Alone in a Disused Graveyard

By Samantha H
3-30-98

Rating: R (gratuitous use of the f-word, on second thought not really,
minor violence, and maybe
a couple of lewd thoughts here and there though, they're all Mulder's)

Disclaimer: "Him", "Her", and "They" belong rightfully to Chris Carter.
I'm just a little kiddie so don't go suing me because I ain't got nothin'
worthwhile of your precious time and effort.

Summary: In the hands of your worst enemy, we all become a bit cynical.
Murder's thoughts while slowly disintegrating in the bowels of a consortium
facility.

Category: VA

Archive: Yes, please do. Just ask me first.

Comments: I owe this work to a pitiful day I had at the hospital last week.

Thanks: Muchas gracias to Roz Scanes for perusing this over and giving me
her eternally
perspicacious insight. Kathy, for her amiable comments. Cyber pals Susumna
and Willa for a just
being there. And everyone that responded with feedback on Desert Places.
You know who you are.

I would also like to give a big hearty thanks to YOU, the reader, for even
reading this far. I swear
I'm not sucking up or brown nosing so you'll e-mail me with your wisdom.
Hint, Hint.

Note: If you don't know-- Magic Fingers are the motel beds where you put a
quarter in a slot and
they vibrate.

"Graveyard...there the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be
at rest."
--Job 3, 17

~~~~~~~~

Hhhmmm.

My wet, disheveled hair reeks of their cheap shampoo.

It's funny the things you notice when you're put in a position, forced to
sit still and wait.

The smell is emetic and burns when you breath in the stench. It catches you
off guard as if
dragging in a lung full of frigid winter air.

My body is kept and has been uniformly tidied up. You could say this is all
just a matter of fanfare
or like watching the previews before a movie. It's simply a prelude of what
is to come.

My naked flesh stings and aches ubiquitously. They like me scrubbed clean
until my skin is nice
and raw, supple to their horrifying adept touch.

Night? The time in between passes so quickly.

The nights are insufferable.

The piercing darkness of pain follows me down the path of sorrow and past
the place of hope,
every time the lights go down.

It seems all to often.

Jesus, listen to me, Mister fucking metaphorical.

That's been happening a lot lately.

The days are also a bitch but not as bad. I like to think I have some
semblance of time. That I can
actually tell the difference between the two.

I'm only kidding myself.

The deep expanses of white that surround and enclose me have fucked
sufficiently with my mind.

I don't remember being taken. They must have come for me when I was asleep.
Or maybe they
took that from me too.

I don't know.

I don't give a fuck.

At least they left my boundless vocabulary intact.

My sarcasm has become noticeably thick since my stay here. The quarters are
pleasant, but the
service can get a little fucking particular from time to time.

I started to remember her again. Just the sound of her voice. No face to go
with it though.

This pisses me off. I've wracked my brain endlessly only to be rewarded
with a flash on an
unfocused face.

Then nothing.

She was important. She was all I had. She was---

The old familiar burning begins at my thigh. It use to begin at the crook
of my elbow.
I think they ruined a couple of my veins. They don't start with my arms
anymore.

This evening---

I'm pretty sure it's night out. The air has an especially pungent sterile,
antiseptic quality to it.
Distinctly clear and unmistakable. They only clean the rooms this
immaculately when they intend
to make a mess.

I'll try to define it.

I remember one time the blood flowed down my arms to my fingers, rolling
slowly off the tips and
falling to the floor with a small noise you would think came from a leaky
faucet.

That had been a mess.

--- they've strapped me onto something. I'm not sure what. It's soft but
not exactly what I'd call
a creature comfort. More like a cheap motel bed. Something like that only
smaller.

Though, no Magic Fingers by any comparison.

I believe for tonight's special occasion I'll be adorned with the straps
made of some kind
of rough nylon with plastic cuffs.

No leather? What a pity.

These hurt worse than the leather ones. The plastic and nylon bite into
your skin producing a raw
burn when you struggle. Much more painful than the leather straps. The
leather straps only bruise,
which isn't so bad.

The painful sting travels up my sore side and begins to work at my stomach
which remembers
back to events prior. It immediately cramps up in small intricate knots as
