YOU HURT ME! by Henry Wyckoff wyckoff@Boris.infomagic.com Written: August 16, 1996 An X-Files Story Notice: Permission is given to archive this story as long as I am notified in advance (in fact, I'm not archiving my own stories anymore, so I encourage archivists to grab it), to post this on the newsgroup, and to advertise the existence of this story. WARNING: This short contains common profanity, the likes of which you most likely hear on the street. It also contains violent overtones, if you're sensitive to that stuff. Main Characters: Walter Skinner and an unnamed character Abstract: In which Assistant Director Walter Skinner takes a vacation that he won't forget for a while. It'll make him wish that Mulder and Scully were taking it instead. ============================================================ Assistant Director Walter Skinner lay down on his bed. He had a severe headache, and for some reason, he couldn't help but look out the window. "Some vacation!" he snorted to himself. First vacation he had in years. The first vacation he'd allow himself to make, and he couldn't enjoy it. He couldn't relax. It took him a while for him to realize that something outside was calling him. "What the hell!" Skinner walked outside, at once regretting it. Too much Seagrams last night, and even though he didn't drink enough to really regret it, it still made his eyes hurt. He walked around aimlessly, unable to forget the dream he had. It was like he was somebody else, and he knew it. He was an observer, and yet a part of this other person. The odd thing was that even though he arrived at this city last evening, and had never even seen a picture of this place before, the details that he saw here in the daytime were familiar. He was remembering something. Or as Mulder might suggest, he was tuning in... * * * ...I wanted to shake my head. I hated these questions. But I kept a mask on my face. I already explained it to him, but somehow it wasn't good enough. The ironic thing was... it was my foreman's birthday party. The guy just turned thirty-five, got his PhD a few months back -- a big deal for him, since he pulled off a pretty ambitious project. The problem was, I just couldn't make it to the party. It was too late. If he could have done it in the day, I would have had no problem. My foreman accepted it. I tried to make up by forewarned absence by buying him pizza. He didn't accept, but told me he understood that I couldn't make it. Don. That was his name. Not my foreman -- his name was Mitch. No... Don was the one giving me shit. He just said some unforgivable things. Insensitive things. I'm not perfect, but there are things I just don't do to people. Don. You just crossed the line. Why? Why can't you accept my explanation? It's the fucking truth, you son of a bitch! What the hell do you mean my explanation is weak? HOW DARE YOU JUDGE ME? WHY THE HELL DO I NEED TO JUSTIFY EVERY GODDAMNED THING IN MY FUCKING LIFE? ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW IS THAT I CAN'T FUCKING MAKE IT! END OF DISCUSSION! But no... that's not good enough for him. It was morning. For the first hour since I got into work, I was in a good mood. I was smiling and laughing. Not anymore. My mood was shattered. But Hell if Don cares... I don't even think he realized what he did. I don't even think he cares. But I care, and I wish to god I didn't! But I do... That's my fucking problem. I can't let things drop. I'm fucking sensitive, and I can't help but hold it in... because I'm a good kid. That's what those I consider my friends say about me. A good kid. They're really acquaintances, when it comes to it. Walter the hot dog salesman. I kept him in business when I was in summer school. I think I must have bought ten bucks worth of Polish and Italian sausage off him every school day. We got to be friends, and I hung with him every day and shot the breeze. But we didn't shoot it with shit - - we were honest about what we said, which doesn't imply we talked about deep stuff. Later on, we'd talk about beer. That's when I was an alcoholic and loving it. Shows how much he knew. Shows how much my self-control was killing me. A good kid, he described me to my lab buddies. Buddies! Yeah, right! But it's the truth. I am a good person deep down. I care about people. I don't want to hurt them. And that's what hurts me. They hurt me with their words, and I hold it in, because I don't want to hurt them back. And so through the day I worked on my own stuff. I didn't talk to anyone more than absolutely necessary. It must have been obvious that I wasn't happy because I had to fight to hold back the tears and the anger. It must have been obvious. But nobody said a thing. Don was smiling and laughing. For a fucking Christian who claims to have felt the Holy Spirit, you're a fucking sensitive guy, Don! So it hit noon. I know I was the one who thought up the idea of going out to the deep pan pizza place for lunch, a time when the whole lab could get together before classes started and we