From: "Louise Valmoria" Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000 00:03:56 +1000 Subject: Susurrus (1/1) by Missyspace Source: xff Reply To: "Louise Valmoria" Title: Susurrus Author: Missyspace E-mail Address: missyspace83@crosswinds.net Distribution: Go for it. If it's a personal site, drop me a line so I can link to it! Spoilers: Uh... I'm thinking 'Pilot'. Knowledge of why Mulder is imperative, or you won't get it. Hints of things revealed in 'Closure' here too, but no overt spoilers -- it's strictly a read-between-the-lines, blink-and-you-miss-it reference. Rating: PG Classification: VA Keywords: Pre-XF, Mulder, Samantha Summary: A year after Samantha's disappearance, the inconstancy of memory and the persistence of her image haunts the young Fox Mulder's dreams. Disclaimer: The Mulder family are not my creation -- they are from the X-Filean world and hence the creation of Chris Carter and co. I mean no infringement, and sincerely doubt I would ever make any money out of this. In short, don't sue. As a student, keeping money in my pockets is hard enough as it is (why *are* textbooks so expensive, anyway?). Ahem. The poem quoted at the beginning, interval, and end is titled "The City: Midnight" and is written by Bruce Dawe, my current source of inspiration. Further notes at the end. _________________________ Out of the sighs and breath of each small citizen Clasped in his neutral bed with eyelids locked On the frail Pandora's box of consciousness Out of the blind susurrus of limbs Moving like weeds within sleep's rhythmic waters, Marked by the metronome of clock and moon, Out of the shadowy cubes stacked endlessly On night's blue nursery floor by infant men, Rises the vast and tremulous O of dreams.... _________________________ It has been a year and a week since Samantha's disappearance, the occassion left unmarked, unrecognised, but remembered. The family left behind, all walking like ghosts in a graveyard, simply felt the numbness increase. Anniversaries, particularly this one, didn't wake them up, didn't bring them back to life. A week ago, her brother had watched the inaction with the same impassiveness reflected in his parents' eyes, struggling to understand. A year ago, something he couldn't define had shifted irrevocably under the surface of things, and although he knows he understands more than the usual fourteen-year-olds, he also knows that he doesn't fully understand this. Earlier tonight he had shut his ears to the heated tense words of his parents filtering through the walls, and now he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. It's a cold winter night, but he has left the window open so he could stare outside into the night, out at the moon, without his view muted by glass. He knows it would become extremely cold soon -- he just needed to think, that was all, and the sharp chill of the night air had been proven to clear his thoughts before. He turned his head and stared outside, at the darkness. Would she be out there, tonight? He lies on his bed and stares up into the ceiling in his isolation. He has been isolated for months, actually, years even, but it is only now that he is beginning to understand what it means. The walls interfere with his sense of balance, of space; they both close in on him, making him suffer in near claustrophobia, and seem so very far away, too far for him to lean on should he ever want to. He doesn't think he wants to. The walls are fragile, in any case. He knows they would not support the weight he carries. "Fox..." The whisper in his mind rises with the wind billowing through the open window. In his mind's eye, he pictures a boat riding the waves, floating in the air, sailing out the window to find her, to give her something to play with. Samantha would roll her eyes. She would want a doll, or a bear, not a boat, but all she would get was all he could be able to give. Where would she be now? He sees her walking in the streets, alone, the tall buildings rising above her head, hiding the moon from her sight. He feels her fear rise as it rises in him, the shark ascending from the quiet, dark waters, or the legendary Kraken of mythology snaking its arms around the old trade ships to crush, to kill. Is it him out there in the streets alone tonight, or is it her? He imagines she is clutching a blanket, a battered doll, her face much younger in the darkness as her wandering path is swallowed by the shadows. Yet it could be him, he is with her, she can't see him even though he is reaching out to her, he is calling her, Samantha, it's me, Fox... And then the dark, imposing background of the city falls away and they are in a field, still cloaked in night. Samantha, he cries. It's me. She does not respond and his voice falls away, his throat hurting too much from yelling or trying not to cry or from the bitter, bitter taste of loss. He would take her away from this, if only he knew how. He would take her home, and they would sit in front of the television and he would let her watch whatever she wanted if only the world wouldn't freeze and if only he could remember what came next... ... she wouldn't go away, then, she wouldn't disappear and he wouldn't feel guilty and his mother would still smile instead of stare out the window with those pained desperate eyes his father would still be proud of him and the light wouldn't be so bright and he would even let her win Stratego even if she would never let him forget it but it was too late now she was gone she was gone she was gone and if only he could be with her now and know that she was safe But the image of Samantha in his mind, out there in the middle of the night, alone, pulls him from his thoughts and he remembers that he is still in his room, still isolated, still desperately wondering. His eyes snap open, staring almost mindlessly up into the implacable