How much time?"  
I ask desperately.

"I don't know, but I don't want to rush it.  We need to do this 
right, Scully, or it's not gonna work."

I join him in inspecting the floor, silent.  

"You're not ready for that either," he says softly.  After a 
minute, I nod.

"What about until then?"

"Until then, you work on getting better.  You're still not 
completely cured, Scully.  You get better and work on you and 
I'll work on me.  Then, we'll work on us.  Okay?"

I take a deep breath.  "Okay," I finally say, leaning into him 
again.  This time, he wraps his arms around my back and holds me.

<><><><><><>

I have this theory that my life can be explained by a Trefoil, as 
in a Trefoil knot.  One of the simplest knots known.  It has 
three loops, each of which is connected to the other.  Two loops 
cannot be altered without altering each other, but the third can 
be altered without affecting the other two.  I learned about it 
in one of my math classes in college and it applies to my life in 
so many odd ways.

On one hand, I could assign each loop a person: Mulder, Ethan, 
and myself.  Mulder and I are the two loops that can't be altered 
without altering each other - no matter what happens to either of 
us, no matter how far we stray from each other, nothing we do is 
entirely individual.  Everything we do effects the other.  Ethan 
is peripheral, a footnote on my life again, but someone that will 
always be a part of me.  I'm tied to him, too, just as I'm tied 
to Mulder, but not as firmly.  Not as permanently.

Since I left Atlanta, I haven't seen him, spoken to him, or heard 
about him.  My last communication with him was through the Church 
- he requested an annulment after our divorce was finalized.  I 
was able to submit my testimony in writing and it was done: my 
marriage to Ethan, that year of misery and loneliness, had never 
happened in the eyes of God.  I'm sorry for what I've done to 
him, though.  I cheated on him just as his first wife did, but 
that was merely a symptom of our problem and not the cause.  I 
know that I hurt him and I truly regret that, but he hurt me too 
and, somehow, I doubt I'll ever get an apology from him.

I'm also sorry for what I've done to Emma.  Because of me, she 
lost another mother and will have to deal with that pain and 
loss.  She's an innocent child and I can't imagine how difficult 
all of this has been for her.  I miss her and I love her, but I 
can't take her pain away from her and I can't take her away from 
it.  It's not my place to do so, anyway.

I still carry the pain of that year with me; my attempts to 
recapture something that I'd let slip away so many years ago - a 
part of me named Dana.  I'd somehow turned into someone named 
Scully, someone who had lost so much of herself without her 
knowledge or consent and who didn't want to be herself anymore.  
At some point, I began to hate Scully and by marrying Ethan, I 
thought I could kill her and erase everything that separated her 
from Dana.

That's the other side of this Trefoil knot theory, that Dana, 
Scully, and someone whose just been born, Dana Scully, who 
accepts that she's lost things that she can't get back, who knows 
that there are some things she'll never have, and who believes 
that she's important, that she matters just because she's 
herself, are the three loops.  Dana can't be altered without 
altering Scully; Scully can't be altered without altering Dana; 
but Dana Scully is an individual, she's separate from both the 
others, but she retains the knowledge and lessons that being both 
have taught her.  She is whole.

And I am Dana Scully.  I chose my path in life of my own free 
will; it was the best decision for me at the time.  I am a woman 
who was abducted, who had tests and experiments performed on her 
by mysterious men for mysterious purposes and, as a result, I 
can't even have children.  I am a woman whose sister was murdered 
so that I could continue to live and fight.  I am a person who 
has made mistakes and has regrets, but I don't spend my life in 
the past anymore.  I look forward to the future, wondering what 
it will bring.  Whatever that may be, I know that I can face it 
on my own.

After another week of group and individual therapy and some 
intense introspection, I was released from the hospital.  I went 
back to the ocean like I'd always wanted, to Mulder's house on 
Martha's Vineyard, and listened to myself.  I discovered what it 
would take to complete me and I tried my best to attain it: 
acceptance, confidence, purpose, love.  It's a battle that I 
still fight and that I'll fight for the rest of my life.  Dana 
was afraid of not being noticed, not being respected; Scully was 
afraid of being alone and empty; Dana Scully is afraid of whether 
or not she'll have sand in her washing machine tonight from her 
beach towel and if she'll see another sun rise over the ocean.

One morning, as I was finishing one of my morning jogs on the 
beach, I noticed an outline of a man standing near the waves, 
facing me, waiting.  As I got closer, I realized that it was 
Mulder.  He told me that he was ready.  I told him that I was, 
too.

I love Mulder because of the person that he is and the way that I 
feel when I'm with him, not because he's my other half or he 
fulfills me.  I love him for him and he loves me for me.

And for the first time, I'm finally happy.

<><><>End Part 2<><><>

<><><>End Trefoil Series<><><>

Long, long, LONG authors notes:

I tried my best to make this part as realistically accurate as 
possible, which is why it took so long.  Thanks to everyone who 
emailed me or otherwise to poke me into hurrying it along, 
though.

