Warning/Rating: NC-17 for violence, minor sexual content, and language. According to NC-17
standards, I would not be allowed to even read my own story let alone write it. So all you boys
and girls out there like me who don't pay attention to ratings...you can't blame me if
your parents catch you reading this.
Disclaimer: Anyone you recognize belong's to Carter. No infringement is intended. Nuff said.
Summary: Cancerman forces Mulder on a trip down memory lane.
Category: VA
Spoilers: Demons
Archive: Please do. Just ask me first.
Comments: This story is the product of what happens when you lock kids in a room for six hours
for five days straight, forcing them to take test after test till they go blind.
Thanks: Thanks to Jen Collins and Rebecca Rusnak, they know why. And Susumna and Willa
for
giving me a good hard slap in the face. I needed it.
I dedicate this to a person who suffers heartache and pain everyday. A person who sits in a
hyperbaric chamber 3 days out of the week and spends the rest in a hospital bed. A person who
can still crack a smile at the end of the day. My mom.
I want to thank YOU, the reader, for being even remotely interested in what I have to write.
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast.
The loneliness includes me unawares
and lonely as it is, that loneliness
will be more lonely ere it will be less....
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces.
Between stars -on- stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
to scare myself with my own desert places.
--Robert Frost
~~~~~~~
The heater was cranked up full blast as he sat nervously in his car wearing nothing but a pair of
loose fitting blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Both hands tapped on the steering wheel
impatiently as he glanced down at the illuminated numbers of the car radio's clock.
He shouldn't be here. He should have told Scully. The people he was dealing with could not be
trusted.
He let out a resigned sigh and continued to scour the deserted parking lot. He was alone. Not
even the boogy man would dare think about prancing around on a chilly night in DC.
This was ridiculous and dangerous. He started the car ignition.
Although he had been aware and alert and ready for anything, he didn't even see them until it
was
already too late.
~~~~~~~
He slowly withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled its sordid ingredients into the
young man's face below him. The only response he was given was a small cough and grimace.
Cancerman looked down at Mulder with a cold blank stare that slowly drifted over the quiet
form
that lay before him. The old man lifted the cigarette back to his mouth and inhaled deeply with a
small furrow of his brows. Fox looked different. Different from when he was awake and
fighting.
He had put up a fight with his men, it hadn't lasted long.
<He was a fighter.> He thought with a smile. <Though, that had not always been the case.>
The resemblance of the Mulder he now knew to the young Fox he remembered from so many
years past was incredible.
He wanted it this way.
He exhaled again, slower this time. He took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it to the
rusty stained concrete floor beside Mulder. The years hadn't been kind to it. The Mulder's , as a
family, had not been here in ages. Apparently, Bill hadn't the chance to sell it before he died.
He crouched down next to Mulder slowly, carefully. He leaned over him and reached his hand
out
to caress smooth skin. Badly nicotine stained fingers found themselves tracing the small curve of
little Fox's bruised jaw, scraping themselves on the hinted presence of whiskers. They retraced
their path up to his forehead, rolling over invisible worry lines. Then slowly started to descend
over peacefully closed eyelids and down the steep slant of his nose.
He gently rested his fingers for a moment on the small curve below the nose. They continued to
cascade down over full, ripe lips, again pausing momentarily, examining more closely to find
the lower split open. The wound encrusted with dried crimson. His fingers charged on,
determined to explore further, and caught for a moment on the lower one causing his face to
appear as if sulking.
He retracted his now tremulous hand with great effort, not wanting to. Wanted to continue down
to the throat, delicately maneuver both old, but still able hands around it, give it a light squeeze
at
first. Maybe as a harbinger, though probably not. His intent was not to kill. No, no killing, he just
needed to take care of some old business that had been left lying around, waiting or rather
calling
for him.
It was his time. Bill had done a fine job and it was his turn.
He heard footsteps and quickly got to a more comfortable standing position. He couldn't seem to
take his eyes off of the boy, his reward of patience and pure genius of preplanning.
A large man with short dark hair and blue eyes came down an old wooden staircase and walked
quickly to his superior's side.
He didn't say anything, couldn't. His eyes were still captivated. He had waited so long for the
right moment where personal pleasure and their plans would finally collide. The time was right.
He mentally gave himself a slap and spoke, "What will he be like?", tilting his head to the side
giving Fox a nasty look.
He hesitated. Obviously the man beside him was a bit confused.
"Sir, how do you mean?"