surface of the ceiling, its smoothness betraying no emotion at the sight of his torment below. That was it. That was as far as his memory would dare to venture, would ever do so in a conscious state. If he fell into dream, fitful and disjointed, he would see her only to awake. Confused and disoriented. The vaugest flutter of a possible memory too far for his awakened mind to grasp. Where is Samantha now? His heart still flutters, an inconstant pace that roars in his ears. The night sweeps down to claim him, Morpheus leaving his place for a moment to pass his hand over the boy's still body. His limbs grow heavy. Ineffectually, he tries to fight, tries to stay focused on the soft breeze floating through the windows, the blurred halo surrounding the waxing moon, the pale, almost spherical orb that maybe, just maybe, shines down upon his lost sibling. The breeze goes stronger. As unconsciousness sinks slowly into his flesh, he sends his thoughts along the waves of the wind, imagining the sails of his waning hope billowing slightly. Enough hope to carry it away. Somewhere out there, she is waiting. Maybe she is clutching her doll in a street somewhere, staring up at the moon. Maybe she sees his little yacht of wish and dream sailing towards her, moving in the night sky. The doll's eyes would gaze up at the stars, polished and shining globes set in smooth porcelain, and Samantha's fingers reach up to grasp the little boat as it tosses fitfully in the wind... When he opens his eyes again, the breeze is gone, and the night is still and calm again. His limbs carry more than just his own physical weight as he arises to stare out of the window. A soft rumble registers in his ears, and he glances left to see the reflection of metal in the night, two bright eyes casting dim beams of light on the icy road, silver and shine slowly moving away from his house in the night. He glances down to see the pallid cast of light on the ground below disappear, and hears the soft footsteps of someone retreating inside, the click of the door as it closed behind. "Fox." The voice is familiar to him, and he knows that all he can do is turn and acknowledge its owner. He will not scream. He will not cry. He will not fall, though the windowsill lies conveniently a step away should he need to lean forward and clutch at its support. He turns, and he sees her. His sister stands mere metres away, clutching a doll in her arms, her eyes wide. His mouth opens, needing to say *something*, anything, but all he can come up with is a beginning. "I lost you," he says. He can say no more. What else can he say? He has seen her room, the dolls lining her dresser, their glass eyes staring through them as they wait to be tended to. He has seen the soft bears that lie on her bed, sitting and waiting patiently for their cuddles, the smiles sewn into their cloth soft as if they have faith that their owner will come home. He has lost that faith. He has lost her. That is all he has right now that he can say. She either doesn't hear him or doesn't know how to answer. "Fox, it's cold." Brother and sister stare at each other in the silence. He wishes he were able to articulate his feelings a little clearer, that somehow he can convey what he is feeling. He wishes that he could take away the unnerving vacancy in her eyes, that he can see her smile. He misses her smile. He misses *her*. The shiver that skates up her spine does not escape his notice and he quickly turns to shut the window, barely noticing the absence of the coolness on his skin. "I'm sorry," he says, and wonders if she understands, if she can somehow comprehend all the apologies that he is making to her. He needs her to listen. He needs her to understand. He repeats his apology, a little louder, and hopes she can hear its sincerity and meaning in the tone of her voice. She doesn't answer, and when he turns around again she is gone. Where she had stood and gazed at him with pleading eyes, there is only space and silence, and the solid outline of his bookshelf a few steps beyond. He is not surprised by her disappearance, and it is the knowledge of his emotional reaction, not her vanishing, which causes him to freeze in his place and stare at the nothingness she has left behind. It is only when he reminds himself that she would not be coming back that he allows himself to close his eyes and turn away. If he concentrates, he may be able to hear the soft rustle of her apparition moving to the warmth and comfort of her room, where her dolls and toys wait. She would place her doll on the pillow and pick up the bear instead, her hand passing over the soft tattered fur, and she would sit slowly down, her small form leaving the faintest of imprints on the sheets. She would hold the bear near and close her eyes. Then, perhaps, she would open them again and stare out the window, up at the moon, just like he was at this very moment. _________________________ The knitting spider watches from her shelf, The vague and changing shapes of furniture wait; Now slippered ghosts grope down familiar stairs, While from mysterious doorways, very soon, The starlit insomniacs toddle, arms extending Headless golliwog, frayed teddy, broken drum. _________________________ He decides to follow her, to see if she is really there, if the images he paints in his mind are really true. His feet pad silently on the floor, the silent walk of the wakeful caught in a dream, and the short walk to her door seems impossibly long. The triangle of light cast by a door left ajar catches his eye and he pauses, staring at his parents' room, wondering why they are awake, wondering if they know that their daughter has returned. His primary objective abandoned for the moment, he heads to investigate this new possibility. He peers inside and sees nothing but the lone figure of his mother sitting with her back