The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. CATEGORY: XAR - X-File, Angst, MSR RATING: NC-17. If you are under 18 DO NOT proceed. This is a dark pieced filled with offensive language and nasty graphical images. If this isn't your cup of tea, please do not proceed. SPOILERS: US4 - Up to, and including, Momento Mori. SUMMARY: During the autopsy of a fifth woman in a series of brutal slayings, Scully becomes linked to the victim and the killer as a result of her illness. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Special thanks go to: my editors Joyce and Deb and Meredith; to Emily for her help in creating an accurate portrait of GWU. Author's personal notes located after chapter 10. Enjoy the ride! ----------------------------------------------- The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone ----------------------------------------------- Unwept, unfriended, without marriage-song, I am led forth in my sorrow on this journey that can be delayed no more. No longer, hapless one, may I behold yon day-star's sacred eye; but for my fate no tear is shed, no friend makes moan. --From Antigone by Sophocles She stir'd not -- breath'd not -- for a voice was there How solemnly pervading the calm air! A sound of silence on the startled ear --From Al Aaraaf by Edgar Allan Poe ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER ONE ----------------------------------------------- PROLOGUE He likes to carve things. The feel of the blade in his hands is a sexual thing; a feeling of power, of control, as his hand strives to create the tiniest of details. This, he imagines, is what the great artists feel as they create their masterpieces. It pleases him greatly to compare himself to the likes of Picasso or Van Gogh. An artist. He learned to carve when he was a child, from the hands of his father. He was very young then, his body too small to hold all the memories of Daddy before he Went Away. Now, as an adult, there is nothing left of those memories except the young man's uncanny ability to carve. He remembers sitting on the wooden porch in front of the house, splinters from the rough floor digging into his buttocks, sweating in the oppressive heat of the late summer afternoon. His Daddy was silent, always so silent, but kind and strong, sitting on the faded green and orange striped lawn chair carving thick bars of Irish Spring. The boy sat there, as the sunlight faded, smelling the fresh scent from the thick curls as they fell without sound into a pile next to him. The man was silent. The boy was silent. The time passed this way, both of them strangely content, until Daddy's hands had coaxed the face of a clown or a whale from what was once an ordinary bar of soap. It was many years later, after Daddy Went Away, that the boy began to carve. He started with an old vegetable knife with a plastic handle which resembled a bone. For hours, he would sit in silence concentrating on nothing but the pressure of the knife. In. Out. Around. Elaborate shapes. Graceful curves. Nothing around him mattered as he obliterated himself, his past, in his carving; striving harder each time to recreate the pictures flashing through his brain. His talent progressed as he continued to practice, until he thought he finally had the knack. He starts with the eyelids. Inserting the tip of the blade into the hollow crease at the top of the eye, he delicately follows the natural curve of the socket. He is very careful not to damage the eye. It is an honor for them to watch The Artist as he creates. Once the cut is made, he slowly peels the flap of skin away. As the piece dries in the air, it curls slightly, the eyelashes tickling his palm like the whiskers of a cat. He stares at it in wonder; this gift, this first offering which he accepts from his victims. Next, fingernails. These are fun, but tricky. Taking great care, he pounds a long nail into each hand so she cannot move. He began doing this on the second victim, solving the problem of trying to hold them down with one hand and carve with the other. Now, he performs the task easily, slowly, oh-so-very-carefully cutting around the crescent of each nail making a "U" shape like the mouth of a smiley face. He does all the incisions on one hand and peels each nail back, pieces of nerve and flesh stubbornly clinging to the undersides of the nails. Then, the other hand. Right first. Left last. Nipples, earlobes, hair, clitoris, pubic hair are all done with the same, calm efficiency. By this fifth woman, he was actually pretty damn good and would finish ahead of schedule. The lips he saves for last. His absolute favorite. He carves them off whole, confidently producing two chunks of flesh like sections from a California orange. The women never seem to mind at this point. If they aren't dead by now, they would be soon. Finished, his reward is the sweetest, the softest of kisses from the disembodied lips. ----------------------------------------------- 8:30pm March 25, 1997 Autopsy Bay 4 FBI Headquarters I cower in this darkness which has become my life, the hidden disfigurements of my body separating me from the world of the living as effectively as a pane of glass. I see all. I am seen. Yet I cannot be heard. I scream, I beg, I pray in varying tones but my voice is not strong enough to pass this barrier created by the betrayal of my own body. I drift alone, unable to feel a connection to the living. I identify with the dead as each breath I take leads me toward their welcoming embrace. Their pretension is marked by outstretched hands. Soon I will join them; my brethren, my kindred. I wonder if all along I knew this would be my fate: That death would come sooner to me than others. Perhaps this is where my fascination with pathology began. The bond between the dead was formulated in the hands of fate, before I was even born; an irrefutable relationship outlasting any I created amongst the living. My faith leaves in bits and pieces, forsaking me. I perform autopsy after autopsy in the desperate hope I might catch the glimmer of a life beyond the one I inhabit; upon shedding my human form, another, brighter one is ready to house my soul. I find nothing but rotting flesh; organs awash in useless fluids. This woman, this victim, is silenced by death. Selma Thomas is eviscerated down the middle by a neat "Y" incision from chest to pubic area, resting on an indifferent altar of science. The skin is peeled back in great folds, ribs cracked by a tool which looks like a giant nutcracker. I probe her organs, weighing them, recording the information on my electronic device, taking samples of fluids and tissue and foreign debris in the hopes her silence will shatter; from her grave she will point a bony finger at the sick fuck who carved her to death. The irony is not lost on me. Cancer does the same to my body. It carves healthy pieces of my flesh while I am still living, races to consume as much as it can before my body is dead, rotting. We are alike, her and I. We are sisters in this death, related in more ways than I can fathom. Anger overwhelms me. Anger at myself. Anger at the sight of her exposed like this. It sickens me. Years of medical school, pathology classes, dead cadavers brought to me from across the country in various states of decomposition, and the sight of this woman leaves me nauseous. I am weak. Pathetic. Yes. They all cry out for me to help them, leaving clues behind under fingernails, on the soles of feet, in the vagina or along the skin. It is my responsibility, my training to find these clues, to seek justice. But death is so final, so victorious and I am so weak. I am too much like them. I cannot divine the voices of the individual dead from the din of the masses. Their shouting threatens to overtake me. The scalpel in my hand shakes. Not from the late hour. Not from the darkness. Rather from my own incompetence in a job at which I once excelled. I have changed so much in a short period of time. The cancer has eaten away more than flesh. I look at my face in the mirror and see the image of a Dana Scully I no longer am. I am foreign, alienated. Fuck. I'm a doctor. A fully trained medical doctor and a forensic pathologist with the FBI and I'm freaking myself out by imagining words from the lips of this dead woman. Stop being such a silly shit and get this autopsy done. Mulder is waiting for it. I can hear his footsteps pacing in the hallway like the continual ticks of a Seiko clock. I wish he would go home and leave me alone. For once I would like to work in silence, a quiet without disturbances so that my composure is not threatened. Instead he walks, back and forth, like a sentry outside the door. Give it up and go home, Mulder. Go home. Get a fucking life and leave the Bureau, leave me behind, and live. Don't mirror my death with one equally comparable. Like a damned guard dog or an expectant father I hear him out there, still pacing. It's 8:30 at night. I want to go home and soak in a hot tub filled with fragrant oils. I want to wash the stink of death out of my hair, off my skin, a hot washrag across my eyes blotting out the pain. To forget, for however long, the frailty of my humanity. "The victim has had external areas carved with a small unidentified blade. The weapon pattern moves from left to right indicating a right handed person. The incisions are small, sharp, similar to a scalpel or some sort of surgeon's tool. The eyes, fingernails, nipples, earlobes, and clitoris were all removed prior to death. Bleeding and coagulation suggest removal 2-4 hours before the victim's expiration." "I... uh." Get a grip. Battle this thing Dana. Grab hold of yourself. "The pubic hair..." "The pubic..." "The... shit." The scalpel falls with an accusing clatter - metal against something harder, denser. It is slippery with blood and guts and death. I don't want to touch it. I don't want to carve into her flesh like a fucking butcher. I don't want to desecrate her, not like him. I can't do it. I can't do it anymore. Fuck. I need some air, I think. Some cool water against my forehead which is suddenly raging with fever. A fire without substance. An illusion. I need to get the hell out of here. The door swings out and Mulder is there, the ever present force in my life. "Done, Scully?" He is so matter of fact, so eager in his need for the truth. The truth on just this one case. Just this one body. Just this one killer. The sum of all these little truths eat away my life as slowly and as surely as the cancer cells hidden inside my head. The outcome of both leads down the same path. "Scully?" "What?" "Is everything OK?" "I'm fine, Mulder." I want to scream at him not to treat me like a fragile piece of glass. Living will not break me into a million pieces. It will not make death quicker or less painful. Only my last breath will break me. The very last intake of air, the slow release, the rejection of all that I have been, all that I have left unfinished. That will break my soul into a million pieces. "Scully. . ." "I'm fine, Mulder." "Your. . ." He gives me this little embarrassed nod. A non verbal gesture I don't understand. It angers me. "What?" He is reluctant to answer. Come on, spit it out, Mulder. Get that dumb look off your face and spit out whatever it is you are trying to tell me. "Scully, your nose. . ." It's bleeding again. I hadn't even noticed that tiny itch on the sensitive area above my upper lip. "Fuck _me_." I wipe at it quickly and it stains the sleeve of my lab coat. Stupid. That was utterly the stupidest thing to do. "Here, take my handkerchief, Scully." "I don't need it." "You're bleeding." He pleads with his eyes, offering the clean white cloth like some sort of surrendering flag. A peace offering? An admittance of defeat? You never know with Mulder. You never really know where you stand. "I don't need it. I. . . it's just a nosebleed." My hand has streaks of blood on it. Dark red to light red. More comes trickling out of my nose. I can feel it. Every nerve in my body is attuned to it. "You're making a mess, Scully." Jesus Christ, leave me alone, Mulder. I want to tell him this so badly, but I think he already knows. Why then, why, does he continue to press me like this? It's easier just to take the fucking thing from him and wipe my nose than it is to argue or think about it. "Scully, you need to go home and get some rest." Better to go along than to argue. "I'll come in early and transcribe the report, Mulder." "Fine. I'm not in any hurry." Liar. Liar. Why do you lie to my face, Mulder? After four years did you think I would not be able to tell, to read you like a book? I know how much you want this information, how much you need it to catch yet one more sick bastard. I know how you need to find these little truths. Why then, does my imminent death scare you? Why do you tread lightly around me? Does our friendship mean nothing to you that you tear it from my grasp when I need it the most? Yes, Death has changed us both. I am angry. I am callous. I'm afraid I cannot do this anymore. I can't. It is this failure in the light of everything else that scares me more than dying. It is as if I am dead already and am merely waiting for my body to follow. Instead of arguing, instead of telling him this, I go home. ----------------------------------------------- Death has become her catalyst. I watch as it changes her, my partner, my friend. The knowledge strips all pretense from her nature, leaving naked this core, this elemental Scully. She grows thinner, transparent, until her soul is naked before me. She masks this transformation with indifference, anger, vulgarities; an overall coarseness which allows her to cope with the knowledge that she is dying. To me, her partner, her friend, that spirit remains beautiful, undefeated. In the wake of it, however, I am left shaken and afraid. I no longer know the correct words to say to elicit a laugh or a frown or a non stop tirade of scientific analysis. My emotions are carefully guarded, unacknowledged, as our common ground is ripped further apart each day; separated by a wide gulf of uncharted waters which cannot be breached. I offer what little I have, but it is not enough. She reads embarrassment into a simple gesture of caring, of offering a handkerchief. Who am I to add to her burden? Who am I to share her grief? I tell her nothing, immured, unable to articulate what is in my heart. She goes home for the night. In this little absence, an absence which will one day grow much larger, I am scared. I am losing her now, before I even lose her to Death. I would cry, but my grief is inconsolable. END 1/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER TWO ----------------------------------------------- 7:30 am March 26, 1997 Basement Office FBI Headquarters Another day. Funny, since my days are numbered one would think I'd savor each individually. Has the cancer spread, blackening my soul, until I do not have the energy to differentiate one day from another? I desensitize myself with coarse indifference, with words. I will not miss that which I no longer appreciate. Of course, this idea is feeble. Mulder would tell me that I am rationalizing. Yet knowing what I do and trying to stop myself from doing it are two independent actions. If I were graceful, I would accept death. I cannot. I was always a sore loser. I spend my days caring too much, then hiding this fact by caring too little. Just another fucking day. Even vulgarities fail to shake the apathy which has me in its thrall. Each day the struggle becomes more difficult: To rise from my bed, to take a shower, to dress, make coffee, struggle with the traffic, the laptop case and the mundane chatter from the radio stations. Not caring is so much simpler. It requires such little effort, really. It is tempting to give in, to let my tenuous grasp on life relax. But I am too much of a chicken shit to allow it. Dana Katherine Scully. Her religion. Her belief. Her strength. Her intelligence. They mock what I have become. These bits and pieces slip away, leaving me in the unfamiliar body of a woman I no longer recognize. I'm scared. Mulder will be in soon. I have to get this damned report done. So far, my only actions have been drinking two cups of coffee and staring blankly at the computer screen like the village idiot. I haven't begun to transcribe my notes on Selma Thomas' autopsy. The days grow harder. By my second cup of coffee this task would have been completed; I would have sorted through the filing on my desk, finished my e-mail correspondence, jogged five miles, and briefly considered cleaning up Mulder's area of the office before giving up in disgust. Now, the smallest of tasks is overwhelming. Type the report, Dana. Get it done. One step at a time. Launch your word processing program. Open up your template. Start transcribing your notes. Start the recorder. The movements are jerky, automatic: like a marionette temporarily controlled by an unseen hand. My voice is duplicated on the recorder. This never fails to surprise me, hearing my voice as others must hear it - never how I imagine it to be. I wonder in what other ways I am deceiving myself; what other ways my mind tricks me into believing one thing when another is true. Notations on organ size and weight. General observations. Beyond my words I hear the relentless ticking of Mulder's steps. The sound is low, like a heartbeat and it is vaguely soothing for no particular reason. It makes me drowsy. I could rest my head on the desk and be asleep in minutes. The words drone on. I type them into the computer. Sometimes I stop the machine when I cannot keep up. Sometimes I rewind it to ensure my phrasing is correct. I take pride in being exact, in being accurate. ' "The victim has had external areas carved with a small unidentified blade. The weapon pattern moves from left to right indicating a right handed person. The incisions are small, sharp, similar to a scalpel or some sort of surgeon's tool. The eyes, fingernails, nipples, earlobes, and clitoris were all removed prior to death. Bleeding and coagulation suggest removal 2-4 hours before the victim's expiration." "Blood. Death. The knife. Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help me, Dana." "I. . . uh." ' What? What the hell was that? The voice on the recorder. . . I almost missed it. I must have dozed off, must have been daydreaming, reliving the thoughts I projected onto the cadaver during the examination. I rewind the machine. ' ". . .removed prior to death. Bleeding and coagulation suggest removal 2-4 hours before the victim's expiration." "Blood. Death. The knife. Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help me, Dana." "I. . . uh." ' Rewind. ' ". . .expiration." "Blood. Death. The knife." ' Stop it. Start it. ' "Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help me, Dana." ' Forty minutes later I have gone through the whole tape three times, transcribing it. The first two phrases I missed, barely hearing them until I turned the volume all the way up, catching the whispers underneath the screaming of my voice and the thuds of Mulder's footsteps. My hands are shaking - too much caffeine, I think - and I can barely finish typing my report. I send it to the printer where the Laser Jet hums and whines, spitting out the twelve page report. Pulling the papers out of the tray, scanning, I disbelieve until I see it in black in white. There. At the end. Forty-two transcribed words recorded during Selma Thomas' autopsy. Words which are spoken onto the tape by a voice which is not my own. A voice I am unable to recognize. Help me. Please help me, Dana. Blood. Death. The knife. Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help me, Dana. The eyes. So I can see. So he can watch me watch. He watches. Please help. I am so scared. Please. It hurts. I cannot move. My name. She says my name. How? The tremors hit my stomach with an angry punch. Nausea wells up, squeezing me like a vice, forcing me to run to the bathroom where I vomit up the meager contents of my stomach. Thin brown liquid. I hang onto the sides of the toilet. Three more times. No more. I am empty, dry heaving. Sitting on the cool tile of the floor, I wipe the saliva from my mouth onto the sleeve of my cranberry jacket. The material is stained a darker red, the exact color of blood. My body trembles, and my legs feel like jell-o. I'm afraid if I move the dry heaves will start again, so I sit in silence, regaining my composure. It takes a long time. Returning to the office I find Mulder there, waiting. "Scully, I worked last night on a correlation between dumping sites to narrow down. . ." He glances at my face and stops. So much for my facade. Mulder has sniffed out my vulnerability in less than thirty seconds like a pure bred bloodhound. His erratic concern angers me. "You look a little. . ." "A little what, Mulder?" His expression closes up fast at the confrontational tone of my voice. He snaps his mouth shut for a minute, choosing his next word carefully. "Tired." My hostility dissipates. Of all the words I thought he was going to use, tired was not one of them. He's right. I feel exhausted. The weakness hits me as suddenly as the nausea. I steady myself with a hand on the edge of my desk, watching alarm replace the caution in his face. The world narrows down, shrinks, to a pinpoint of light in which Mulder reaches for me. It's the last thing I see before I fall flat onto the floor in a dead faint. Time lapses. The void has no length. Darkness. Loneliness. Voices reach out. One is beautiful. His. I cannot separate the words. They meld together in a wave of consonants and vowels. They are soothing, loving, kind. I want to understand them. I need to understand them. Awareness pierces this darkness slowly. I am reluctant to leave it because here I know I am safe. Gradually, I come to the realization I am lying prone on the floor in our basement office, Mulder gently chafing my wrists, talking. I do not move, refuse to move, allowing the luxury of the warmth of his body to seep into my cold bones. "Scully?" He knows I am awake. No use prolonging it. Opening my eyes, I am surprised at the closeness of his face, smelling the subtle spices from his shaving gel, seeing the strands of hair near the nape of his neck that haven't quite dried yet from his morning shower. We are instantly aware of each other in a familiar way. "Scully?" He helps me into a sitting position. The pantsuit I put on this morning is covered with dirt from the floor. Several dust blobs have lodged themselves in my hair and I try brushing them out with unsure hands. I must look like hell. His proximity provokes such a feminine reaction. I smile at it, a tiny bit. He catches this gesture, a small change in the set of my lips, and his eyes instantly change color. In a moment they go from gray-blue to blue-green, like a magic trick. "If you wanted to get my attention, Scully, you could have just told me to shut up." "Hasn't worked in the past. Besides, this was much more dramatic." He stands, holding out his hand to help me up. His flesh is so warm and mine is so cold. He flinches at the contrast of our body temperatures. "You're freezing." He holds onto my hand for longer than proper office decorum dictates and I pull away. I sit down at my desk shuffling the report, gathering the papers and putting them back into numerical order. Pulling a free chair from nearby, he sits by the side of the desk. "Scully, I. . ." He stops, deciding he shouldn't say whatever it is on his mind. I watch him, saying nothing, aware that the act of putting words in his mouth will only cause him to abruptly change topics in silent dismissal. "Scully?" Mulder says my name so softly. Still, I say nothing, somehow knowing it is not required. His eyes skim away, off to the bulletin board filled with reports, satellite images, posters, MUFON newsletters - a plethora of pictures - enabling him to concentrate and find reassurance in the physical things around us which seem to never change. "Scully. We need to talk." He isn't looking at me. Whatever Mulder is about to say, I am not going to like it. The defensiveness, the hostility comes back in great waves and I sit up straighter in my chair, folding my hands together on the top of the desk, directing my focus to his face which has turned slightly from me. "Scully, I'm your supervisor. It's my responsibility, you know. . ." "Your responsibility to what? To do _what_, Mulder?" He closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "This is hard enough as it is. Please don't make it any harder, Scully." "Spit it out, Mulder. I'm sick of playing this waiting game with you. It's not like I have unlimited time anymore to await the final outcome." These unplanned thoughts of mine born into words shock both of us. I don't know who is more surprised - he at the vehemence with which they are spoken, or me at my uncharacteristic honesty. "As your supervisor, Scully, it is my job, my responsibility to pull you off active field duty if I feel that you are unfit. . ." "Are you saying I am unfit?" "I. . ." "Are you, Mulder? Are you saying I can't do the job?" "I'm not saying. . . I think you need some time away from this. . ." "No." "Scully. Yes. You need some time off." "Mulder. . ." "I'm telling you this as your supervisor. As your friend. You need to take a leave." The small muscle on the upper lid of my eye twitches, a sure sign I am upset. No one can see this minute movement, but it vibrates along every nerve in my body. The silence in the room magnifies it. We stare at each other, Mulder with concern as I struggle not to let his betrayal bring tears to my eyes. I press my tongue against my bottom teeth, willing myself, forcing myself not to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. I wouldn't give him the fucking pleasure. "Scully. . ." "I can't, Mulder. Don't force me into this. Don't take away the only thing I have left. I've already lost. . . too much." My words break at the end; not strong like I wanted them to sound. He stands up, moving to the other side of the room, pulling out a few thumbtacks from the bulletin board, moving pictures around, sticking them back in angrily. I hear each one as it punches through the board. "Mulder. . ." "All right, Scully. Forget I brought it up. Forget it. I'll go on pretending that everything is the same, that nothing has changed. I'll overlook the fact that you look exhausted and you look like you haven't eaten in a week. Or that the quality of your work has been slipping. The nose bleeds. Fainting. Maybe if I ignore all these things they'll go away. Just don't ask me not to care. I can't do that." "Give me another week. If things haven't improved, I'll take a medical leave." He jabs a pin into the board. Pulls it out. Pushes it in. He is still angry, at himself I suppose. At me. The rift we've filled seems to have returned, a chasm wider and deeper than it was before. Perhaps creating this is the only way we'll be able to say goodbye; the only way we'll be able to leave each other without tearing ourselves into pieces. "Fine. One week. We're going to Joe's today for lunch. I want to see you eat something." "Is that the supervisor in you talking, Mulder?" "No. It's the Jewish mother in me talking." We seem to have declared a 'cease fire' for now, a truce. This allows Mulder to focus on the case. Back to business as usual. "Did you finish the Thomas autopsy?" Now begins the conversation I had been avoiding. The results of the autopsy. The report. The words as they are played over and over again. He listens, putting the recorder down with a look of amazement in his eyes. "In-fucking-credible, Scully. Cases of documented consciousness-related physical phenomena are extremely rare. Over recent years, a sizeable spectrum of evidence has been brought forth from reputable laboratories in several disciplines to suggest that at times human consciousness can acquire information inaccessible by any known mechanism and can influence the behavior of physical systems. But even the most rigorous and sophisticated of these studies display a characteristic dilemma: The experimental results are rarely replicable in the strict scientific sense. Do you realize the import of this tape?" "We need to have this analyzed, Mulder." "A 16-year empirical study of anomalous human-machine interactions provides strong evidence that consciousness can add information to otherwise random digital strings." "It could be something else, some sort of radio transmitted frequency that was picked up and recorded on the device. Electromagnetic tapes often act as antennas for stray signals beamed from satellite dishes. I think you're making an assumption that this. . ." "We need to verify that this voice belongs to Selma Thomas. Her parents might have a video tape or other vocal recording we can run a print match against." "Mulder, you're making an assumption that this _is_ Selma Thomas' voice." "Who would it be? Casper the friendly ghost doesn't get hired for voice-overs." "And I suppose the dead really do speak from the grave?" Point and counter-point. We both have delineated our lines in battle. It is a routine, comfortable, and it amuses me that I am able to provoke him so easily. I can tell by the excited spark in his eyes that he feels the same way. I wonder that after all we have been through, this remains unalterable. "We need a copy of this. Why don't you take it down to the lab? I'll work with the parents and try to procuring a vocal recording. We can run a test match against the voice on your tape. " "No." He stops in mid flight, half in and half out of his overcoat. "What?" "I want to go out in the field." "I'm just going the parents' home. I'll be back before lunch. It's more productive if we split up." "Mulder, sit down." "Why?" "Just sit down." In slow motion he takes off his overcoat and perches on the edge of his desk. I wait until I have his attention. "Mulder, what exactly causes consciousness-related physical phenomena?" "Is this significant, Scully? We're wasting time. There's a killer out there carving up women. We have a possible connection to discover his identity. . ." Ah. He suddenly realizes why I have asked this. He's stalling, trying to distract me from his precious truth. I repeat the question, cutting him off. "Mulder, what causes consciousness-related physical phenomena?" I nod at his silence. We both know where this path leads. I have thought about it, Mulder, and you cannot shield me from it. I thought about it as I lay on the floor of the bathroom suffused with dry heaves. My scientific mind pulled the puzzle together in minutes. You have taught me well in four years. Too well. "What factors? Well, in general, a mechanical system is influenced by the consciousness of a human." "What human in this case?" "There is no correlation to person and proximity. The random digital strings could be altered by anyone." "Selma? How would you explain that? " He thinks about this for a moment. I've backed him into a corner. He knows it. God, I used to relish being on the debate team. Arguing in a logical manner against the boys who thought they were hot shit because they could spout statistics and quotes from Newsweek and Time. This tactic left them quivering like a deer caught in the headlights waiting for the imminent impact. Mulder is different. I think he enjoys having his arguments refuted, craves it. It gives him some kind of kick to be forced to accept a viewpoint foreign to his own. Maybe that's the reason for his elaborate theories of corpses which regenerate their own heads or Vietnam vets disappearing right before your eyes. "No, Scully. I'm not sure I could explain that." "It's me, isn't it?" "Let me put it to you this way: Selma didn't make my top ten list." Even at the direst of moments his humor is present. Sometimes I hate him for it. Sometimes I love him for it. This time, his humor serves as a buffer to my fear. I draw strength from it. "If that is true in this case, and I am saying _if_, then I should accompany you to her parent's home, correct?" "In the hopes that you could further the connection using the deceased's possessions, yes. You should accompany me." There. What we had both been avoiding. "Put your coat back on, Mulder. I'm going with you to the Thomas'." "I love it when a woman takes charge, Scully." "I always figured you were the type." He answers me with a smirk as he opens the office door with a flourish. ----------------------------------------------- I unobtrusively watch my partner from the corner of my eye as the sunlight outlines her face. The lines and planes are infused with a placidity I know is false. This mask, this humanity which she wears so valiantly, does not make her weak or pitiable in my eyes. It only serves to enhance the fragile beauty that is, and always will be, Scully. Watching her die each day is the hardest thing I have ever done. Her faint in the office scared the living shit out of me. I thought it was time. Finally, it was the beginning of the end. I became immobile, seized by the sorrow of all we have left undone, unsaid, our partnership dissolved by a