The agent next to him was one of the best. Efficient, merciless, and by circumstances of his
current field, meteoric. At least for the situation at hand.
Annoyed, "What will he be like when he wakes up?"
"The drug I've given him will stimulate electrical activity in localized parts of the brain.
Specifically, parts of the brain that contain and process memory functions. All that's needed is a
recurrence of an event at a certain age and things will become, how shall I say, interesting. He'll
be in two worlds at once, so to speak."
"He will be conscience." It wasn't a question.
"Yes. Conscience but not lucid. His judgement will be impaired but he will have full awareness
of
what is happening around.." Remembered why they were here, " ...to him."
"When will he wake?"
Agent Moore glanced at his watch and mentally counted. "In about a half hour or so." God he
hoped the drug worked it's magic.
"Tell Marx and Engels to also report back to me down here at that time."
He heard the agent retreat back upstairs and continued to rape Fox with his eyes. They gleamed
with something new.
Anticipation.
He could feel it inside him. Malicious glee with a twist of enmity and hatred that ached to be
unleashed. He and Bill had planned it, but Bill had gotten sloppy and careless, he wanted his due
that had been denied to him in the past. Bill had his chances with the boy and had gotten greedy.
It was his turn to have some fun and of course, screw with Fox Mulder's mind.
~~~~~~~
A.D. Skinner's office
- Yesterday early morning-
"Sir, I request to use some of my vacation time." Simply stated.
Skinner eyed Mulder, unbelieving, for a moment. The man in front of him had enough sick leave
stock piled for two lifetimes. "Fine. Do you mind me asking why?"
"I have some business to take care of..." That hadn't come out as he'd wanted it to.
Flames of suspicion had been lurking in Skinner's eyes and that comment had only tossed more
fuel to the fire.
"I was called last night and asked to speak at a conference by an old friend from Oxford."
Mulder anticipated the next question with ease. A certain line from "The Grinch That Stole
Christmas" popped into his brain.
<He thought of a lie and he thought it up quick!>
Sam had loved that book when she was younger. Around Christmas time she always made him
read it to her. He had bought her a present that December after her abduction. Waited with hope
clinging by it's last thread thinking she might return.
Mulder mentally shrugged the memory off and away and concentrated his efforts on Skinner.
"Where's this conference?"
"It's in up state New York . I'll be speaking about abnormal psychological aspects that can occur
in criminal cases. I should only be gone for a couple of days." He tried not to spew the
information forth to eagerly.
Skinner sighed. "Your request is granted. Just take it easy."
Mulder applauded himself. He could here the simmer of flames being doused with water. Sitting
still was becoming a problem but he kept himself firmly planted in his chair until he was certain
he
wouldn't run out of the room.
"Thank you, Sir....."
One last thing needed to be taken care of.
Scully.
She would be harder to convince he was just going on a nice little vacation. He wasn't "ditching
her" as she so eloquently put it. It was his problem. His own personal problem she did not need
to
get involved in.
"...and could you please inform Agent Scully of my plans."
Before Skinner had a chance to respond Mulder was already out the door.
Long gone.
~~~~~~~
It was almost time.
Two men descended the stairs which creaked loudly under their combined weight. The first,
carrying a small black bag in his left hand, was tall and broad shouldered with short brown hair
and a crooked nose. The other behind him was a couple of inches taller with black hair and
green
eyes. They reached the bottom step quickly. The man with the bag sat it down gently on the floor
and reached inside of it, already knowing what his next order would be.
"Get him ready."
Cancerman walked himself into a corner and took out another cigarette, though not lighting it, as
the two men took out two pairs of handcuffs and standard federal issue leg chains.
The green eyed man walked the two strides to his right to Mulder. He roughly grabbed him under
the arms and dragged him closer to the wall that was on Mulder's left. Sticking out of the wall,
one and a half feet above the floor, was a slightly rusted metal water pipe. It jutted out of the
wall
about an inch then turned ninety degrees to travel parallel along it for two feet before making
another ninety degree turn back into the wall.
The man that had been carrying the bag walked over with the restraints and started to secure
Mulder's legs.
When Cancerman finally turned back to Mulder his men were done. Mulder sat limply with his
hands behind his back handcuffed around the steel pipe. The handcuffs were connected to the
leg
chains that went down to join with the cuffs on his ankles.