It's the end!  I was starting to think I'd NEVER get here!  
Finally!  I'm free!  Free!  Wheeeee!

My favorite non-fanfic author, Kurt Vonnegut, has three favorite 
phrases.  One of them, which is very fitting for me in this 
situation, is, "How the hell did I do that?"  I never in my 
wildest imaginations would've thought that this series (which 
wasn't even supposed to be a series) would go on this long.  
What, are we at 1MB yet?  Damn.  I amaze myself.

Writing this fic has been one of the most wonderful, horrible, 
exciting, stressful, rewarding, torturous experiences of my life.  
I've learned a lot about Scully and Mulder, but I've also learned 
a lot about myself as well.  It's amazing that fanfic can do 
that, but I hope that in reading this, you've learned a little 
about yourself too, if it's only that you have an incredibly high 
tolerance for long-winded stories.

I guess I should explain why I wrote this: I wanted to explore 
Scully's character in a way that I'd never seen explored in fic.  
I wanted to address certain issues that had been sort of swept 
under the rug either by 1013, the fic community, or both.  I 
wanted to do what had never been done before in fic and in a way, 
I guess everyone wants that.  I wanted you, as a reader, to at 
least sit back after reading these stories and say, "Wow, I've 
never thought about it like that."

This series to me has never been primarily a Scully/Other 
romance.  Ethan was just a vehicle for all these changes to take 
place from.  This has also always been a quasi-sort-of-half-way-
MSR to me, too, because we all know, even my NoRomo self, that 
Mulder and Scully love each other.  I knew I couldn't deny that, 
but I also didn't think that the way the characters were left 
post-Je Souhaite, that they could ever have any type of 
successful relationship with each other - they were just too 
emotionally damaged to ever be happy.  I hope that, in this 
series, I've given them a chance to work through some of their 
emotions so that now, they can be happy together.

I also feel like I've focused on one aspect of the fic more than 
another, equally important one and, consequently, have missed out 
on a lot of story telling: Mulder.  I never wanted this fic to be 
exclusively about Scully; I wanted him to partake in the 
evolution as well.  Unfortunately, I suck at third person point 
of view and needed to write this from either Mulder or Scully's 
perspective.  For the premise of the fic, it was Scully, but I 
feel that I've shortchanged Mulder here.  Let's not forget that 
he's been through a lot in this series, too.  I just couldn't say 
it all.

I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed 
writing it (well, most of the time).  Thank you for putting up 
with me.  I certainly hope it's been rewarding for you.

Thanks:

First of all, to realb.  Without her, I would've never started 
writing.  She's been my constant cheerleader, beta, researcher, 
ass-kicker, and friend throughout this.  I'm forever grateful to 
everything she's contributed to the series.

To Karri, who, being a writer herself, knows just what's wrong 
and just how to fix it.  She's also an excellent grammar Nazi.

To Liam, Her Juiciness, because without her this story couldn't 
be so wonderful.  I don't know how I could live without her 
support.  She was the best beta ever, the best of the best of the 
best and this story is hers.  Did I write that she really is the 
best beta ever?  I mean, before I met her I didn't know what 
sense had my life but now I know.  Liam is so funny, smart, in a 
genius way, it's like emailing Einstein, and I really believe 
that soon she will conquer the world.  I'll be very happy to be 
her slave like all the humans on this planet.  I just can't wait!  
Liam, I wish you a good colonization!  Become our leader please!  
(She told me to say all that, by the way, but really, she never 
failed to make me laugh or cheer me up and was always the first 
person in line with her poking stick.)

To Vicki, my newest beta, who swears she's never beta'd before.  
I don't believe her - she's just too good.

To all my stalkers at the Haven Fic Board for letting me know 
someone was paying attention.

To everyone who's sent me feedback, you have no idea how much 
you've contributed to this.

To you, dear reader.  Without you, this would be just twenty six 
letters and about six punctuation marks in idiosyncratic 
arrangements being transmitted through a complex and highly 
sophisticated network of telephone lines and computers.

Now, get your asses in gear and send me feedback, dammit!

<><><><><><>

RealB Notes:

I was there at a Mellow Mushroom in Nowhere, GA eating a 
pepperoni pizza with Li'l during of the conception of Trefoil.  
So of course the series are my surrogate child.  [Li'l says: 
Actually, I think it was over your nasty fish sandwich from 
McDonalds in my dorm room.]

Eight months later, and more chimichangas and desserts than 
anyone should be allowed to eat, I think that all the effort, and 
trials were more than worth it.  Our baby is ready to stand on 
her own, and I never thought it would be so hard to let it go.

Thank you Li'l for trusting me to edit, research, add some lines 
once in a while, bitch a lot, drive you around Roswell, GA, but 
most importantly for being a great friend.  Writing a fic is hard 
work, and I commend all writers out there.