voracious bundle of abnormal cells induced by my quest for the truth. My hands are stained with the blood of those I have loved. I thought I could be brave for her, strong; today showed me I cannot. Faced with truth, I am nothing but a coward. END 2/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER THREE ----------------------------------------------- 11:15 am March 26, 1997 University Yard Washington, D.C. He chooses carefully. Already in the wake of his last, he has chosen another. He sits on a bench in the coldness that is neither winter nor spring, listening to the movement of feet on cement, watching. He has chosen the place at random, knowing this affords him security. To choose based on a pattern is to issue an invitation to the police. They would lock him up and throw away the key. Being confined is intolerable. When he was a boy and he was bad, she would punish him. There was a closet in the back of the house. It was empty of all things, except dust and darkness. When the mood struck her she would pull the boy in that angry impatient way and lock him in the closet. The boy tried not to be bad, tried hard the majority of the time, but the road was filled with pitfalls. A toothbrush left on the sink instead of in its holder. Mud tracked in from the field out back. His dog barking at night. She punished him for those things and a thousand other violations he was helpless to avoid. Inside the closet it was always dark. The boy sits on the wooden floor of the space. This confinement amuses him at first. After hours pass, the amusement ends and migrates into something uncomfortable. The splintered teeth of the plank floor bite into the thin skin of his ass. He shifts his weight but it seems as if every part of him is asleep, dead; hung in a weightless existence. There is a trap door in the floor of the closet. She knows this. She knows what he fears. The trap door leads into darkness, into a pit where things dwell. Beetles that chew out your eyes when you are dead. Spiders that crawl along your body with their thin spindly legs. Little gargoyles that drag you into the cellar and put you into the furnace, just for fun. It was a movie he saw years ago, before Daddy left. The need to pee woke him and he couldn't sleep. He crept out to the top of the stairs where he could see into the living room. The portable television played a series of pictures without color which filled the room with odd shadows. A woman. Gargoyles. They are in the old house looking for her. She is taking a shower and she doesn't know they are there. She doesn't see them or hear them. They want to hurt her, hurt her bad, but they can't reach her because of the light. It hurts their eyes. Smart gargoyles. They take a hanger from her darkened bedroom and reach around the corner of the door. It snags on the light switch and the room is immersed in darkness. The woman pauses. They scramble into the bathroom, cutting her with razor blades. She is bleeding, struggling for the light. She reaches it and flips the switch. The gargoyles scream and squeal and run into the walls like cockroaches. She's safe for now. The picture changes and she is at a party. The table is set with white linen and a punch bowl filled with a dark liquid. Guests mingle, talking softly, playing classical music on the radio. It is a beautiful party to celebrate their new home, her husband's new job. The gargoyles sit underneath the table where it is dark, where no one can see them. They pull the napkin off her lap. She thinks she has dropped it, so she picks it up. They pull it off again. The woman is scared. She picks up the napkin and puts it back in her lap, holding one corner. They try to take it off her lap again but she holds fast. They tug and tug and she fights them, feeling their claws on her legs. The gargoyles think this is pretty damned funny and laugh their asses off. She tries to tell her husband, to explain why she screamed and he tells her she is crazy. More images. The gargoyles come up from the floor, through the boards and into her bedroom. Her husband is away on business. He has left the woman alone in the old house telling her not to be afraid. She should conquer her fears of the darkness. She should not be afraid of it. "Get her." "Kill her. Get her." "Hurt her bad." The gargoyles grab with twisted claws, dragging her to the cellar as she screams. To the fire. She is. Taken to the fire. They pull her into the basement. Down there it is dark and there is a fire. A huge furnace with a fire like a mini hell. They drag her closer to this heat as she claws the ground where her fake blood mixes with the studio dirt. The camera pans to show the long claw marks on the floor of the cellar. Next, a close up of the fire. In the closet the boy is so scared. He rocks and hugs and cries. He. Can't. Breathe. So dark. Let me out please. Good. I'll. Be. Good. I promise. Promisepromisepromisepromisepromisepromise. He cries, waiting for the darkness to take him. He hears them coming. He hears their claws on the underside of the floorboards, a slow clicking as they circle, pointing to his hiding place. It will not be much longer. The boy screams. Dust and darkness mix with his tears. The last thing is their laughter. It is outside his door now, in the timbre of his mother's voice. The man who was once the boy is helpless to stop these pictures. ----------------------------------------------- I sit in a straight back chair in Selma Thomas' bedroom waiting for something to happen. It puts me on edge. In this room I feel a thousand hungry eyes crawling over me, watching. Forcing Mulder to bring me here was a rash decision. The scientific test proposed on the ride over worries me, though it is too late to gracefully back out. I have agreed to his impulsive plan and I am forced to see it through to its end, however long it may take. Patience, one of my better virtues, deserts me. I make time pass by memorizing details: One dresser, the vanity, the open closet door, a bed, a full length mirror hung on the back of the door. I observe these things superficially, taking mental note of the meager contents of the room like the good little FBI agent I am. Her room is plain, uninteresting and I wonder if the woman's personality matched. The bed is covered with a cream cotton spread that has been washed too many times. Nubs of fabric mar the smooth surface giving it a weary look. Matching curtains frame the windows behind which the shade is drawn, blocking out the light, the noise from the streets. The secrets of this dead women are cloaked by an anxious silence. Cosmetics have been left strewn across the vanity table: Pink nail polish the color of cotton candy. Bottles next to it of red, blue, and the silver so popular with the younger crowd. Colors I would not dare wear to the office or even at home in the sanctity of my apartment. My savvy fashion sense has obviously been blunted by the rows of boring suits hanging in my bedroom closet. The walls are different. They are alive, adorned with the likes of Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise, attached by pieces of scotch tape. They hang at slightly uneven angles, the adhesion from the tape losing its battle against gravity. It is jarring to observe Brad Pitt smiling with white capped teeth on a forty-five degree slant. It makes the whole world suddenly appear out of focus. Movie stars. Idols. The perfect man. The perfect love. Once I nailed twenty pictures of Shaun Cassidy to my bedroom wall. I spent a whole day fastidiously affixing my entire photo collection to the wall, creating a four foot by three foot montage. I would carefully chose a spot for the picture, then pound a two inch nail into each corner. My father's hammer was heavy; the leather grip of the handle soaked with the sweat of my efforts. Six hours. An entire summer day spent in the heat of the second floor bedroom instead of racing my new ten speed. Forgoing a trip down to the creek to watch the tadpoles grow legs as they turned into frogs. Forgetting my promise to collect bunches of cattails with Missy in the afternoon. The end result made me proud. Twenty pairs of eyes that followed me to every corner of the room. In those eyes were words that waited for me. Only for me. Shaun was waiting to meet me, to marry me, to give me chaste kisses as he whispered in the moonlight that I was his true love. I was an impassioned, foolish eleven-year-old who played 'Da Do Ron Ron' so much that it drove my entire family batty. I never missed an episode of The Hardy Boys. My mother, of course, was royally pissed off when she found out what I had done. I spent the last weeks of my summer vacation applying putty to cover up the eighty-seven holes I created. Eighty on purpose and seven by accident. I counted them. After the putty dried I sanded down the patches until they were smooth. I remember resting my cheek against the cold wall, crying. My mother relented when she caught me and we painted the walls together. I was lost as a child, different; separated from everyone else. I was the smartest, the most obedient; the Dana Katherine Scully who always returned her library books, placed first or second in the science fair, and turned in her homework on time. I was isolated from the children; treated like a leper. Ironic. You hide from the indignities forced upon you as a child, hoping it is a temporary phase you will grow out of, only to be treated in the same manner as an adult. Life is a funhouse mirror in which your childhood is reflected back in distortion with no possible means of escape. I wonder if Selma's childhood was happy. I am unable to formulate an answer. Death has casually stripped the individuality from this room. It is only a spare bedroom now, or a sewing room, or a den. Someone will sterilize it by removing the clothes, the books, the pictures. They will be given away or stored under the eves of the attic. By whom - her mother? Her father? My personal effects are destined to be handled in the same custom. Who will do this? My mother? Mulder? His presence fills the room behind me, next to me, around me. "Are you getting anything, Scully?" "I'm not a television set, Mulder. You can't just jiggle the antennae and hope for a good picture." He leaves the room before I am able to apologize. Guilt pierces this thick skin I've drawn around myself. Mulder has this uncanny knack lately for catching me at the worst of my moments. His reward is anger or impatience or defensiveness. A dismal pay for what I want to believe is his kindness, his concern. I push the thought of him, the feel of him from my mind. I study the artifacts of this dead woman's life, and try to make sense of her achievements, her failures. The recorder goes about its business making an audible whir as the tape records the sounds of silence. I hear nothing. I feel nothing. I sit here for minutes, for what seems like hours, feeling like a complete asshole. Someone is watching me. He is there. His eyes are on me. He is close enough now to touch. I can feel his breath exhaled lightly on the back of my neck. A hand reaches for me. He strokes my flesh so gently, like a lover. I am frightened, quivering under his touch. He senses the fear. It excites him. He reassures with words. He is my lover, caressing, undressing, revealing what I have hidden from all others. The blade gleams. It is sharp and wicked. He warms it against my naked skin. He is urgent in his need to taste, to smell. Power floods his body making him hard. "I. . . " "I. . .?" My voice is non-existent; a whisper. In my head I am screaming. I feel the trickle of blood from my nose as the rivulet marks its path down my lip. I cannot move to wipe it away. My eyes are blind. I see nothing. Darkness. He waits and watches in a familiar place. Flashes of pictures and then I am locked in a space where there is nothing but dust and spiders and beetles that chew your eyes out. Underneath there is something more sinister, a thing with claws and fangs and teeth that bite. Horrible, disfigured things that drag you screaming into the fire where they throw your body. They hiss and talk in the darkness we share. Mulder, help me. I fall for hours, for days, helpless to stop the descent. Mulder. My body slides from the chair where I sit in the dead woman's room. I feel nothing at all as my head hits the wooden floor, screaming the entire way down into the pit, the chasm, which issues its claim to my soul. ----------------------------------------------- The watcher is being watched. He feels an alien presence and the fine hairs along the back of his neck rise like a dog's hackles. He scans the commons in alarm, half expecting to hear the click of handcuffs as he is arrested and taken to jail. He looks for the source, finding nothing out of place. The college students move from one class to another, joking, pushing, hurrying. No one is looking at him, pointing a finger and screaming. Little attention is paid to the man on the park bench reading a book. He holds the novel in one hand, eating the soft flesh of an orange with the other. Assured once more of his anonymity, he resumes his observation. The woman he watches is beautiful in a fragile way. He imagines their first touch, soft, hesitant, her snow white skin shivering under his hand. Her fear evokes protection. He will reassure her with words, low murmurs in the shell of her ear while he undresses her. He will be gentle, reverent as he removes her jacket, her blouse, her skirt. The blade will cut off the straps of her bra, the fabric of her panties. She will be revealed like the inner sanctum of a rose, petals upon petals removed in layers as he begins from the outside and works his way inward. These images make him hard. He feels the rush of blood to his groin and the telling strain from the middle of his trousers. He reaches inside his overcoat and strokes himself, once, twice. The pleasure almost makes him groan out loud. Not yet. It is not time to take another victim. Soon. He can feel the need inside growing stronger, the pictures coming faster in his mind. He is prepared. He has marked her comings and goings, establishing her ritual, her schedule of classes. Then, when it is time, he will take her. He places the rind from the orange into the brown lunch bag. The Elmore Leonard novel is tucked into the pocket of his coat. He rises from the bench, following her to the next class. His departure goes as unnoticed as his arrival. END 3/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER FOUR ----------------------------------------------- 11:45 am March 26, 1997 The Thomas Residence Arlington, Virginia "I'm fine." "Your head . . . Your nose . . ." "I'm _fine_, Mulder." I wipe the partially coagulated blood from my lip, my nose, wondering how many times have I uttered these empty words. My head hurts like hell. I don't want Mulder to see this. It is important for him to think I am strong, undefeated. I sit back in my chair refusing his proffered hand. The rebuke stings him as effectively as if I had slapped him in the face. I don't need your fucking chivalry, Mulder, I scream inside my head. I touch the bump near my forehead, ignoring the petulant look on his face. Ouch. Hurts like hell. He says nothing. It is his silence, his acceptance of this new Scully which makes me want to shout and tear out his eyes; anything which will elicit a shred of true emotion from him or validate where I stand. Mulder refuses to say anything. He kneels next to my chair watching my face through the protective veil of my hair. His eyes burn me, watching me, waiting, like the eyes of a hunter. "You were screaming." I nod, my head protesting in pain. He catches the wince, the tightening around my mouth and in an instant he has risen. He takes my coat from the bed, pockets the recorder, resting his hand on the sleeve of my jacket. "We're leaving now." "We have more work to do here, Mulder. . ." "We're leaving." Something dangerous glints in his eyes. His jaw is set. I watch the hypnotizing twitch of the muscles where bone attaches to bone. He is angry, fighting to keep it inside. Good. Good. Anger I can deal with. Indifference I cannot. "I'm not going, Mulder." He pauses, looking out the window, seeing nothing through the shade. His head dips down. Our eyes are level. We exchange breaths; his exhalations becoming nourishment for my lungs. My heart races at his proximity and I notice the tiniest details: Spider lines etch the corner of his eyes; his pupils are large, dark; he smells of peppermint gum and the rich leather of his gun holster. "Listen to me. We are leaving this place right now. Don't argue with me. This is a direct order. You are leaving. Now. Get your fucking coat on before I'm tempted to drag your ass out of here." His words are barren; without emotion, clipped. Indifference. Pulling rank. I shouldn't have expected anything else. Still, a small part of me hoped that. . . Screw it. I wish the cancer would have eaten away my fucking optimism. It's over. Done with. I hear it in his voice. I feel my heart break as I follow him down each step of the narrow staircase. Idiot. For four years I have trailed after him, covering for him, sacrificing my career to his elusive truth. Stupid idiot. Four years of my life wasted in the hopes. . . in the hopes that . . . Jesus, what a fool I have been not to notice his selfishness which consumes my soul effortlessly. The sunlight is harsh against my eyes, like I have been in a cave. The pain that comes from it makes me unsteady. I fully expect Mulder's hand on my shoulder, steadying me, but the touch does not come. It never will. He is already seated in the driver's side of the Taurus, turning the key in the ignition. My footing stumbles on the uneven cement, my balance caught by the passenger door handle. Yanking it open with the last of my strength, I slide into the leather seat. The drive back is conducted in utter silence. Mulder doesn't even turn on the radio. Arriving at the office I am forced into a brisk pace to keep up with his long strides. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't acknowledge my presence. I am some errant stray dog which has taken to his heels. Jackass. Jerk. Self righteous son-of-a-bitch. My mind catches and throws out numerous descriptions of my partner. By the time we reach the basement I am out of breath, my head pounding like there is a marching band practicing in my skull. He rips off his coat, throws it onto a chair, sitting in front of his computer. The glare from the screen is reflected in the smooth round surface of his glasses. I stand in front of his desk, arms folded. "Mulder. . ." He ignores me, pushing his mouse around on the pad, typing with that irritating hunt-and-peck motion. "Mulder, I'm. . . " He gets up, reaches into the pocket of his coat, and removes the recorder. In four long strides he is out the door, its slam a mocking echo. ". . .scared." My admission goes unheard. I am alone, under sixty feet of earth and concrete. An empty room, an empty life where I wait for him: Mulder or Death. Whichever comes first and loves me best. I've read articles about the terminally ill. How their family and loved ones pull away to protect themselves. I cannot blame Mulder even though in my heart it feels like betrayal. He is only a man. After what he has suffered in the past it is only natural for him to emotionally withdraw. It is natural that I would lose him, that Death would be the victor in this foot race against time. I am so empty I am unable to cry. I sit in the confines of this office space, staring at nothing, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. Death has taken everything, leaving only this rotting shell. I suppose I should care but I don't have the fucking energy. I put my head down on the cool grain of the desk, immediately falling asleep. The cell phone rings two hours later. "Scully." My head is blurred with sleep, achy; my tongue coated with a disgusting fuzz. "I'm in the lab. The tape turned up something." Terse words. He hangs up. No 'hello' or 'goodbye' or other polite talk. Niceties are for someone other than Fox William Mulder, FBI Agent. By prior arrangement with god, he is able to forgo this proper etiquette. Five minutes pass before I can control my shaking and start for the lab. Seventeen floors up and one wing to the east. The heels of my shoes echo hollowly on the beige tiles. My heart beats to their rhythm as I enter the lab. Mulder greets my arrival with the excitement he reserves for cattle mutilations and mysterious crop rings. The cruel words between us hours before are forgotten. Everything is back to normal for Mulder. No apology. No discussion. Nothing. Omitting it from his memory seems to have pardoned us both. "Scully, I had Olsen run the tape on the Digital Function Generator." "And?" "The tape picked up a voice. Listen." He pushes a button. ' "Eyes. . . He watches. . . He has chosen another. . . She will join us. She is our sister. . . Hurry. . . The bench, the commons. . . See it. . . See what I see. " ' He stops the machine. "Mulder, the voice matches the first tape." He nods. "I had Olsen run a match and the vocal prints are identical." "We still don't know whose voice this is. It could. . ." He holds up a hand, stopping me. "The print matches Selma Thomas'. Olsen ran a match against a tape her parents provided." "Mulder, science would dictate that any. . ." "Scully, even the mighty Isaac Newton regarded the ultimate mechanism of change in the universe to reside in the mystery by which mind could control matter. Remember the Modell case? His ability to control minds was the direct result of the mass we found on his MRI. I believe in your case the mass is causing vibrations which interfere with the digital strings. When the recording is made these vibrations, your consciousness, alter the content of the tape." I nod silently, not knowing how to refute his words. In a way, they make perfect sense. My mother told me that was the danger of a mad man: That he often made perfect sense. My lips twist in a smile. I try to hide it behind my hand, but he catches it. "What's so funny, Scully?" "Nothing. Nothing. I. . . You just amaze me sometimes." He looks at me strangely. If I squint just right I could swear his expression is not ambivalent. It is something far more personal. We both become aware of it at the same time. He looks away, fiddling with a second tape he holds in his hands. "Scully, your nosebleeds. Do you see? They're not caused by pressure, but by vibrations. You don't feel it because they're high in frequency. Now, based on this theory, I had Olsen modulate the frequency as he filtered the tape through the Digital Function Generator. The Sweep Generator module indicated a higher frequency sequence underneath the one we already discovered. This is from that sequence." He punches another button, ejecting and inserting the second tape. He hits the play button. A few minutes of dead silence roll through the lab. It sounds like the hissing of snakes. I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise in alarm. Something is coming in this silence. Something is coming for me. Whatever it is, it scares the hell out of me. ' "Get her. . . Kill her. . . Get her. . . Hurt her bad. . . Let me out. I'll be good, I promise. . . Promise. Promisepromisepromise. . . Beautiful. Fragile. . . Don't fear me, Pretty One. I only want to see you, see your beautiful naked body. . . I will reveal you like the inner sanctum of a rose, petals upon petals, layers after layers. . . Not yet. I will come back for you, Pretty One. In the commons, today. Tomorrow. . . Soon. . ." ' The words end and the tape spins out more moments of silence before Mulder switches off the player with a loud click. The discordant sound of it is jarring. "Scully, he's escalating." "Mulder, Selma's voice, however outrageous, _might_ be explained by pressure, resonance or other factors. You can't possibly suggest that this second voice belongs to her killer and that he has identified his next victim." "Scully, he's escalating. He's identified his next victim. His plans are already in place for a sixth victim. If we don't get to him in time. . ." "Just what the fuck am I supposed to do about it, Mulder?" "Scully. . ." "No. I know what you want, Mulder. You want to trot me around like some trained pony and find your serial killer. What if these 'vibrations' are making things worse? What if they're causing the cancer to grow?" "Scully, I didn't think. . ." "That's your problem, Mulder. You never think about anyone except yourself. Your own precious search for the truth. You don't care who gets hurt in the process, just as long as you get it. Well, count me out." "As a FBI agent you have a duty, a responsibility to these victims. . ." A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "I suppose you got that line straight from Patterson." The wounded look in his eyes haunts me. I should not have mentioned Patterson. I should not have compared him to Mulder. It is unforgivable. "What is it you want me to do, Mulder?" He outlines the plan carefully. Guilt plays me like a fool. END 4/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER FIVE ----------------------------------------------- March 26, 1997 5:45pm M Street Washington D.C. I disgust myself. Pulling rank on Scully was an act of sheer desperation. I evaluate this action objectively. I have the education to label it with my extensive psychological vocabulary. Yet, these abilities mean little when Scully's life is in danger. Scully lying on the floor of the Thomas residence, unconscious; bleeding. How still, how vulnerable she was. Frail and broken like a bird crippled in mid flight. Standing beside her I was seized by a madness inside my head shouting out accusations: You are killing her, Mulder. I have done this to her. Just this one task, this one truth which kills her, Mulder. I am killing her. You endanger Scully for your own selfish pursuits, Mulder. I kill her. I wish I could take it back. Take it back. Take it back. I had to get her out of that room. The consciousness related phenomena was exacting a toll on her physical strength. Twice she fainted. Two nosebleeds. I had no concept of the effect of the resonance on her cancer. My immediate thought was that it could potentially accelerate the path of the disease, encourage it to grow, to bloom; to speed up Death's agenda. I touched her jacket - told her we were leaving. She refused. I panicked. Get her out. Get her the fuck out, Mulder. Get her out of here before she collapses and dies. The virulent madness infected my mind. I listened to the clipped, bitter words spill from my own mouth. I was helpless to stop them; relieved that their effect removed her from Selma Thomas' room; from harm. I did not care the cost of these words. Even now, while I regret hurting Scully, I am happy to pay the price of that action with blood or flesh. Her safety cannot come at too great a cost; there is nothing I would not willingly sacrifice for it. My hand twitches against the steering wheel of the Taurus pool car. Fingers press hard around the cold blue plastic; I watch the knuckles turn an odd stippled shade of red and white. I force myself to drive slowly, carefully through the rush hour traffic, hoping to hide these emotions from her. I must be strong for her. Inside, I am frustrated. Angry. I wish I could fight Scully's cancer with fists or teeth or guns. I wish that death had a form I could rip apart with my bare hands, shredding its body by the sheer force of my will, squeezing the energy from its trembling husk, kicking it, hearing it break and clatter and fall into a thousand jagged pieces. The car maneuvers through the streets, both of us silent, fixed in our determination to find a way to stop this killer. We painstakingly move from campus to campus in the hopes that one might spark recognition in Scully. It is a thankless job and the only lead we have. I pinpointed body dumping spots; correlated victim characteristics such as age, race, and education; calculated a million different variants in the hopes of narrowing down our search. I only hope we will succeed before another woman is taken; before this phenomena exacts a higher price from Scully. She is determined to see this case through. I need her insight, however terrible this sounds. It is a reckless act, leading her out like a bloodhound, but time grows short. I need her to show me the way, to point me in the right direction. I will shield her from all else. She is silent, peering out the window for a glimpse of something she has seen only in dreams. We will find this spot where he waits and watches. I have told her we will setup a surveillance, a trap for this killer. I have not lied in this respect, however, she will not be a part of it. I fear her proximity to the killer will increase the symptoms of her disease. It is a risk I am unwilling to take. ----------------------------------------------- Mulder is driving like an old lady. His speed reaches a stunning peak of thirty in a forty-five mph zone. He grasps the wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. Hunching over the steering column, he peers out the window morosely. I vacillate between irritation and relaxation, giving in reluctantly to the slow soothing motion of the car. I lean my head against the soft padded cushions of the seat. I refuse to think. I imagine I am a one celled organism whose sole purpose in life is to merely breathe and seek nourishment. Not to feel. As this creature I do not have the complex structure for these emotions which can either be blessings or curses. Breathe. Exhale. Breathe. A driver in a dark green Pontiac cuts around us, honking his horn and flipping off Mulder. I shake my head, muttering under my breath. "I should have packed a bag." His body shifts; he falls back against the driver's seat. I've interrupted his train of thought. "Would you care to repeat that comment, Scully?" "I said I should have packed a bag, the way you're driving. It's going to take a week to get there." "What's wrong with the way I'm driving?" "I could walk there faster." He shoots me a rather nasty glare then returns his attention to the road. I watch him unnoticed. Two faces. The one I can see. The one reflected in the glass of the windshield. I wonder which is the more accurate picture, yet both contain the same signs of weariness: Bearded stubble stains the jaw line black and blue, bruised; Shadows frame the eyes from lack of sleep; Worry etches into two furrows between his eyebrows. I note rather vindictively that Substantial Mulder and Insubstantial Mulder both look like hell. I'm being childish. I suppose I'm still pissed at the shit he pulled this morning. For now, we've managed to dredge up the confines of professionalism to push the incident aside; to concentrate on the work at hand. It is the pattern of our relationship: Mulder does something stupid and I forgive him. Variations on this theme include: Mulder ditches me, but I relent or Mulder fucks up and I cover up. Great slogan. Maybe I should have a t-shirt printed. I sigh, leaning back against the seat. I hadn't even noticed the rigidity of my posture or my clenched fists. Mulder takes this non-verbal communication as an apology. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. We've visited 3 campuses this afternoon: Catholic University, University of D.C., and Georgetown University. They were riddled with the duplicate facades of campus life. None of them were unique. Not one sparked an emotion other than boredom. We toured every nook and cranny, every park bench and commons area, coming up with nothing but a handful of subversive fliers. Mulder turns the car to the right, passing tall office buildings. Their multiple windows shine silver, colored by the setting sun. They look like rows of blank eyes. Health groups. Banks. The trick of the reflections off the smooth surface of the structures makes them ominous; knowing. A shiver runs down my spine. An omen? Shit. Suddenly I'm as superstitious as Mulder. The Taurus pulls into the visitor's parking space. I pop a couple of quarters into the meter while Mulder shuffles through the papers on the back seat. Slamming the door he stands next to me with the campus map downloaded from the George Washington University web site. This will be our last stop. "There are several sites we could check out. University Yard is the largest open area on campus. There are several smaller quads that we should also check out. Where do you want to start?" "Surprise me." My head aches. I'm tired; miserable. The air has dropped twenty degrees in the last hour. It whips between the openings of the campus buildings creating a wind tunnel, blasting puffs of chilly air through the warmth of my wool trenchcoat. I would trade anything to be at home in bed with the covers drawn over my head. In opposition, I pull my black leather gloves from the pocket of my coat and follow Mulder. We duck across the congested street in the midst of night students straight from work. They wear suits and ties, carrying books while trying to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from brown paper bags. Their agility in performing these simultaneous tasks is fascinating. I almost bump into the lady in front of me. Mulder shoots me a worried glance. I ignore him. Our first stop is the quad with the rose garden. Since it is only March, this consists of twisted and blackened bushes more closely resembling burn victims than plants. The cobblestone path is broken by two wooden benches. Neither are occupied. It is too cold and too dark. Perhaps, when spring finally arrives and the plants awake from suspended animation, there will be lovers and the deep rich scent of roses. Blushes and kisses and professions of love which lead to the inevitable encounter. By then, I'll probably be dead. Mulder looks around the area, then at my face, searching. I shrug. Nothing. The same campus scene repeated a thousand times. Nothing special here. He locates the next spot on the map. "Well, Scully, I never promised you a rose garden." Sometimes, his puns suck. I force myself not to smile. "That was my favorite book in high school, Mulder. In some ways it parallels us." His face has gone serious. He doesn't move. "How so?" "You walk through glass and I just watch." He looks momentarily tongue tied. "Oh, for Christ's sake. It was a joke, Mulder." "Oh. Next time warn me." He stuffs his hands into the pocket of his overcoat. I could swear I have embarrassed him. I almost ask him outright what he thought I was referring to, but we are again moving side by side to the next area. It is University Yard, the main commons of GWU. It is busier than the quad, students passing from one building to the next, hurrying, late for the six o'clock classes which have already begun. Brown brick, light brick crisscross in patterns. Light and dark interlaced in perpendicular angles. All paths returning to the center, the hub of creation. Their beginning. Their end. I feel very tired. My head hurts even worse. "Scully?" I rub my forehead. The pressure increases. "Mulder, I need to sit down." Not waiting for a response I walk to the nearest park bench. His quick steps sound behind me; sharp staccato sounds. The cold air intensifies their echos. "Scully, are you all right?" "I'm fine, Mulder." The response is automatic. "I think we should call it a night." He stands in front of me, watching. I shake my head, feeling dizzy with the movement. "It's my blood sugar. I'm tired and I haven't eaten anything since this morning. I'll be fine in a minute." My hands tremble inside my gloves. God, I'm so fucking tired. He stands in front of me watching. Watching. "I. . . Mulder. . ." "What?" "Quit hovering. It's pissing me off." His sits abruptly, his butt hitting the bench with a thump and I almost last. I still feel him watching me. His eyes on me. The skin crawls along my neck. His eyes on me. I look straight ahead, refusing the urge to look at him directly, to shout in his face, to pummel his chest with my hands which have curled into tight little balls on my lap. "Mulder. Stop." "Stop what?" He sounds so deceivingly innocent. "Stop. Looking. At. Me." "I'm not." Closing my eyes I feel the image of his stare burning like bright coals, hot, burning me alive. Stop. Burning. Fire melting skin and bone and flesh. Stop. Pain. I. "Mulder. Stop. Fucking. Looking." My teeth are clenched, grinding. I double over, the pain of being watched a physical thing. The sensation in my side is sharp, piercing, like the blade of a knife. "Talk to me, Scully. What's going on? Is it your sugar level? Should I get you something to eat?" Mulder hands reach for me, coated with blood. "I. . . Don't touch me." The ache in my abdomen is so severe I groan. Tears fall down my cheek, mixing with the blood from my nose. Foolishly, my only thought is that my white blouse will be ruined. "Scully. . . Oh shit. Scully, I need you to walk, I need you to get up." I feel someone's hands - His? Mulder's?- bit into the soft underside of my arms. Squeezing, pulling me forward. He will undress me. Jacket, blouse, pants, underwear. Sliced by the sharp edge of his knife. He will kiss me and whisper to me. I have to get away. "Let. . . Go." I wrench myself from his embrace, his hypnotic need, each faltering footstep hitting the pavement with a force which makes my teeth snap. I run blindly, reduced to the instincts of a terrified animal pursued by its hunter. I run forward, head down, drawing the cold air into my lungs in great gasps. The sound of his pursuit is overwhelming; like thunder. He grabs me roughly from behind, jerking me off balance. I twist to face him, to fight him; teeth barred, clumps of hair hanging in my face. The stink of fear escapes from every pore in my body. I turn to face him. My killer. It is Mulder. END 5/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER SIX ----------------------------------------------- March 26, 1997 6:40 pm Washinton Harbor Area Washington D.C. I drive through the streets like a madman, heedless of the rules protecting pedestrians or motorists. A primal instinct compels me to flee, filling my body with the sweeping rush of adrenaline accompanying flight. Fear, like a contagion, digs its claws into rationality, blinding me. ScullyisindangerScullyisindangerScullyisindanger. Reason is gone. I drive with urgency, in the grip of a fugue similar to hers, automatically pushing the gas pedal with my foot; passing cars with reckless abandon. Angry drivers blare their horns, the sound unreal, remote, brakes screeching as they avoid collision. These noises come from far away; from a world I inhabit only in the physical sense. Danger. Danger. Danger. The distance swells - blocks into miles; panic subsiding into a rhythmic beat. Dan-ger. Dan-ger. Dan-ger. The pulse of word-thoughts becomes faint, fading into the background. In its aftermath I suddenly feel foolish; a child suffering from night terrors. Exhaling deeply, the chill from the car is inhaled in return. I ease pressure off the gas, my control exerting itself once more. I flip the car heater on high, the weighted air around us dissolving in the rush of air from the vents. The streets have melted into darkness, illuminated only by the harsh yellow glow of street lamps. I regain my sense of direction, turning left, turning right, seeking a route back to the expressway. We travel through the city, light passing through the car in fits, throwing our faces in alternating patterns of light and dark. Scully huddles against the door of the passenger seat, wiping the blood from her nose. The incident in the park lasted only moments, both of us left shaken. I wonder which is worse: To be the one who experiences the phenomena or to be the one who remains behind, helpless; useless. Never have I felt more affinity for the people I have interviewed over the years, the survivors, than I do now. Her face shines pale, is then cast in shadows, only to return to light. The cycle continues; light, dark, light, dark, until I can no longer tell where one begins and the other ends. Five more minutes pass before either of us trust ourselves to speak. "Scully. . ." "Mulder, I'm fine." Our speech begins at the same time, the overlapping words creating a sudden dead silence. I grip the steering wheel hard, fearing the molded plastic will shatter under the strain. Once again, we begin with foolish pretenses, affectations repeated like the patterns of light and dark, hiding our fears within the routine we have created. "Mulder, I'm tired. My blood sugar level dropped and I became disoriented. I know you think this is related to the case, but it isn't." "Bullshit." I want to yell, to slap the surprise off her face with my bare hands, to watch with perverse satisfaction the imprint from my hand redden her white flesh. The violent image sickens me. Misdirected anger. It is myself I desire to punish. I leave my hands on the steering wheel, feeling them grow cold as the pressure cuts off the blood supply. "Look, Mulder, you're trying to make the facts fit your theory. This doesn't have anything to do with Selma Thomas' killer." "Then would you like to explain to me what the hell happened back there?" "I haven't eaten since this morning. I experienced a fugue caused by a drop in sugar levels." "Then why the fuck did we even do this, Scully? Why the fuck did I drag you out over every campus in the D.C. area if you're going to sit there and refute everything with scientific explanations?" Thinly veiled terror hides inside those blue eyes. I watch the way her hands are held stiffly in her lap as if she fears they will betray her. They are clasped together in the perfect image of a Catholic schoolgirl. "You told me it was my job, my responsibility to these women. What was I supposed to do? You drag me out here like a prized pony to perform, to jump over hurdles, to follow you from place to place searching for the things that matter to you. To _you_. Do you see?" "I had no. . ." "You don't see." "Scully. . ." "Fuck it, Mulder. I don't know why I even try." I swerve out of the right hand lane and onto the shoulder. The car bumps along the graveled dirt, jerking to a stop as I slam on the brakes. My breath comes fast, from an exertion which is not physical. Her words have a finality to them which causes me to panic. "Scully, stop." "Mulder, when are you going to face the facts? It doesn't matter anymore. I'm dying and it doesn't fucking matter. We chase down killers in the hopes of saving the lives of innocent people. Who's going to save me? Who will catch this killer who so cleverly hides beneath my skin?" "STOP IT." I ache to grab her by the shoulders and shake her so violently her teeth rattle; that tears will fall down her cheeks dispelling her rage and isolation, leaving her vulnerable, able to accept my comfort. Words are inadequate. How can I tell her that her death will create the darkest void in my life? That her absence will extinguish the beauty I have found in the world these last four years? I have lost her once before, my life left wanting, hungry for an existence I once touched, but did not possess. I will not survive this fate a second time. I face her, these thoughts evident in my eyes, the planes of my face; grief suffusing every wrinkle. I lay my heart into this silence we have created, hoping she will discern the words I am unable to speak for fear of getting them wrong, of depriving them of their importance. She watches me, her eyes searching; naked. Turning, she laughs; a bitter sound like an empty sigh. She moves, light catching her pale skin; the movement drawing her further away. "I don't need your fucking pity." In the stippled darkness I watch my partner distance herself, wondering how she could misinterpret the unspoken words which have never failed us in the past. I am filled with a sense of inadequacy, torn by grief, confused by the sudden changes in our relationship, by the inability to fight this unseen enemy. It is as if I am twelve again, frozen by the blinding light, immobile, mute; powerless to stop the force which steals the people I love. "Forget it, Mulder. Contact Skinner. We'll set up the surveillance tomorrow morning." "Scully. . ." "I'm tired, Mulder. I don't want to talk about it anymore." She stares out the passenger window, watching shadows. Cars whip by, the force of the displaced air causing the car to shake. I need to try again, to approach this a different way, a way in which she will understand my anxiety. "Scully, I think you should see a doctor." "I need food and a good night's sleep. I'll be fine in the morning." In the morning nothing will be different. She will only be thinner; the circles under her eyes more pronounced. I choose my next phrase carefully, wanting to voice these concerns. "Why don't you use a personal day tomorrow?" "It's just my blood sugar, Mulder. Do you hear me? It's. . ." "No, it isn't. It's. . ." "How the hell do you know what this is? How can you sit there and. . ." "I think this case is accelerating the path of your. . ." "Don't you dare outline some outrageous theory. . ." "Scully, the unknown factors in this case are. . ." "Mulder. . ." ". . .affecting you in ways. . ." "I am not going to sit here and listen to. . ." ". . . that we cannot. . . Will you just? . . For once in your life listen, Scully." She stares at me, a hundred different emotions passing across her face in a fraction of a second. Her lips tighten, her eyes flash with anger. I watch her control herself, clenching her jaw and unclenching it before her next words are spoken. "What do you have to say?" There is a hysterical edge to her tone I have not heard before. I am silent, helpless. What can I say which will make everything between us right again? I search my heart, my soul, hoping for a phrase, a reply, which will reach across this void. "I'm concerned. What happened in the park today puts you in danger as an FBI agent. . ." "Is this another one of your 'supervisor' talks? Spare me the indignity of. . ." "I'm worried that the killer's. . ." "I'm not going to ruin your precious case, Mulder, if that's what. . ." ". . .that you're in danger. . ." "I can take care of myself." "That isn't my point. I'm trying to say that I think this case is potentially dangerous to you. That I am concerned about you as an agent, and. . ." "And what? You want me off this case? Is that what you're saying?" "No, I'm not saying that, Scully. I'm saying that it would be better if you took a less active role in the pursuit of this killer. . ." "Fuck you." "I don't think that. . ." "You drag me out here and now you're telling me to stay home. Make up your fucking mind." "Jesus fucking Christ, Scully. Would you stop interrupting me?" My hand slams across the steering wheel. I open the door, walking, hands on my hips, trying to control the dangerous swell of emotions. Thoroughly pissed off, I kick a large rock, listening to it skitter and ricochet against concrete, its passage as senseless and directionless as mine. She twists everything I say; reads pity in the lines of my face, feeding this dark anger inside which epitomizes her disease. I kick the tire of the car, kick the back fender, wanting to feel the blows upon my body, realizing gradually it is futile. I return to the driver's seat, shutting the door. I begin again, distancing myself, pushing all emotion from my voice. Perhaps the cold reason of science is the best approach. "Scully, your condition is affecting your work. Over the past three week I have noticed a continuing deterioration of. . ." "Take me home, Mulder." Fuck. I slam the car into drive, swerving into traffic, tires squealing. I can't seem to do one fucking thing right. My friendship and concern is treated with contempt and suspicion. Not one fucking thing I say, is right. No word or glance or action is enough to heal the wound between us. We drive fifteen minutes to her apartment in silence. Turning onto her block, her hand is already on the handle, scared, I am sure, by my unwarranted outburst of anger on the side of the road. She opens the car door before I even slow down. Stepping out, she walks stiffly; erect, proud. She does not look back. She does not speak to me. I wait, watching her fumble with her keys, opening her door. The darkness swallows her, the door slamming behind her. No light appears in her window. Seconds pass into minutes as I sit in my car, alone, thinking of the act which must be committed; this final betrayal. Give me strength. Oh, God, give me the strength to do this to her. What a joke. What a shitty world He has created that her only salvation lies in my betrayal. There is little justice on this planet. Millions of years echo with reverberations, with the sounds of silences filled with sorrow and death and a hundred weeping lost souls. My life has been riddled with it: My sister, my father, my mother, Melissa; a thousand victims whose faces and names I no longer remember. I watch this progression of death throughout my life, weakened by its constant blows. Give me strength. Oh, God, please give me the strength to do this to her. I reach for the cell phone, calling Skinner at home, sealing her fate with my Judas kiss. ----------------------------------------------- I walk erect, proud; carefully pulling my shoulders back in rigid posture as I walk to my apartment. From my soul, words pour forth; they fall silent, their meaning blurred by sorrow. Mulder, I look in every gesture for significance; I repeat every scene between us longing to discern meaning behind your indifference. Tonight, in the car, you revealed what you have masked so well: Pity. God. It is a barren emotion and in its shadow there is little chance for our survival. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. The sidewalk stretches from feet into miles; each more difficult than the last, my composure threatening to crack with each step. Fumbling in my purse for my keys distracts me and I manage to make it through before the hot tears spill down my cheeks. I lean against the door, the room dark, needing no lights. Night has become my life; it is complete, absolute. I cower in this darkness, feeling it press upon my body, eager; crushing my chest, my arms, my legs; anchoring me motionless. Sometime later, I go into the bathroom, turning on the light, staring at the face which confronts me in the mirror of my medicine cabinet. This is not me. This is a reflection of a woman I only thought I was. She is me. She is not me. I shake my head in disgust; she replicates the gesture in mockery. The woman turns her head slowly, red hair gleaming in the bright lights. We share similarities in the way we look, the way we move, but we are not the same. Her left is my right. Her right is my left. My death will be her life and her life will be my death. The only thing we share are the eyes. Hers are red, swollen. I touch mine, as she touches hers. The eyeballs are hot, sticky; when I reach out to feel the lids of her eyes, they are cool and slick and one-dimensional. I wonder why she cries. Perhaps her lover has deserted her after a fight. I imagine him leaving, slamming the door of the apartment as she collapses on the softness of their bed, wrapped in a comforter which offers no comfort, and crying in the darkness. Rising to get a drink or splash water on her face or pee, she stares at her reflection, seeing only the grief of a dying woman who is like her, but not her. Tonight, I spoke the truth to Mulder. His eyes filled with pity. I felt it twist inside my heart like a knife, wondering that I never saw it before. I can live without his pity. I can fucking live and die without it. I am unfettered by possessions, by friendship, by love. Nothing in this life holds dominion over me. I welcome death with open arms, thankful for its release, watching the reflection of this other woman throw her arms out wide as if welcoming home her long lost lover. END 6/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER SEVEN ----------------------------------------------- March 27, 1997 3:42 am Apartment 204 Bethesda, MD He is afraid of the dark. Sleeping between nightfall and dawn, his terror is suppressed by the radiance from a small light. It is a pretty thing - pale yellow and in the shape of a sea shell. Another glows from the electrical socket in the bathroom. This one is a blue sailboat. He leaves it on in case he needs to urinate in the middle of the night. Suddenly awake, one eye opens, searching for the red numbers on his digital clock. 3:42. It is hours before the alarm will sound. His mind is instantly alert; his body too tired to follow. He remains underneath the cotton sheets dressed only in white briefs, thinking of Her. He names her Julia; it rolls off his tongue like music, suiting her. "Julia." Her dark hair is sweet against his lips; soft. It tickles the side of his cheek, strands poking his nostrils as he inhales deeply, her scent filling his lungs, making him hard. He imagines she will smell like lilacs. His hand moves underneath the sheet, touching himself. Julia's breasts are large and full. Fingering her nipples, they peak, and she groans. He lowers his head, teasing one with the tip of his tongue, tasting earth and her secret perfume as her back arches invitingly. Julia is the perfect woman. She is his soul mate, his other half. Together they will be complete. He continues to stroke himself, her perfume heavy on the air, on his sheets, his hands, his body. Lilacs. They are heavy in the air like an unseen presence. The boy smells them, imagining he can grab the scent with dirty fingers. Standing silent, eyes closed, not daring to breathe, he quickly reaches out a hand, making a fist. Opening it, he finds nothing. It is lunch time. He hides at the back of the school yard among the lilac bushes. Crawling between a tangle of branches, he reaches his sanctuary. He has an apple, a comic book, and forty-five minutes to himself. This is a time when fear recedes, relinquishing its hold, and he can relax. In school his days are spent watching the big white clock with the black arms tediously rotate, finally reaching eleven-fifteen when the bell signals his release. He places his meager possessions on the grassy carpet, watching the pockets of purple blossoms bend in the gentle May breeze. They seem to be nodding at him as if they have some great wisdom they wish to impart. "Yes," they appear to say. "We know things you do not. Magical things." Spring: Soft. Secret. Silent. The boy is eight. It is a tender age; an age when the greatest hurts are formed, culling wounds which never heal. He is a small child, thin for his age with thick glasses the other children tell him are made from the bottom of coca cola bottles. They slide down to the end of his nose, pinching it, making his voice nasal, each intake of air punctuated by an eerie whistle. He has no friends. He is never picked to play dodge ball or baseball; he is never asked to kiss a girl underneath the slide. His classmates whisper behind hands, giggle at his back, giving him a wide berth as if he is contaminated by a strange catching disease no one told him about. Once, he turned around quickly, catching a child who was pinching his nose like there was an awful smell in the room. The boy cried, causing the children to scatter from the room like an angry cloud of flies. He spends his lunch hours alone, under the shade of the lilac trees, content; forgoing the rude shoves at the monkey bars and the outstretched legs tripping him near the swings. This is his secret place. The leaves cast shadows, patterns of dark and light, on the pages of his open comic book. His back is pressed against the cold metal of the fence which separates the back of the playground from the city park. Invisible, the boy hears the screams and laughter from the school yard. The sound is just beyond his range of hearing, and he makes believe it is the buzz of angry mosquitoes hungry for blood. In this sheltered place, the boy is safe from them. Behind him he hears the rustling of leaves, the sounds of twigs breaking and snapping on the ground. Cri-ick. Pop-snap. Rustle. Rustle. Rustle. An animal. A very large animal. Cra-ack. Pop-snap. Snap. Snap. The boy is frightened, expecting a large body to pounce on him, teeth barred. When he hears the voices, he relaxes. There are two of them: male and female. "You sure no one can see us back here?" "No one can see us. Over here." Through the leaves, in the soft darkness of the forest, he sees the white glow of their skin, the dark shades of their clothes. The man pushes the woman against the tree, his mouth on hers. The man groans. He reaches up under the woman's shirt exposing a breast. His mouth goes to the large brown nipple which is taut, hard. The boy watches him bite it with sharp white teeth. The man bites it hard enough to make it bleed; a smear of blood marks his chin. "Fuck. You just fucking bit me. You goddamn animal." The woman pushes the man away. "Touch it." The man takes her hand and pushes it into his groin, forcing her to rub it. "Stop it." "Come on, baby. That feels good." The man kisses her again, grinding his pelvis into her, pinning her against the tree. The woman struggles, freeing one hand, slapping him across the face. "What the fuck did you do that for?" The man is angry. "I told you to stop it." "You know you want it, bitch. You want it rough, huh?" He grabs her, pushing her shirt up, biting her again. The woman struggles harder. She opens her mouth to scream but the man punches her in the stomach. She doubles over and he grabs her hair, pulling her face until it very nearly touches the bulge in his jeans. "Bitch. Did you think you were going to come in here and tease me? Take it out." The man shakes her with each word. "Take. It. Out." The woman unzips his jeans. The man suddenly throws her backwards, her body prone in the dirt, pulling a switchblade from his cowboy boot. "Take your fucking clothes off. Now." Jeans, shirt, panties. She is naked, shivering; vulnerable. He pulls his stiff cock from his underwear. Then he lowers his body on her, pumping fiercely, frantically, the woman's legs spread, her arms flung wide in supplication as if she is being crucified. Grunts. The man slows. The woman cries. The man rolls off, stuffing himself in his jeans, throwing the woman's clothes at her. "Get dressed." The woman sits, naked, crying; her mascara runs, creating dark smudges around her eyes. This singular image excites the boy in an uncomfortable way. "Quit fucking crying. You wanted it. Now get dressed or I'll leave your ass here." "I. . ." "Hurry the fuck up." The woman dresses, her features twisted with shame and horror. Rising, her posture meek, her hands hug the front of her shirt as if protecting herself from further degradation. The man and the woman leave. The boy's Batman comic is unread; his apple with three round bites, white flesh gathering specks of dirt, lies forgotten on the ground. The school bell rings and he is summoned back to class. Later that evening, the boy drops a glass on the kitchen counter and it breaks. "Clumsy son-of-a-bitch." His mother hits him on the side of his head. "Just like that no good father of yours. Stupid little bastard." A slap across the face. "What's the matter you stupid little fuck?" She puts her face directly in front of his, the stink of whiskey and nicotine nearly causing him to gag. "Clean up that mess or you'll be a sorry piece of shit." More words. More accusations. The words no longer have sound; they are silent and lethal. The boy watches her mouth move up and down, up and down, but he cannot hear one word. Instead he becomes fixated on the shape of her red lips, of the thick black eyelashes clumped with black mascara. He wonders if hitting her will stop her mouth from moving. He wonders if biting her will make her mascara pool into dark smudges beneath her eyes. He imagines her clutching herself like the woman from the woods, following; meek and degraded. He will lead his mother around like a cow on a leash. She will not yell at him. She will not call him bad names. She will not hurt him. Everyone at school will like him. He will be safe wherever he goes. These images cause the unfamiliar excitement to well up in the pit of his belly. When his mother puts him in the closet this time, he does not cry. Instead, he draws strength from this new fantasy, knowing if he is quiet enough and wily enough, he can make it come true. He needs to pee. The pressure from his bladder dampens these memories, ruining his chances at achieving an orgasm. In disgust he stops the motion of his hands, rising from the bed and entering the bathroom. As his feet shuffle over the tiled floor, he is struck by the sensation of being watched. Movement from the corner of his eye startles him; turning, his heart pounds. He sees his face in the bathroom mirror. Laughing at his own folly, he remains unable to shake off the feeling of being watched. He offers his mirrored self a shaky smile, watching it repeated in the reflective surface. His lips stretch, growing fuller, softer; the smile revealing small white teeth. His short dark hair grows longer, curlier; his features becoming more delicate until his reflection metamorphasizes into Julia's. Her beauty is complete; marred only by the faint impression of his face lurking underneath hers. "Julia." It sounds like music. "Would you accompany me to the opera?" Her offers her his arm. The woman smiles, nodding her pleasure, dimples appearing on the sides of her cheek. They are the cutest things and he is so moved he kisses them. Julia giggles in pleasure, opening her arms wide in a gesture of acceptance and invitation, welcoming him as her new lover. He nods, winking at her, forgetting that he needs to pee. "Today, my love." It is a whisper, a promise. Then the image is gone. Returning to bed, he sets his alarm a few hours earlier, knowing that today is the day he will finally summon the courage to ask her out. ----------------------------------------------- Sleep is disturbed by a whisper, by the call of my own imagination. I become alert in an instant, expecting to see a face peering over me in the darkness, hands reaching towards me. Nothing. No one. My heart flutters, sweat breaking out on my forehead. A nightmare. Shit. Wondering what time it is, I turn towards the luminescent numbers on by bedside clock. 3:46 am. Shit. My alarm is not scheduled to wake me until 6:50 am. I lie in bed, underneath the cool sheets, my mind alert, my body loathe to move. Sleep is fickle. Insomnia is a side effect of my treatments. I no longer sleep through the entire night, waking at odd times, exhausted; unable to slow my mind, to rest. This darkness is a shroud straining against my eyes. It covers me: thick black silk; my burial gown. I am weightless, devoid of sensation, floating between life and death. Night strips away the sight of my possessions, my body, my humanity; the absence of light and silence filling me as I imagine my own death, my own body lying in a coffin, inert. This is my fate. This is death. The embrace is familiar for I have experienced it once before. Tonight, however, I am alive; restless. My skin is hot and clammy; my forehead feverish. I could use a glass of water; coolness splashing on my face. I rise, heading into the bathroom, startled by sudden movement from the corner of my eye. Heart pounding, I turn, startled by my own reflection in the mirror. My eyes are wide, terrified. Shit. I laugh to myself, a shaky sound, turning on the faucet, leaning over to run the cool water on my face. What? Something. I hear something. Looking up, the face in the mirror is no longer mine. It is Selma's. Her eyes are sad, incredibly sad, filled with the grief of death, like mine. These words are whispered but her mouth does not move. I grab the edge of the sink for support, watching the water swirl down the drain. When I look back up, she is gone. END 7/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER EIGHT ----------------------------------------------- 6:35 am March 27, 1997 Conference Room 212 FBI Headquarters Fifteen men and women gather in the conference room. They are dressed in variety of jeans, sweatshirts, khakis and oxford shirts. The majority cradle cups filled with hot coffee as they scan the distributed materials waiting for me, Spooky Mulder, to continue. "What we have here is an organized serial killer. He is methodical, neat. His victims are chosen in advance, at random, in heavily trafficked areas. We are looking for a white male, aged eighteen to twenty five, possibly older if he lives out in the sticks as his social development would be slower. He will be thin or wiry, a loner, not exactly a whiz kid in high school, introverted, probably into pornography. The childhood background will be classic - a dysfunctional, broken family with an absent father and a domineering, overly protective mother. She may have given him the impression that all women are bad except for her. The UNSUB would therefor fear women and not be able to deal with them which is why he renders them unconscious or powerless quickly." A few agents nod their heads. A classic profile, one they had seen many times before. "He has a tremendous amount of anger and seeks to depersonalize his victims, through the face, breast, hand, and genital mutilation. He derives his sexual satisfaction from inflicting pain. The removal of the hair also says something else. While this could also be an attempt at depersonalization, I believe the act of cutting of the victim's hair is an insult, a degrading gesture. I expect the UNSUB to twist things around in his mind until he is convinced that the relationships with his victims is 'normal'. " More nods. A few grim stares. "Surveillance of University Yard will occur in organized in pairs. Your assigned quadrant is located on the campus maps in front of you. Mason and Naturi will be located on the top floor of the Colonial Parking Garage which is due north. Ground movement with be followed with high powered surveillance equipment. Any questions? Fine. Downstairs at the South Entrance in ten minutes." The agents gather their briefs, their coffee, and