Moore appeared at the bottom of the staircase and turned his eyes towards Cancerman. When he
received the incumbent nod he approached Mulder and crouched down close to him. With his
left
hand he grasped Mulder's chin tightly and lifted it slightly upwards towards the single watt bulb
that lit the entire room.
Their patient began to stir.
~~~~~~~
Mulder blinked hard against the light above him to his far left. It stung his eyes, felt like he was
staring directly into the glaring sun. His thoughts felt sluggish and couldn't quiet grasp his
surroundings.
He soon realized the bite of steel on his ankles and wrists. The cuffs on his hands were pinching
and rubbing at his skin and he had to arch his back to lesson the pull on his arms and legs.
A man hovered inches above his face. He tried to shake the ever tightening grip the man had on
his chin but it only earned him the biting pain of fingernails digging into his cheeks. The man's
other hand peeled his right eyelid back and then the other.
<Jesus the light hurt.>
Mulder scowled and spoke gruffly.
"Fuck off!"
The next thing he saw was a large fist coming down over the top of his head. He tried to move
his head but knew it was hopeless. The pain was quick and swift as another blow caught the left
side of his face. The force of the blow threw his head to the side to come colliding violently with
the corner of the metal pipe.
~~~~~~~
Cancerman watched the scene in amusement. His agents knew exactly what to do and when it
was
acceptable to do so.
Mulder's head hung low below the pipe placing all of his weight on his wrists. The corner of the
pipe that had come in contact with his head was now painted a dull red.
Moore stood and gave a small nod in his direction. "He's ready."
With that, his three men left, closing the door at the top of the stairs.
His eyes narrowed at the dazed form near the wall. The corner's of his mouth curved slightly
upward, hinting at a smile, as if thinking of a private joke.
Waiting would no longer be an issue.
~~~~~~~
The dark backward and abysm of time
--Tempset 1, 2
~~~~~~~
The head wound was only minor. He could tell. It hurt like hell but he hadn't past out. He wasn't
sure if that was such a good thing at the moment.
When he opened his eyes the light to his far left was dimmer. The floor beneath was solid and
cold. He could feel the blood rushing to his head and decided to take a chance at looking up
from
the dirty floor. His surroundings looked vaguely familiar as if he'd been there before.
He caught movement out of the corner of his left eye. A painful blast of light flashed before
closed
eyelids. Loud echoing, empty footsteps walked towards him.
His heart stopped cold and he began to sweat.
<Jesus what was that.>
He turned his head all the way to his left and saw a tall dark outline. It held something that
glowed.
<A cigarette?>
Another flash made him bite his lower lip and his muscles tense. The poor light that was dim just
a few moments ago became even cruder. Colors and shapes became darker than their natural
tones. Movement of his eyes blurred things. He was starting to remember.
The figure made a beeline towards him slowly. It was exactly how his father looked when he
was
younger and he...
<...Dad?>
< No.>
< He was dead.>
< Gone.>
Buried, along with answers to question's he hadn't had time to ask.
This time the flash rocked his senses and made thinking impossible. He blinked hard fighting the
shift and blur his movements caused. The face of the man before him became clear.
<Cancerman!>
Abiding rage grew then shrunk to an invisible speck of nothing as the face before his eyes
changed with another blast of light.
"Fox."
The calm voice scared the shit out of him. His adult mind was left behind in the haze of drugs as
stark terror took hold and made him remember.
Swallowing hard.
<No.>
< Not again.>
"Fox! Look at me."
His breath came fast.
<What did he do this time? I'll be a good boy, I promise!>
"Fox." The soft voice drew out the first part of his name with menace.
Fox looked up slowly, afraid of what he might find in his father's eyes. When he saw them he
wanted to cry, to run but knew it would only bring more pain, more sorrow.
Dad crouched down close to him and pulled out the lit cigarette he held with his right hand from
behind his back.
The light above them became brighter.
Cancerman was now the one in front of him.
<What the hell!>
Mulder lunged toward the crouched figure but the pipe held and he was roughly jerked back
when
his cuffed hands found the pipe securely imbedded in the wall.
Cancerman quickly realized where the terror in his captive's eyes had gone and proceeded to
bring it back.
He waved the cigarette too closely to Mulder's eye and the lights dimmed again.
He preferred blunt objects to fire. Anything but fire. He finally spoke, knew it didn't make a
difference to his father but tried anyway.
He forced his voice to be calm and worked up some saliva. Parted his split dry lips.
"Dad, please don't."
The tone was not pleading, begging. He wanted Fox to beg.