all were involved in our own stuff. A good idea, really. But that was when I was happy. I wasn't in any mood to be sociable, but I held it in. But I wasn't smiling. Who knows what was in Don's mind. Did he know that I was eating myself up on the inside? It *must* have been obvious! I think Mitch knew something was up. But he didn't say a thing. I ate my pizza, and didn't say much. I said something to a labmate about him paying for the bill. They all got after me then, making jokes like, "Hey, why don't we just order the pizza to go so we can get back to the lab and back to work?" That was followed by, "Or we could have it delivered!" That was followed by, "Or better yet, you could just get an IV, and inject the nutrients right into your bloodstream!" Fucking sarcasm! Why the fuck can't you leave me alone! They all joined in. All of them. I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn't. I hurt so much, at a time when I should have been happy! Why couldn't they understand that they were hurting me? If I had even unintentionally hurt another one, I would have stopped in mid-sentence, and asked what was wrong. If it was indeed something I said, I would seek forgiveness. It was obvious they didn't give a damn about me. There they are, all smiles and laughing. Jokes about students who snap and shoot their advisors and other students, like the guy in Iowa a few years back. Like the kid in San Diego a few days ago. When we walked back, I didn't say a damned thing. I could feel chills going down my throat and clutching my heart. Chills went over my skin. I clenched my teeth so hard that they hurt. One of them, Chris, asked me if there was anything wrong. I assured him in a tight and controlled voice that everything was all right. The other one, Scott, joked about me going postal. Son of a fucking bitch! If you see a warning sign, you deal with it, you don't fucking joke about it! You're just like my brother! He did the same thing to me! Just leave me alone you bastard! Of course, I just ignored him, turning up my headphones a little louder. If I was in Scott's place, I would be wondering what was eating me up, not making goddamned jokes. Bastard. I might just kill you! * * * ...Skinner shook his head. The dream was so strong it was more like a memory than a dream. He stopped dead cold. He was standing at the front door of the very pizza place in the dream. This was too much for coincidence. He shook his head. "It can't be real." It took a great deal of effort, but he forced himself to walk on, having an almost irresistible urge to get a pint of Guinness and a slice of sausage, pepperoni, and black olive pizza. * * * I got home. My bags fell on the coffee table. I stared at the empty room. Just the things I used when I took my work home with me. Computer. Bookshelf of memories. Memories of vacations, evenings, and weekends forgone so I could make the grade or get my foot in the door so I could get or keep a job. All the walls I had built up around me burst. I couldn't keep them up forever. My face almost folded in half as I cried my heart out. I stuffed a pillow over my face. Can't ever show my true feelings. Can't express myself. Maybe that's what I did: cried my soul away. I didn't want it anymore, so I cried it away one day at a time. Each time, I wouldn't be hurt as much. Each time, I wouldn't have as much hesitation to willingly hurt others. I would look forward to it. When the tears were dry, I was still hurt and angry, but I felt empty. Like there was nothing left to hurt. I stared at the mirror. "Fuck you Don! I'm not going to let you hurt me again!" My face had turned from a face of sorrow and hurt to one of fury. My head tilted down, with my eyes looking up. They were red. Perhaps it was a demon I saw in the mirror? * * * It was evening. Skinner had managed to forget about the dream. But he *did* remember about something that he had to mail. When he went into the post office... not a big place, but rather one of those small places that could only fit about five people. Why did he suddenly feel an odd sensation running up and down his spine? Why did his hands twitch, and a hand grip his stomach? His blood pumped like crazy. Somehow, some part of him knew that something was about to happen. * * * "What the hell do you mean?!" I tried my best to maintain my civility. But it was too much. The dam broke. I slammed her pretty hard in the face and jumped over the table. I wanted to hurt someone. * * * He didn't know how it began, but Skinner knew that chaos had hit. He leaped over the table and grabbed at this frothing lunatic by the shoulders. The young woman who had manned the post office counter was wide-eyed, frightened, angry... and physically hurt. In the split second that Skinner assessed her, he knew she'd need medical attention... fast. The next split second, and Skinner dedicated all his attention to the frothing lunatic. It suddenly hit him. It was the guy from the dream... and he was every bit as hurt and angry as the guy in the