file out of the room in noisy clusters. Skinner remains behind. He sits at the table, tapping his pen on the top of his legal pad. He contemplates me in silence, less than a minute passing. The tap of his pen could be the ticking of a bomb. That minute feels like an hour. Avoiding his stare, I pick up the loose accumulation of papers in front of me. Movement fills the uneasy silence between us. Finally, he speaks. "Agent Mulder, I hope this works." "I have reason to believe the killer has picked out his next victim. . ." "That isn't what I mean." I carefully arrange the papers, shoving them into my briefcase, refusing to look at him. Skinner waits out my diversionary tactic, a grim look in his eyes. He knows the personal cost of my actions; I could almost believe he sympathizes as well. Shit. No sense in avoiding it. We knew this day would eventually come, as far back as the initial prognosis of Scully's cancer. I have dreaded its arrival, deriving no comfort that the waiting period has finally ceased. The burden has not been lifted; it has merely mutated into something far worse. I shove more papers into my briefcase, not caring that the edges bend. He is watching me with a neutral expression on his face. "Sir, we both knew this day would come." "Agent Scully will petition the decision." "With both our signatures, it will be denied. She knows this." He nods, picking up his leather writing pad, inserting his pen into its holder. His gaze is thoughtful and in the silence I feel the sudden need to explain myself, my words tripping over each other; awkward. "Sir, you know if there were any. . .chance. . . I would not choose to do this. Agent Scully is a valuable asset to the Bureau. If I thought she could continue in the field I would not have requested her removal. . ." "Agent Mulder. I am aware this is a difficult decision. I have no desire for you to justify your actions. I simply want to be sure this is right for Agent Scully. We owe her that." I want to throw my coffee cup against the wall. I want to hear it crash and break, grinding the pieces into the cheap carpet under the heel of my shoe. I do not want to do this to Scully. Fuck. It is too hard to rip away this last piece of her life so she can quietly die in her apartment or her mother's house or in the sterile room of a hospital. In some perverted way, I am bound by duty, by friendship, to remove her from danger. Oh, in my soul, I know there is no god. No justice. "Sir. Agent Scully has been. . . deteriorating over the past three months. The aspects of this case have increased the symptoms of her illness. It is my belief that a continuance of her field duties will put her in immediate personal danger. This is a risk I am unwilling, and unable to take. " Skinner crosses his legs, sharpening the crease in his pants. "I happen to agree with you, Agent Mulder. I've read the report you left this morning." More silence passes between us. In it, he seems to absolve me. Yet there are sins in this world which can neither be rationalized nor forgiven. This betrayal, I fear, is one. "I've signed the request. Agent Scully will be put on medical leave." "I'd like to be the one to tell her." Skinner rises, straightening his tie, gathering his coffee cup and writing pad. "I'll take care of it, Agent Mulder." "Sir, with all due respect, as her divisional superior it is my responsibility. . ." "Your responsibility is to catch a killer who has brutally slain five women. If that job is not completed, there will be a sixth victim." "Sir. . ." "Consider it a direct order." My jaw clenches in frustration, a thousand arguments beginning to formulate. Before I am able to voice them, Skinner speaks, his posture dropping slightly as if he has shouldered a great weight. "Agent Scully is my responsibility as well, Agent Mulder. I owe her this." "Yes, sir." "I need you to catch this killer. Leave Agent Scully to me." "Yes, sir." He leaves the conference room without a backward glance. Fuck. I slam my fist into the conference room table. The sound of it echoes, then dies. Grabbing my briefcase I follow in Skinner's wake, to an entirely different purpose. ----------------------------------------------- It is 8:53. Pushing open the door of the basement office, I am greeted by silence. Mulder is not there. The place is empty. Normally I would bask in the fifteen or twenty minutes of quiet time before Mulder shows up, a tornado of theories and newspaper clippings and slide shows. This morning, the silence is ominous. There is something wrong here. I set my briefcase and my laptop case down on my desk. My coat is placed across the top. Searching, I find the telltale signs of his earlier presence. The coffee pot. It contains two inches of liquid at the bottom. The orange ON light is glowing. The trash can is filled with discarded papers. The active screen saver generates flashes of colored graphics. Fuck. Please, not this. Anything but this. My knees buckle and I sit down hard on the wooden chair, head in my hands. Being left behind is no easier the third, the fourth, the umpteenth time. It never gets any easier. Never. Abandonment; being left behind: This emotion permeated my childhood. I was eight or nine before I understood my father's absences had nothing to do with me. I grew older, accepting the loss of his presence, filling the void left in its wake with school and books and sports. When daddy left, it was never easy. I only pretended it was. The whole family would take him to port, his two canvas bags in the trunk of the car. He would kiss us each in turn and then walk up, up, up the plank to the ship. Squinting in the sun I watched him until he disappeared, bravely waving, biting back my tears with practiced stoicism. At night, in the privacy of my room, I cried myself to sleep, knowing one day he would never come back. In the wake of Mulder's absence, I am eight years old again. Action. I need to fight this feeling of helplessness. I leave the room, the sharp rap of my shoes underscoring the litany of self-doubts. Gone. Click. Gone. The sound is as hollow as my heart. Click. Click. Ditched. Click. Click. Ditched. Up sixteen floors in the elevator refusing to acknowledge the greetings of my peers. Down the long hallway, through the open door, ignoring Kimberly's grave words. "Agent Scully, AD Skinner is expecting. . ." Past her, to the inner door, turning the knob, pushing it open angrily, stepping into his office unannounced. Instinctively, I inspect the room for the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. Nothing. "Agent Scully, I've been expecting you." I walk to his desk where he sits reading a report. Light shines onto the lenses of his glasses making his eyes blank, without emotion. He motions to the chair in front of him. "You've been expecting me?" Suddenly, it all makes terrible sense. Mulder gone. His suggestion that I take a medical leave. Advice to take off a personal day. Oh, shit. This is far more serious than being pulled off surveillance duty. "Please sit down, Agent Scully." I remain standing. It is impossible to do otherwise. One false movement of my body will send my restraint spiraling out of control. "Sir, I need to know what is going on. There is supposed to be a surveillance task assigned to GWU. I came in fully. . ." "There is a surveillance. You are not a part of that task force, Agent Scully." "Sir, if Agent Mulder gave you any reason to believe that I was not able. . ." "It was my decision. Not Agent Mulder's" Agent Mulder's decision. The words have a finality to them. I detect an undercurrent of meaning in Skinner's phrasing and like a drowning man I struggle blindly, groping for the right argument, the right words which will change the outcome of this meeting. "Your decision is based on Agent Mulder's report. If I can speak frankly, sir, he is given to grievous error on his. . ." "Sit down, Agent Scully. We can do this the hard way if you'd like, but I would much rather discuss this without hearing recriminations on your partner's behavior." Skinner sets down his report, folding his hands on top of his desk, leaning forward to give me his undivided attention. I have no choice but to take the chair directly in front of him. Even in this state of distress, I am unable to defy authority. "Agent Scully, Agent Mulder has requested your removal from active duty. This is to be considered an involuntary medical leave." "Sir. . ." "Agent Mulder has cited several incidences where. . ." "I'm sure that I can explain. . ." "Allow me to finish, Agent Scully. Several incidences are cited in his report where you experienced seizures, nosebleeds, disorientation. As you are well aware, it is against Bureau policies to allow field agents to remain active if there are medical conditions which severely interfere with their duties or endanger their own safety. Now, I have read, and reread this report and I conclude with Agent Mulder's recommendation for your immediate removal." "Sir, these incidences are Agent Mulder's objective opinions. They are not based on medical fact, but on his own subjective opinions which are sorely tainted by. . ." "Are you denying these events occurred?" "No. I am simply stating that Agent Mulder does not have the medical knowledge to diagnose if I am fit for duty." "He is your divisional supervisor. It is his responsibility to pull an agent off duty of he feels that their life is threatened by their own actions." "Sir. . ." "Agent Scully. I have read the report. I have signed the report. There will be no petitions without medical certification." No. Nonono. How could Mulder do this to me? Already, I know the answer: He doesn't want me. Mulder doesn't want me. Doesn't want me. Doesn't. Want. Me. The phrase repeats in my mind like a death toll, the knowledge of it destroying me. I have become his cancer. He performs his operation with words, with a report, neatly excising me from his life. Skinner leans forward, his eyes searching my face; emotion softening his features. "Agent Scully, you can appreciate that Agent Mulder's decision was not an easy one. Your well-being is his responsibility. I hope you can view his actions as being in your best interests. You must know that your health is his only concern." "No, sir. I do not. . ." My voice quivers. It is the voice of that eight year old saying goodbye to her father. I rise, leaving his office, not caring if I am dismissed or not. After all, it doesn't matter anymore. I walk back down the hall, the bottom of my life dropping out in less than ten minutes. Dying, the ties around me are cut: partner, friend, boss, sister, father. There is not one relationship which has not been tainted by this malignant growth. It eats away the facets of my life as it eats away the cells inside, a fat and lustrous worm decomposing all the parts of my life with its constant, rhythmic chewing. Sixteen floors down, the office is still silent; omnipotent in its silence. I begin to gather my things: Photos, coffee cup, radio. The remains of my Bureau life are tossed effortlessly in a cardboard box. They are pathetic reminders of my incomplete dreams. Leave me the fuck alone. Leave. Me. Alone. I am no longer your salvation. Mulder is there, watching, waiting. He will have to catch your faceless killer. I no longer want any part in this fucking charade. Shit. Shaking, I dial Mulder's cell phone. "The number you have reached is currently not in service. Please. . ." His phone is turned off. Undercover surveillance. I grab my coat, my keys, leaving the building for what may be the last time. I do not pause, do not stop to wonder why I am refusing direct orders, why I will not leave Mulder to this task. If I stop and question I will lose my nerve. My hands tremble as I reach the parking lot and start my car. END 8/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER NINE ----------------------------------------------- 9:25 am March 27, 1997 University Yard, George Washington University Washington, D.C. "Quadrant seven in." "Quadrant eight in." "We have your places visually fixed. Naturi will be scanning the area for suspicious activity. I will be tracking your movements. Mason out." I sit on the cold bench, waiting; books piled in my lap, scanning the University Yard. This waiting is the hardest part. I force my fingers to turn the pages, absently searching blocks of text, historical pictures of World War I, attuned to the slightest movement. I am poised, tense; a hunter waiting patiently for its prey to leave the safety of its hole. Several students wander aimlessly across the campus, 8:30 classes letting out early, stopping at the Student Center for coffee or greasy fast food biscuits before heading to their 9:35 classes. I scan their faces, looking for hidden evil and finding nothing but innocence ringed with dark circles and worry. ----------------------------------------------- He leaves the parking structure, his step light, jaunty. He has dressed carefully: Dark blue tweed pants, light blue Polo shirt, navy blue knitted vest. He applied small doses of his most expensive cologne. He chews a stick of wintergreen gum, knowing that bad breath does not make a good first impression. He has removed his thick glasses and opted for contacts. He has beautiful blue eyes. His ophthalmologist once told him that all beautiful eyes are generally near-sighted. Since this is his best feature, he thought it wise to leave the glasses at home. Today was the first day he would meet Julia and he wanted everything to be perfect. Fingering the knife in the corner of his overcoat, he knew it would be. ----------------------------------------------- Left. Leftleftleftleft. I drive, piloted by a fear which is not mine. Urgency forces me to speed around the straggling traffic leftover from this morning's rush hour. I know I am heading towards George Washington University, but I have no idea of my final destination. I only know that I must hurry to avert some terrible tragedy which will occur if I do not arrive in time. Faster. Fasterfasterfaster. The light in front of me turns red. Fuck it. I step on the gas, looking up at the crimson eye as I fly through the intersection, blaring the horn, hoping I can avoid a collision. ----------------------------------------------- "Quadrant six, this is Mason. You have a possible in your area. Man near the trash can on the southwest corner of the yard. He's been there for four minutes." My eyes search, rising from the book. A young man in brown leather bomber coat. His movements are jerky and nervous. "Mason, this is Mulder. I have him." The man looks directly at me. I drop my eyes to the book, my heart rate doubling. When I look back up, he is shaking someone's hand, moving off towards the Law Center. "Mason, the guy is heading toward the Law Center. False alert." Every nerve in my body is poised. Soon. I feel him coming. ----------------------------------------------- He is being watched. It is the same feeling as the one yesterday when he sat at the park bench. Unseen eyes watch his movement as he crosses the University Yard. He heads for the bench he sat on yesterday, only to see a strange man sitting there. Books are open in his lap, but the man pages through them without enthusiasm. He is much too old to be a student. A teacher perhaps? He walks briskly, with purpose, aware that something is wrong. He does not know what this is, but his instinct tells him to keep walking, to keep moving away from the University Yard. There is danger here. His hands in his pockets are suddenly slick with sweat. He feels the need to hide, to slip into darkness. Heels clicking, he alters his plans, moving towards shelter. ----------------------------------------------- Drivedrivedrive. I go up the ramp, parking in the handicap slot, not caring. The car barely makes it into the spot before I am out, slamming the door. Outoutoutout. I leave Colonial Parking Garage stopping as the sun hits my face, momentarily blinded by the light. My hand reaches up to shade my eyes. A dull ache begins beneath my skin, my skull. Here. He is here. I slowly turn to my right, catching the scent of my prey. ----------------------------------------------- Scanning the faces, I see nothing. People pass the bench where I sit as the class periods change, students, professors scurrying between building. It is impossible to pick one face out of the seas of faces around me. I am drowning in eyes, noses, white skin, brown skin, black hair, yellow hair. No one visage is twisted with the evil lurking beneath. He is here. I know he is here. I feel his presence. I