From: Shannon Ongley Date: Tue, 08 Jun 1999 18:02:43 PDT Subject: submission: "There" 1/1 Thanks to all those folks who sent me words of encouragment. Here's a little something that was born out of sickness and a looong road trip :) Title - "There" Author - minor Shannon Ongley E-Mail : diana_lesky@hotmail.com Rating - PG13 - language and some disturbing imagery involving children. Category - VA Spoilers - Emily sorta Keywords - none Summary - Set between The End and Fight The Future. Scully is disturbed by a case. Archive - Sure, anywhere, just tell me and keep my name and email attached. Feedback - Anything you've got time for, thank you very much :) --------------------------------------------------- _There_ My keys slide smoothly into the door. A soft 'click', I swing it open, usual rhythm; a tired squeak about a third of the way open. Normal. I shrug off my coat, toss my keys and their oversized ring on the couch endtable, making my way to the kitchen. Shoes pinch a bit after a long day. All routine. Normal. Life marching on; nothing's changed. I push the cupboard doors aside, eyes flitting over labels. Purposefully empty, my mind only concerned with the present. Going through the usual motions; auto-pilot. Just don't think. Stop. Just breathe. No. Control slipping from my grasp. My chin quivers, "just like when you were a baby," my mother's voice invades the mental void. I frown. Breathe. Normal. In. Out. In. My jaw sets, face tenses, then relaxes again. I bite my lower lip; ground between my teeth. Out. My hand glides out, seizing a box of Oreo's, slide a few onto a plate. I turn to the refrigerator, pull open the door. Cold air bites into my exposed flesh after the sultry July night air. I shake the carton, pour, creating a head on the milk like I have since I was a little girl. My pulse threatens to jump. No, normal. I sip at the creamy liquid softly, and push the cold metal door shut with my foot before kicking off the offending pump. I ease down onto the sofa, cookies on my lap, milk on the table. See Mulder? I'm fine, no problem. Just part of the job. Professional veneer? Don't need one, just am. I tuck my feet under my body, lean against the armrest. I stare, blank, at the clean, off-white walls. Sterile, like a morgue. My face collapses in on itself, eyes clamped, squeezed, shut. Damnit! Now I've done it. Why in the hell did I have to go and do that? Damnit! I've always worked hard to give my little apartment a feeling of home. Away from the horrors, sickness of the hospital; the FBI. Death. Especially after Melissa. My. space. I'd even insisted on sopping up, scrubbing the blood when the Super had offered help. My face cracks, last facade of control destroyed. Breathing is harsh, jagged, the wind knocked out of my gut. by life. God Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. I bend over, plate forgotten, dropped, shattered. Like her. Her tiny skull. Damnit. Damnit. It's just one more murder. One more number on the body count for a newsman to report. One more piece of footage; crime scene tape, blood, flashing lights, body bags and badges. Old ladies, parents, lock your doors, the Gang Banger, 'Boogie Man', is coming. But it doesn't mean a thing. They don't, feel the pain, just fears in shadows. One more murder. Media gun glamour; terror that's just as fake. This isn't coming to take them away. This Boogie Man doesn't give a shit about suburbia. These things don't happen to them; they happen to Carrie. My body is wracked by silent sobs. Tears streak down my face, carving a path through Cover Girl. I shove them aside with the heels of my hands. Damnit. Damnit. I've given up clawing for control. Flood gates down. The images run rampant, unbidden, behind my eyelids flitting by rapidly. Crack junkie mom, seven brothers and sisters, another on the way. Urine stained walls. Children lying, forgotten, used toys in a 3 year olds' playpen. Wasting away like Mommy. Meanwhile, I'm in too dangerous a job, relationships too flighty, to adopt. Unfit. Mommy was a deadbeat, Daddy just dead, still screwing kids up. And that night Mommy needed her hit. But Mommy owed money to the friendly neighborhood crack dealer. He came around, maybe 4:30 am by reports, started waving a gun around, semi-automatic, threating, screaming, strung-out, demanding his cash. He and Mommy were both whacked out, long gone, on the latest chemical escape. He cocked his gun, aiming around, Carrie unlucky enough to come running through, chasing an older brother with a half-eaten Sugar Daddy he'd found. 5 am, shots rang out, morning anchorman's got a hot new story, next year an award for his 'skills'. Carrie gets a blank headstone, and a cheap wooden casket. Mommy gets one less mouth to feed. Dad, Missy, Emily. Nver there. I wonder if you even miss me. All my training won't get me that. I still can't save one insignificant kid, can't be protector to one little girl, because I'm not up to government snuff. But hey, you can protect the country, lose your family to your loyalty, but we don't give another back in return. Can't trust you with that. Dealer claims he was shooting a Pitbull, it was going to kill him. She was four years old. Damnit. My body is drained, dry heaves are all that's left. Damnit. Damnit. My mantra. I'd laugh if I had the breath to do so. A redundant pointless phrase, whispering, screaming too, in my mind from the moment I saw her. Watch out or mommy will wash your mouth out with soap. Golden brown hair, gnarled and matted with blood, skull crushed by a size twelve druggies' boot; bullet in the throat. Damnit. The phrase weakens, quiets within. I can feel nothing at all. I lie curled up on the couch, body folded in on itself. Mulder went over the scene, prints the killer; arrested him that morning. A waste of his talents, waste of my emotional energy. Damn them. We shouldn't be here. He never noticed the mask waver in it's place, keen to crumble, disintegrate at any moment. I wonder if he struggles too, or is he just like everyone else? Disenchanted. Just one more murder. Why the hell does it have to be like this?! 'Never again' I swore the last time. Why can't I just not care? "God DAMMIT!!" I hurl a pillow across the room. It bounces harmlessly off the television, which just pisses me off more. Because I've got a policy of truth to myself. Screw policy! Who cares? She is – was – just a crack baby! She'd just have grown up to be her mother, an anchor on society. Worthless. The thought paralyzes, disgusts, me. She's still a person. I can't even lie to myself, damnit. That could be you, but for the grace of God. Grace. A joke, but I cling to it. It's always been this way. Two warring sides; bitter and hopeful, exaggerated since the cancer. A cancer of not just the body, but the soul. Just make up your fucking mind! I can feel my muscles contract again, as if to squeeze the torment from my being. I pull myself to the phone, pick up the receiver, my ears pounding from the pressure in my head, strain to hear the dial tone. "If you want my help why can't you just tell me?" she always asks. Because I'm never there. I punch the numbers, fingers slick and salty with tears. The corners of my mouth tug downward, as if pulled by some enormous weight as I hear the "Hello?" crackle through from the opposite end. Another solitary tear slips down my cheek, cutting an icy path over the burning flesh. My voice tremulous, small, like a child, but I don't care. At this moment I'm there. "mom?" ----------- END Hope I didn't waste your time :) Minor Shannon ```````````````````````` "Not Just For Laughs" - My Fic site: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/1491/fic.html Archivist for the Abbey's Underground Files: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/9363/studyhall.html "I shambled after, as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time,the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.." - Jack Kerouac