dream was. He had become a demon, his eyes red and his fists ready to hurt. The guy didn't recognize him, and probably didn't care if he did. He was about five foot nine, had a large frame, and a look that wasn't muscular, but rather one of sturdiness. A punch that landed on his face and sent him flying back against the wall also told him that this guy made up for his lack of visible muscle with speed and power. "COME ON!!!" yelled the young man in a deep bass, holding himself back, daring Skinner to come back at him. "Come on and try it!" Skinner had been in tough situations. He'd been in Vietnam. He'd been in situations that never existed. But he'd never been as scared as he was now. Maybe the kid was good enough and strong enough to kill him, or maybe not. But that wasn't what scared him. It was the look in the kid's eye. It was the feeling that every bit of the dream was true. It was the certainty that here was a good kid pushed too much... and maybe it was too late to help him. Only a split second had passed. Skinner didn't really go on the 'offensive' per se. He attacked, but not to hurt. He attacked to limit the kid's options, which was a different matter. A solid shot to the face, one to the lower right ribcage -- dead on a floater, and one to the other side. It didn't touch the kid one bit. All he did was grunt a bit, and give a bit to the punches. It was like punching a dead guy -- he gives, but doesn't give a damn. Skinner sure gave a damn about the punches that the kid gave him right back. A punch to the front teeth burst his lip and made him bite his tongue. A second punch to the chest threatened to bust his ribcage. It sure made a *thump* sound. Reflexes kicked in. He didn't know how he did it, or even how his muscles knew what to do, but somehow he had the kid in a grappling hold that he never even knew was possible. The kid wasn't going anywhere. He was wrong. Skinner was on the ground, knowing only that his guts were feeling quite tender, and his right elbow had a sharp pain. His forehead wasn't doing that well either. The kid was a few steps ahead of him, running out the front door. Skinner chased after him, reaching the door just as it shut. And God, that kid was fast! Through busy streets, over fences, and through backyards Skinner chased the kid, until he cornered the kid in an alley. The demon was still wrapped around the kid's face. "Is it really that bad?" asked Skinner. He stood about ten paces away, just waiting. His face showed compassion. Maybe he did know what was eating the kid up. A hint of tears touched the eyes, but instantly vanished as the kid snarled and charged at him. Again, Skinner's reflexes surprised even him: he stomp kicked the kid in the gut and sent him to the ground, where he instantly recovered and waited warily. Some of the demon was wearing off. Skinner took the chance. "Look... I know what you're going through... Wait! Let me talk! Let me guess what's happening. You feel like you can't do anything right. You're being hit from all directions. Sound familiar?" That got the kid's attention, but he didn't look convinced. "You pulled yourself out of a hole, didn't you? And nobody's recognizing it! It was drinking, wasn't it? It was killing the pain, and now that you stopped, you can't kill the pain!" The kid attacked him in a snap of blind rage, and landed in a heap on the filthy asphalt. Skinner continued, "You don't understand what the pain is. You just know that it's there, and it won't go away. It's sheer existence that causes the pain, isn't it?" The demon left the kid. What was left was a good kid, hurt and crying. It was hard to understand him through his heart-wrenching sobs. "I don't want to hurt him! I just want the pain to stop!" The kid curled up in a ball, unable to breathe because he was crying so much. Skinner had an image then. It was something worse than Vietnam, and it was within, rather than without. It also made him think of Mulder. "Mulder..." he didn't know he spoke aloud. "All this search for demons from space, and you've ignored the demons within us all." * * * Skinner looked out the window as the plane took off. The mess with the kid had been solved. No charges were filed, because nobody recognized the young man in question. His pain and rage had twisted up his face to the point where he had quite literally looked like another person. He looked at his own hands, knowing how close he had come himself to becoming that selfsame demon. It took a woman in Vietnam to save him. Not only had she saved him from physical death, but she had saved him from spiritual death. Her words came back to him after all this time. "'He insulted me, he hurt me.' Those who think such thoughts will not be free from hate. "'He insulted me, he hurt me.' Those who think not such thoughts will be free from hate. "For hate is not conquered by hate: hate is conquered by love. This is the law eternal." He stared up at the ceiling. "Kid, you'd do yourself some good to read the Dhammapada." The end for now...