wonder where the little bastard is hiding. Where I would hide if I were him. My thoughts are broken by the voice in my ear. "Agent Mulder, this is Naturi. Is Agent Scully joining us?" The words immobilize me. "What?" "Agent Scully is headed towards Corcoran Hall. Is she. . ." "Fuck. Mason, send me backup. I'm leaving Cruz here in Quadrant Six." "Is there a problem. . ." I rip the tiny ear device out, not hearing the rest of the words, heading toward Corcoran Hall. Damn, Scully. I should have known better. ----------------------------------------------- He opens the glass doors, heading down, like an animal burrowing in it hole. He is unable to shake the feeling that he is being followed. He must hide. Must hide. Hide. His footsteps echo with this need. He goes down one, two three flights of stairs. The place is deserted. His panic begins to subside. At the very bottom, there is darkness. He slips into it, withdrawing the knife from his pocket. He waits, watching; ready for his hunter to reveal his face. ----------------------------------------------- Fuckfuckfuck. I am disoriented, the throb in my head growing stronger. He is here, somewhere, but I have lost the feel of him. Absentmindedly, I wipe the fine line of blood from my upper lip. He's hiding. Where would he hide? Where would I hide if I were him? A building. That seems logical. But this is a fucking campus and there are building everywhere. Which way do I go? Left or right? Left or right? Fuck. He's gone underground. Where? There are two building immediately in front of me. Which one? Whichonewhichonewhichone? Without thinking, I choose Corcoran Hall, pulling on the glass doors, praying to god I have chosen wisely. ----------------------------------------------- Fuckfuckfuck. Where could Scully have gone? I don't see her anywhere in the sea of bodies. Movement everywhere, but no flash of red hair. Where the hell did she go? Left or right? Left or right? I jam the ear piece back in. "Naturi, I cannot locate Scully. Where did you last see her?" "Inside the building to your left. I've got a fix on you Mulder. Glass doors to your right. Jansen and Simmons are on their way." Without thinking I pull on the glass doors, praying to god I will get to Scully in time. ----------------------------------------------- He hears footsteps. Small footsteps. Cautious footsteps. The tread of a hunter. They descend down the staircase, one step at a time, quiet, sensing his presence. There is nowhere for him to go, nowhere to run. Back pressed against the stairwell, he raises his knife. A shoe. He sees a shoe. It is a woman's foot. He is struck with relief. He almost laughs out loud. A woman. A fucking woman is following _him_? The irony of it makes him want to throw his head back and laugh wildly, but his sense of preservation does not permit this action. Instead, he bares his teeth in a welcoming smile, relaxing his posture, gripping his knife more tightly. He might actually enjoy this. Yes sir. This could indeed be fun. Another foot. Another pretty black leather shoe with sensible heels. The edges of two black pants. If he stuck his hand out from the stairwell he could touch the fabric of those pants. In fact, if he looked straight up, he could probably get a healthy view all the way up to her panties. His smile becomes wider. He bites his lip, overcoming the urge to giggle. Only four steps left. She treads them carefully. One. Two. Pain shoots through his head like fire. He almost drops the knife in shock. Son-of-a-bitch. Son-of-a-bitch. Three. A thin trickle of blood oozes from his right nostril. Shit. He's bleeding. He's actually bleeding. Alarmed, he wipes at it with his sleeve. Off. Off. Get it off. Four. Her pale face appears in front of him. Red hair the color of copper frames the whiteness. She is fragile, her beauty spoiled by the thin line of blood dripping from her nose. Staring at each other, face to face, he is overwhelmed with the urge to introduce himself, to hold out his hand and feel her lovely bones clasped firmly against his skin. The gun held in both her hands makes this impossible. She moves closer, pointing the barrel at his chest. "Don't move, FBI." Her hands begin to shake. Small tremors at first, then larger ones. He watches in fascination. "Don't. . . move. . ." The woman's eyes roll up. He watches her fingers spasm on the gun, trying to keep it in her hands. "Don't. . ." Her speech stops abruptly, her arms jerking involuntarily. The guns drops to the floor, clattering. Her eyelids flutter, eyes rolling beneath the delicate flaps of skin, knees bending, as she crumples to the floor, her body racked by spasms, writhing on the floor. "Hi. I'm Randall. Nice to meet you." The man moves toward her, knife outstretched. ----------------------------------------------- "Don't move, FBI." Scully voice issues the command only a few feet below me. Down. Down. Down. Three flights of stairs seem endless. Half-way down the last flight I see her, body sprawled on the floor, jerking, blood spurting from her nose. A man with a knife stands over her, his arm raised high as he prepares to strike. "Freeze! FBI!" One second. One chance. I squeeze off a fire and the man drops to the floor. Scully's body continues its dance on the dirty floor. Fuckfuckfuck. Oh god, Scully. Not now. Not now, oh please not now. Not this way. The images slow, becoming individual beats. The man on the floor groaning. Footsteps pounding down the stairs. The rattle and tap of Scully's shoes as the seizure shakes her. Then suddenly there is action, movement, sound. I scream into my ear piece. "Naturi, Mason, get an EMT in here. We have an agent down." Moments later, Simmons and Jansen enter. I hold Scully's body which continues to twitch, the movements becoming slower, slower, finally stopping. From far away, I hear the wail of sirens like the cries of a woman in grief. END 9/10 The Sounds of Silence by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com) DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send them to you. ----------------------------------------------- CHAPTER TEN ----------------------------------------------- 6:10 pm March 27, 1997 Dana Scully's Apartment Arlington, VA There is a knock at my door. In a way I have expected it; in another, I have dreaded it. It is Mulder. He arrives after obtaining a warrant and searching Randall Washington's premises. Finding nothing. Finding everything. The truth. I open the door, no joy at discovering that I am right. He stands in the hallway, his shoulders hunched into his overcoat, his hands in his pocket. We stare at each other, face to face in this awful truth, silent; no words enough. I should slam the door in his face. I should scream and kick and call him every foul name I ever learned. But he was right. What he did was horrible and foul, but it was right. The EMT team arrived after my seizure. There was no action they could take. They checked me out, pronounced me fine, and advised me to see my doctor as soon as possible. Jensen took me home and that was it. The end. Happily-ever after. Killer caught. Woman saved. Agent Scully to the rescue one last time before her final exit. How fucking anti-climatic. Mulder opens his mouth to speak and I cut him off. "I'm better, Mulder. You didn't have to drive over here to check up on me." He remains standing in the hall. I refuse to invite him in, blocking his way, one hand resting on the door knob. "Did you see the doctor?" "Yes." A blatant lie. He looks at me and immediately sees through it. "And what did he say?" His voice drips with sarcasm. Fuck him. "I appreciate the concern, Mulder, but it's none of your business." "Don't tell . . ." "It isn't any . . ." "Don't, Scully. Don't . . ." Our voices overlap and then we are silent. The words coexist in an angry mixture hanging in the air. I see him draw a deep breath, hold it, and begin again. "Can I come in?" "Mulder . . ." Fuck it. Let him say the words so will leave. I step back out of the door and he follows, closing it behind him. "Scully, as your supervisor it was my. . ." "Don't . . ." "As your supervisor it was my responsibility to remove you from duty. To ensure your safety." "Mulder, you were right, OK? You were one hundred percent right. Is that what you came over here for? To rub it in my face? To make sure that I learned my little lesson? Well thank you very much. I concede that you were right. Now leave me alone. " "Scully, I didn't want to do this. It was not an easy decision to. . ." "Fuck you." "Scully..." "No, fuck you, Mulder." "Scully..." "I knew it would come to this. I knew you would eventually see me as some sort of liability. You want me to see your viewpoint? Well, fuck you. I don't have to. You owe me more than that. Four years of putting up with your shit. Your theories, your inane quest for the truth, ditching me . . ." "I never . . ." Our voices rise. We are shouting, red in the face. "You did. I'd list all the incidences but I don't have that much fucking time." This stops him in his tracks. He turns away from me. "That's right. Leave, Mulder. It's what you do best, isn't it? Go on, get the fuck out of here. Close the fucking door and don't ever come back. Do you hear me? Don't. Ever. Come. Back." His hand is on the doorknob. I always feared the end would be like this. No graceful exit. No sad goodbye. Merely a finality born out of this silence, anger rising in great waves, drowning us both. The urge to strike, to hurt, is irresistible. My fists rise of their own accord and I watch them disjointedly moving through the air in slow motion, hitting him. The blows rain down on his back, his shoulders, surprise turning him to face me, eyes wide with shock, face suffused red with anger. He tries to fend off my blows with his forearm but I am unstoppable in this rage I have fueled for four years, in the life I have sacrificed to his self serving purpose like a golden cattle slain at the alter of some manic god. He grabs my wrists with his strong hands, pushing me back against the wall, slamming my body so hard against the drywall that the breath is momentarily knocked from my lungs. I struggle fiercely, unreasonably, needing to hurt him as much as he has hurt me. "Scully. Goddamnit Scully." "Fuck. You." Our words are lost in the physical exertion of our fight. "Scully. Stop. It." He pins my hands against the wall bringing his face close to mine. I watch the dangerous glint of his eyes filled with the rage he has so carefully hidden these past several months. It leaves, replaced by an emotion so sad, so stricken that it causes tears to gather behind my eyes. "How could you think. . . that I would leave you?" His voice breaks and he releases me. "How could you. . . think. . ." His hand rubs angrily at his eyes, hiding what is revealed there by the movement of flesh. The distance between us is more than feet; it is miles wide. I do not know how to breach it. I am afraid. I am afraid that it is too late, that too much damage has been done. "Mulder. . ." "I should leave." His words are resigned, his body immobile. I wonder what it is he wants from me. "Mulder. . ." "No. You're right, Scully. It's what I do best." He moves toward the door. "No." I grab his arm and he pulls away as if my touch burns. "It's too late, Scully. Some sins can be rationalized, but they cannot be forgiven. Your sister's death is my fault. Your cancer is my fault. Your removal from the agency is my fault. If I cannot forgive myself, how could I ever expect your forgiveness?" By sheer force of will, by understanding, I close the distance between us, moving towards him, pulling his lips down to meet mine, shattering the silence between us. "Scully, I. . ." His eyes are closed, his body rigid; yet his lips are soft, salty; pliant. "I can't, Scully. . . I can't do this. . ." He gently removes my arms from around his neck, my hands from his face. The rejection stings, and the urge to hurt him returns. "Mulder, I. . ." He stands in front of me like a scolded child, eyes pleading for understanding. I watch him, trying to discern meaning, wondering that we have finally come to this. An unimaginable goodbye. He waits, trusting I will be able to read his silence like a cheap carnival act. But I am human and I crave words and actions, not this life riddle by silences which no longer speak volumes, but only serve to separate, divide, conquer. I have never wished for death as fervently as I do at this moment. "Mulder, I think you should go." I close my eyes, no longer trusting myself to hold back the tears. "No." "What?" My eyes open in amazement. "I said no, Scully. I'm not leaving." "There isn't anything left to say." He folds his arms across his chest, a stubborn look on his face. "I think there is." Such arrogance. First rejection, then humiliation. Stupid-fucking-insensitive-jerk. My next words are clipped, automatic, a knee jerk response produced on numerous occasions. "Well, you're wrong, Mulder. As usual." As soon as the words are out, I laugh. I can't help it. Even now, in a moment when all is lost, I respond to the smallest of his gestures, his words, as if nothing had ever passed between us. His smiles, his eyes old and ancient, incredibly sad. "Scully, it isn't you. It's me. Don't you know that?" He takes a moment, standing inches in front of me, the heat from his body invading my skin. He struggles to control his emotions, to assume that smooth facade he wears so well. Then the words begin to fall, angry and hard, words he has kept hidden for so long. "I punish myself everyday for this. I want to take it all back. If I could, I would wish that day you walked into my basement office never happened. I would wish Melissa alive. I would wish your cancer gone. I have taken so much from you already. I have no right to anything else. No right. " There is silence all around us now, a telling silence, a waiting silence. In it, there is no place left to hide. Tears slide down my cheek. It is an act which absolves us both. "Oh, Scully." This time it is Mulder who breaches this chasm which in reality is merely inches; reaching out to put his arms around me, holding me firmly against his chest, his chin resting along the side of my head, comforting, warm, my tears soaking the dark blue of his coat jacket. In this embrace, I am safe; for only moments, for only seconds. This is what I imagine heaven will be like. ----------------------------------------------- Tears slide down her cheek. In this moment we are both forgiven. "Oh, Scully." I reach out to breach this chasm which in reality is merely inches; putting my arms around her, pulling her against my chest, her chin resting along the side of my head, comforting, warm. Tears soak through the material down to my skin, my soul. In her embrace I find what I have sought all these years: redemption. So gently, so very tenderly, I lift her face and kiss her. THE END Author's notes: For any of you who have wondered what the hell I've been doing since writing 'Slow Waltz', this is it. 'Sounds' grew out of a fascination with Mulder and Scully's relationship. I wondered how Scully's cancer would change them, how it would effect their casework and their interaction. Finally, I wondered if it could act as a catalyst in a case they might be working on. Consciousness-Related Phenomena is an actual science. Information was obtained from Princeton's research web site. There is a belief that humans can knowingly (or unknowingly) affect mechanical things like computers. Why not a tape recorder? I thought to myself. The black and white movie the killer sees in his flashback is an actual movie, the name of which I have thankfully forgotten. I saw it when I was five and it scared the shit out of me. Mulder's profile in chapter eight was an actual profile lifted from John Douglas' wonderful book: 'Mind Hunter'. Everything else comes from my overly vivid imagination. As far as the ending, some people are left wondering "Is this MSR or a Friendship piece?" Honestly, I don't know. I've left it up to you to decide. The ending is suitable to both parties. I hope you enjoyed this piece. Writing a longer story is a bit of a departure for me and it was a wild and exhaustive ride. I had a wonderful group of editors who encouraged me on days when I felt I had bitten off more than I could chew. They also repeatedly insisted that I 'get this right' and shamelessly bullied me when it was warranted. This piece would not have been as good without their thoughtful comments. Thanks Joyce, Deb and Meredith! And thank you for coming this far! GirlGone, April 11, 1997