the substance makes its
presence abundantly clear.

I remember certain things but vaguely.

Nothing important.

I still remember Fox Murder. Why they thought that was necessary is
unknown. I would rather
remember her than my god awful name.

The steady pounding in my chest begins to slow. I don't have much time now.
The anxious feeling
in my gut unspools in a hurry.
I remember the color of her...

My body tingles all over but the sensation quickly starts to settle and
leaden. My eyes gloss over
with strain and disenchantment. The sweat already settling on my brow.

I always panic at this point. Even though this has become routine I just
can't help myself. I just
can't lay there like a good boy. I don't think it would matter if I did
anyway. Disobedience is my
only escape. Even if only for a moment or two.

As if on cue I strain my hips upward and twist my wrists impetuously,
wincing as they become
slick with a familiar warm substance underneath the binding plastic.

It produces a cruel sound as it grates into my raw and tender skin...
almost as if a rusty saw were
struggling to cut against the grain of wet wood.

I've noticed I bleed a lot more than I used to.

There's a light deriding laugh above me. Blended in a deep rich tone, it
drifts over me as it's
expelled from the lower chest. The pitch becomes heavy as it leans down
close, sending small
vibrations of bitterly warm breaths into my wet ear.

The warmth doesn't say anything. It's just left there to drive me up the
wall.

They know this kills me. They've never spoken to me directly. To them I
don't exist.
I'm an object at best.

I have no leverage but continue on with my insistence until the weight of
exhaustion and futility
becomes thoroughly apparent.

Tired and drained, I quit.

My last efforts at defiance are quickly forgotten as motion begins and an
admonishing hand over
my forehead keeps my head from lolling from side to side.

I know where I'm going.

It's recess. It's time to play with their new toy.

That's what I am to them.

Nothing more.

The jarring motion of aged wheels sweeping noisily over cracks on the worn
concrete floor comes
to an abrupt halt.

Tears have long since lost their meaning as they roll languidly down the
sides of my face. They
drip over my cheekbone, down to my ear, where they follow the maze of my
lobe and pool,
waiting. In the end they wined up traveling down and across to the nape of
my neck.

I wish I didn't cry. When they dry, the tears make me itch.

CLICK.

Brightness from above.

With a loud, repetitive electrical hum, it completes the atmosphere that
has been ingrained into my
little old memory.

The first time I saw it I thought I was dead. I can't help but giggle
painfully at the irony of the
thought.

I remember a scene from the movie Poltergeist where the psychic keeps
vainly shouting to the
little girl, I think her name was Carol Ann, "Don't go into the light! Stay
away from the light!"

I almost smile inwardly.

She rented that video for me once when I had a bad case of the stomach flu.
I think I slyly told her
that I was much more inclined to watch the Exorcist at that given moment.
The image of Linda
Blair's head spinning wildly while spewing nasty bile almost did me in.

A hacking cough snaps me out of my reverie and grim reality settles back
down again, arbitrarily
in its usual chair.

My eyes are disengaged, dulling the light's intensity which I'm thankful
for. My jaw clenches
from reflex and repetition as the light is adjusted by an impatient hand.

I speak in the matter of a whimper. Never giving up. The first night I just
belligerently swore at
them.

Now I plead.

My mouth sputtering out fragments of words and sentences at a ridiculous
pace.
Though, I know my cries are wasted on uncaring ears.

This is the routine.

It's all I have.

Here, no one talks to me.

Here, no one listens to me.

Here, everyone touches me.

A brief cold touch of karma in the form of sterilized rubber flitters
across my eye lid.
A furious wail soon follows.

I wonder where it comes from?

It's not me!

Certainly not.

It can't be....

But it is.

I'm the only one here who makes such sounds.

They whisper.

Not to me.

The words are strung together in crisp accented English. Spoken too quickly
for my diluted brain
to comprehend.

All that is left to do is wait. Intently listening for that first sign of
the inevitable pain that is on its
way. After all, they have a schedule to keep. Or so it would seem.
Organization is key.

I'm not fooled as the gentle probing begins.

I let myself slip away quickly and relax, falling back into the mind
numbing roar of silence. Just