to him on the bed, still and unmoving. He has never seen his mother as a swan before, but he sees it in the line of her back, her head bowed low. The tragic grace in her form makes him pause, makes him want to reach out to her and see her back straighten and her eyes clear -- but he knows that if he does she will turn to him with distant, vacant, dismissive eyes, and ventures no further. He knows she will not trust him with her thoughts. He doesn't have a good track record in his parents' eyes -- he can't even remember where he misplaced his own sister. Backing away from the door, he hesitates, but continues on to Samantha's room. As he walks, he struggles to remember. He cannot remember the circumstances, the sensory experience of her disappearance. He does not recall hearing her scream for him, if she had. He does not recall feeling the chill when he realised she was gone, if such a realisation had ever occurred. He does not recall the last moment that he saw her, but he *knows* that she must have been there, she *must* have been for at least one second in time, and it wasn't his fault, it wasn't, and yet -- He is guilty. He sees it in his father's eyes, in the cold glare he receives should he ever somehow find himself being acknowledged. He feels it in his mother's distance, the desperate, accusing aura she drapes around her like a woollen blanket torn and ruined; for protection, not warmth. He knows it whenever he walks into his sister's room and finds it still as it was the day she left, as though it were a snapshot of innocent times, frozen, suspended: a blossoming childhood cut short, though the pristine state of her sanctuary suggests a mere postponement. He knows that he is guilty because, by all accounts, he was there. If he could remember it, he would tell them, his sullen, distant parents, the suspicious neighbours, the blankfaced officers who drift in every few weeks to pull aside his mother and murmur their condolences that Samantha has not yet been found, yes, they are doing everything in their power, no, they have no further leads. He knows that somewhere in his memory, the memory that can recall fragments of songs from yesterday, and the boring, monotonous pages of his textbooks, there is an answer. Her door lies open, and it is that which gives him the first clue that this is merely a dream, his imagination working overtime in his sleep. With increasing lucidity, he steps inside, knowing that this would not be possible if this were a state of wakefulness. The many reminders of Samantha's existence would be shut away from his family, closed off from his mother's desperate sideways glances to reassure herself that her daughter is still there, playing quietly with her toys, closed off because of course no such reassurance could ever be found. She sits where he imagined she would, but it is only the outline of her form, her ghost, that he sees; it is a mere shadow with her shapes, sitting quietly and still, the bear cradled in almost invisible arms. He can see through her, the small desk and the window outside clearly visible through her apparition, but it doesn't frighten him. He has almost expected it. Her small form starts, sensing his presence; and as she turns her head to face him, she vanishes into the air surrounding them, the outline fading and becoming one with the darkness. He stands still, wondering if she was even there. He breathes. It is less difficult than he imagined. Where would she be, now? He turns and begins to move back, returning to his room, the image of her lost form walking the city streets returning in his mind. As his feet propel him back to where his waking dream began, in his mind he walks with her, his stride matching hers in the moonlight. He tries to catch her attention but she stares blankly ahead, unacknowledging of his presence, not even realising that he is there. The doll hangs limply from where she clutches it in her hands, its eyes dull, no longer reflecting the faint light that shines upon them. Her steps are small, and quick -- it looks as though she is not really walking, just gliding -- and soon finds he has trouble keeping up with her. A dim pinpoint of light gleams in the distance. His side aches, but he ignores it, content to stay walking with her even if she never realises that he is there. He glances down at the doll she carries and does a double take, wondering if he really saw its eyes slide shut. They are glassy and open now, and he passes it off as just his imagination, or a result of his dream -- he is dreaming, right? -- and quickens his pace, trying to stay with her. They are moving closer to the light now, and he can see his sister's face a little more clearly. She is tired, her face smudged with dust and sweat and tears, and he wonders how long she has been on this journey, and how far she has walked. Still her eyes remain focused on the light ahead, uncomprehending of the sibling desperately trying to remain by her side. He is running now, his feet flying, and she is moving away faster now, and the light grows brighter and pain stabs through his stomach, trying to slow him down. He tries to shake it off, but the dull ache claws at his flesh, clubbing at his muscles rather than tearing at his skin, and he closes his eyes for a moment to will it away. He can endure this. He will endure this. He reaches out and tries to tackle her, grabbing her hand. He remembers a snowfight against Samantha, two years ago, that ended when he'd tackled her and she stuffed snow down his back and while he jumped and shouted from the cold she smugly declared herself the winner... and he would let her win now, if only he could just keep holding on. Samantha turns her head, and for a moment he can almost believe that she can see him; but now they are so close to the light that he can barely tell. Shutting his eyes