Staring into frighted hazel not paying attention to the cigarette he held mere centimeters from his
son's cheek.
"I couldn't hear you, Fox."
He watched the hot embers of the cigarette drift dreadfully close to his cheek than up to his eye.
He turned his head and closed his eyes, tried to brace himself of what was to come.
And it would come.
"LOOK AT ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
He felt pin drops of spittle scatter across his face as he cringed and tried to move away. His
hands
had not moved far down the pipe before he felt his shirt sleeve yanked up and agony greet his
skin
with the horrific burning embers as they were pushed deeper and deeper into his shoulder. He
clenched his teeth in a determined effort to keep from yelling, but gave up after a split second
and
let out an ear piercing scream.
Consciousness was long gone by the time Cancerman had nearly crushed the cigarette down to
it's filter.
Cancerman sneered down at Mulder. Little prick still couldn't handle it. He knew exactly where
and what Bill Mulder had done during his little torture sessions at the summer house with Fox as
a
teenager.
It felt good.
Hell it felt wonderful.
Intoxicating.
He couldn't help himself. Cancerman threw back his foot and gave several kicks to Mulder's
unconscious body.
He didn't stop until he was out of breath.
~~~~~~~
Mulder awoke on the living room couch of his parents old summer house. There weren't any
lights on but he could tell. His mind immediately informed him of the searing pain in his
shoulder.
He licked his dry lips out of habit but didn't move from the couch.
<Someone could be watching.>
He risked a glance to his left and let it peruse the room.
Nothing but old furniture.
He went to lift his right hand to his shoulder and found his wrists handcuffed in front of him. He
managed to maneuver both hands to his left shoulder and gently lifted up his shirt sleeve to
reveal
charred puckered skin around a burn about two millimeters in diameter. It wasn't so much the
depth that made him nauseous. It was the fact that when he was thirteen his father had tried
unsuccessfully to do the exact same thing to his right shoulder.
He knew the black lunged fucker had done this to him but couldn't shake the vague memory of
his father at age thirty five. It scared him.
Maybe this had something to do with the treatment he'd received from Dr. Goldstein in Rhode
Island. Didn't matter. He was getting the hell out of here.
He got to a sitting position on the couch as quietly as he could. His whole body felt sore. He
wrapped his arms around his midsection as much as the cuffs would allow, didn't remember
getting hit in the ribs. He raised himself slowly out of caution.
He was guided by the only light that came from the hallway. It tumbled softly into the living
room
and slowly lost it's battle to the darkness as its distance from the hallway grew.
Trying his best not to disturb the silent atmosphere that blanketed the room, he surreptitiously
moved towards the front door.
He was half way when he froze, hearing voices coming from the hallway, "... pass' out again I'll
give him another injection to..", and panicked. He took an ill step and muttered a swear when
the floorboard beneath him creaked loudly.
<Dammit!>
All he had to hear was the scrape of chairs on the linoleum kitchen floor before he took off
running. He reached the door, turned the knob to find it dead bolted. He hastily undid it and
wildly threw the door open.
The late crisp November air rushed to his face making his eyes water and his body shiver.
He raced off the porch just about to hit his running stride when a large hand grabbed and yanked
him backwards by his shirt. It choked him for a moment before he fell on his back to the wet
grass, knocking the wind out of him.
Above him the sky was clear and the stars bright.
A man with a slightly crooked nose he had never seen before easily picked him up to his feet and
braced his head in a head lock. Mulder kicked and shouted as the man started dragging him back
to the house. Anything to get out of the heavy grip the man had on him. Tried lunging out of his
grasp, but only managed to nearly choke himself to death against the man's forearm.
He yelled as hard and as loud as he could, but soon realized it was useless.
The nearest neighbors the Mulder's had were four miles away and that was only during the
summer months. It could be twice that during fall and winter.
The guard's hold grew tighter around his neck, almost strangling him.
He threw back an elbow into the man's stomach and was released.
Once free he stumbled forward, right into the fist of another guard. He nearly fell, but regained
his
balance and found a fist to the stomach waiting for him.
The guard that punched him grabbed his cuffed hands as the guard he elbowed got behind him.
He
tried jerking away but felt the cold barrel of a gun press deeply into the back of his neck. His
struggles lessened a bit until the guard in back of him spoke.
The man yelled towards a figure on the porch."Hey Moore, I think he's ready for his shot."