letting myself ebb away from that place. Away from their assorted toys and
razor tongued
comments.

The probing turns into the vicious prod of an instrument.

I exhale loudly through clenched teeth and closed eyes. I bite down hard on
the inside of my
cheek, drawing blood, throwing myself back into the sharp darkness of my
own pain. I won't
allow myself to turn back now.

The prodding stops and I happily sink further away. The bright light is
gone, along with them and
their abrading leashes and collars.

I came to this place when I was just a kid. Or maybe not. I'm not sure at
the moment, but the
surrounding wood is quiet and that's good enough for me.

The grass is wet where I lay. Stray, uprooted blades cling to the forearms
that lay lifelessly at my
sides.

A cold wind deceptively passes over my supine body.

It's late and I shouldn't be out here. Dad will come looking soon.

I remember not caring.

A chill runs a spidery tickle up my spine as I look up at the immense star
strangled sky.

No moon.

I use to do this all the time, just stare up, hypnotized for interminable
amounts of time or at least
until sleep came.

This was my place to think, to hide, to cry. There were no scornful looks
from teachers passed at
me here while I wasn't looking. There were no sobering slaps to the face
for simply existing, for
denying what he said I did nor for what I didn't do.

There is no pain here.

Just guilt.

Anger.

I know what they're doing to me.

It doesn't take a fucking degree from Oxford to figure it out. They're
slowly chipping away at my
intellect, dissecting, breaking, and taking it apart till there's fucking
nothing left of it.

Of me.

I feel like screaming up at the glimmering surface above me. I feel like screaming until I am empty and sated, till the rage and pain have vanquished all that there is. I feel like it, but I don't. My tongue is heavy and unwilling. It wouldn't matter if I could, I just don't have the heart for it right now.

Red.

The color flashes in front of my eyes, though it's more of an auburn.

redredredredredredredredred.
The color is pleasant and for some reason, comforting. Embracing it. I
close my eyes shut and try to reproduce it behind clenched eyelids.

I open my eyes and stare coldly, my face upturned towards heaven, nothing
clicking.

I have forgotten.

My lower lip is quivering. I know I should remember. Christ, why can't I
remember?
This woman and I were one. We were strong together.

Why can't I just remember?

The low velvety voice aching with a slight sense of worry. "Are you okay?"

Why couldn't I have told her something other than fine? Why couldn't I have
held her close to me then, close to her scent?

Fine. That had always been my reply as well as her's.

This doesn't make sense. We were dangerous? Am I weak,... susceptible
without her?

Yes. Susceptible.

That couldn't be right.

I stare accusingly upwards. My mind angrily wrestling with itself.

Why is she so special? Who is she anyway? Why is she so important?

I'm not sure.

Yes you are. She is nothing. She is nobody. She is no one. Not important


No.

No?

She.

A figment of your garbled imagination created to passively deal with the
pain.

She?

No you.

I stop the conversation in my head out of fear. I can't hide from them
here. They've already found me. They've already gotten inside of me.

Inside my mind.

I notice the large granite headstone to my right is blank just as are all
the others in the area, subjugated with moss and weeds from age and disuse.

They're near.

My is head throbbing, as I search beseechingly for a name or a face.

A splice of agony yanks my unwilling thoughts back to the assaulting white
walls and asperities of their creation.

I'm fucking screaming at them now.

They're all leaned over me, eyes set with grim fascination and a pleasant
smirk.

At least until I shout her name.

Right in their fucking bastard faces.

Some drop their jaws momentarily while others grimace as if tasting some
vile substance. But decidedly, all of them quickly regain an indifferent composure as if the
word, the name, were just nonsense.

I know they've heard me. They cannot hide the disappointment in there
faces.

I know I have beaten them for once. They cannot hide the acknowledgment in
their somewhat slumped posture.

I most likely won't remember this.

No recollection whatsoever.

No Scully.

My Scully?

No "her."

Nothing left for me to hold onto.

A loser.
A stinging presence at my shoulder confirms this, as my eyes close and my
brain clutches to that name for as long as it can.

As long as they'll let me.

~~~~~~~The end

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