against the glare, he can feel her hand simply disappear; not slipping away from him, but turning into air. He falls, and behind his closed lids colours dance. He lands softly, and when he opens his eyes he finds himself lying across his bed, gazing down at the floor where the doll she had carried lies staring up at him with his mother's accusing eyes. He awakes with a start, his mind racing, scrambling to recover the dream that is quickly fading into vague scraps of memory. He knows that there is something important he has unlocked in his slumber, something that he should know, the slightest *clue*... but it is gone now, floating somewhere on the winds that still carry through his open window. Shivering from the cold, he gets up and closes it, hoping against hope that he would turn around and she would be there again. He turns. There is nothing there. He catches a breath, and holds it until his heart beats in his ears, pounding at his head, demanding he breathe again. He complies, simply because he'd collapse if he didn't. He returns to bed and lies awake, hearing the roar of his blood in his ears, its uneven beat marking out the time in steps and staggers. He counts for about a hundred before he forgets where he is, and it is a while longer before it becomes more even, like the monotonous tick of the clock on his shelf. He pleads for sleep, and it is a while before it obliges, slowing the pace of his roaring mind to allow himself to fall under its spell. She moves. He sees her walk in the field, and sky grows lighter, and he is paralysed and cannot move with her. He knows for sure that this is a dream, but allows himself to believe in the possibilities. Maybe she is out there, somewhere. Perhaps when the sun will rise she will pause, just for a moment in her restless pace, to watch the colours of the sky change. Samantha loved the colours of the sunset, but he is not sure if she ever saw a sunrise before. He remembers early-morning fishing trips, and camping out in the woods. He does not remember ever seeing her awake when the sun broke the night sky, spilling its hidden contents of red and gold. He believes that the colours would enchant her. Samantha's hands are empty, and he realises with a start that it is he who clutches the doll that she dropped in the street -- but no, that wouldn't make sense, this is a separate dream, and how could he remember what happened in that dream while asleep but not while awake? He files away the puzzling question for future perusal and wishes he could move, not with the desperation he felt before, but simply so he could give her the doll and she wouldn't be alone. He refuses to look down at it. He does not want to look down and see his mother's grief trapped behind those glassy eyes. He watches her instead, still walking in an aimless pace, heading somewhere he can't define. As the colours begin to spread on its canvas of lightening blue, he sees her look up. He believes it is a smile that curves the profile of her face. The light on the horizon grows bright and she walks into it, and he shuts his eyes against the glare, no longer feeling the terror he had felt before. This light is different -- he just doesn't know how. As her figure vanishes into the brightness he hears her laugh, and feels his whole being straining, holding onto the sound. When he opens his eyes the sun is higher up in the sky and she is gone. His heart pounds and he stands in confusion, unsure of what to do next. A kind of courage suddenly fills his veins and he looks down at the doll that she has left behind, needing to see the frozen eyes staring back up at him. He does not see his mother's quiet anguish now; only light, reflecting the sunrise with an almost conspiratorial glint. Before he can react, before he can understand its meaning, it silently crumbles, suddenly shattered porcelain and torn cloth floating down to the ground, disintegrating into dust. The distinctive sound of breaking glass reaches his ears, but he knows not of its origins -- the world of the slumbering or the world of the awake. It could not be from here, this place -- for the glass eyes are the last to vanish, still shining in the light. He freezes, the fragile hope he has begun to foster dissipating into the dawn. He hears the whisper of words again, words he cannot distinguish, and loses hope. Even with the enlightnment his dream has tried to provide, he is still reminded by the reality. Samantha is gone. Even in his dreams, he cannot save her. He breathes in deeply, and decides it won't stop him from finding his answers. _________________________ Down the long streets that go; they will not wake; They will walk miles before they turn back, weary, Clutching the dolls they could not give away. Morning again will prise their fingers loose, And all their playthings crumble into light. _________________________ Author's Note: Greetings. I'm a semi-new writer, so a brief intro -- I've written fanfic before under a diferent name, but this is the first time I've posted in two long years, since my first few fumbling attempts at atxc. In short, this turtle hasn't come out of its shell in a *long* time . So with my stage fright, and the fact that this hasn't been beta-read -- constructive criticism is always appreciated, so please feel free to send feedback to missyspace83@crosswinds.net, I'd love to hear what you thought. I realise the content is vaguely... 'trippy', for lack of a better word :-), and I would like to know if it worked on the online equivalent of paper as much as the idea worked in my head. Also -- I know that Mulder said in 'Pilot' that he was twelve when Samantha disappeared, but I'm sure you know that judging by the date (Nov 27) he should have been thirteen at the time. That's one hell of a continuity error, IMHO . Hence, he is fourteen in this story. Thanks for reading.