Mulder's mind became frantic. Remembered the pain and helplessness. The abject fear he felt
when his father was near.
<Not again.>
He ripped his hands away and got about two feet. One of the men tackled him to the ground and
slammed his head against it a couple of times, though he wasn't sure how many, he had trouble
counting. Angry hands picked him up and threw him over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Bouncing movements, probably the porch steps, and into the now well lit doorway.
He was dropped just inside the house. Tumbled to the hard wood floor slamming his injured
shoulder into it hard, issuing a horrific shriek. The adrenaline burned through his veins.
He managed to get to all fours before he was forced back down again on his belly. His restrained
hands stuck beneath him.
Useless.
Cancer man stood near the living room watching in anger and let his men do their job.
One of the men holding Mulder down grabbed his hair and wrenched him over onto his back.
Mulder's hands were hastily pulled over his head and held to the floor. He squirmed and kicked
at
the man who was holding down his legs and offering him a malevolent wink.
Fearful eyes darted desperately around the room. When he heard the patter of soft footfalls he
turned his head upward to an odd angle that hurt his neck.
Moore walked swiftly over to the tangle of agents. Mulder's eyes immediately caught the large
syringe in the man's right hand.
"NO!"
"Just relax alright. Okay. It won't hurt if you just relax." Kneeling, Moore tried to make his job
easier and kept his voice soothing and calm. "Just take it easy."
Malaise washed through his body. The Mulder bullshit detector alarm sounded.
<Liar.>
"Don't."
"I swear it won't hurt if you just stop fighting."
Mulder fought harder. " Fuck... don't do this!" His tone was neutral. Not begging, not yet.
"Fox, Fox--" He'd been ordered to call him that. He pulled down the right side of Mulder's jeans
and boxers, exposing a sharp hip bone and tensed thigh muscle.
He finally begged and cut the other man off. "Please!"
It wasn't going to make a difference. He could see it in the guy's eye, pure science. He was just a
lab rat.
"You're making this harder on yourself." He slid the needle into quivering flesh and pushed the
plunger down watching the murky liquid disappear.
It didn't matter how hard he tensed his thigh muscle, felt the hot, painful sting of the injection.
His
hands clenched into fists above his head, opened, then fisted again. His last thought was that he
could actually feel it dispersing through his body, seeking out his mind, which it eventually
found.
Mulder's sweat drenched body arched, straightened, then finally relaxed falling back to the
wooden floor with a slight thump.
The other men climbed off his body as Moore pulled out the long needle slowly.
An indignant voice from behind him spoke, "Take him into the kitchen. I'll be ready soon." All
the men knew such mistakes would not be tolerated twice.
~~~~~~~
Lewis was like most men at age seventy. He sat in an old ungodly colored parka lounger,
watching football after a nice half frozen Hungry Man dinner, dozing off.
The cabin he owned had all the luxuries of a quaint home without the nagging wife. Although he
didn't admit it, he missed her dearly and thought of her often. They were both stubborn and when
they fought, she ran off to play bridge, and he would disappear for awhile with a couple bottles
of
scotch. It was what he had and he was content with it.
The parka lounger was reclined halfway and held his squat frame in comfort His head started to
droop and his rubbery chin was making its descent down to his chest. A loud echoing scream
snapped his head up right. It was distant, then stopped abruptly.
Everything he ever needed sat on a small tv tray beside him. On it sat a telephone, tv remote,
vcr remote, stereo remote, and a tv guide.
He snatched the phone off the hook and dialed as quickly as possible.
"Sheriff 's office, Deputy Thomas speaking."
"Karen, this is Lewis. There's some weird noises comin' from outside. They're really strange.
They sound almost...strangled."
Karen Thomas took a deep breath as if she had been through this a million times.
"Lewis, did you and Mary have a fight again?"
What did that have anything to do with it. "Yes."
"Have you been drinking?" This question was mandatory whenever Lewis called no matter what
time of day it was.
Lewis took his time. "Let me talk to Sheriff Scott."
"Lewis, the Sheriff is a busy man and.." Scott had been sitting across from Thomas on the edge
of
a desk throughout the entire conversation drinking coffee and sorting out important papers.
He stood up and asked for the phone. "Its all right. Let me speak to him."
Karen graciously handed over the phone.
He placed a hand over the receiver and asked, "How did he sound?"
"A little tanked." There was no smirk or sarcasm behind the comment.
"Hello Lewis. What's the problem?"
"You really should talk to her about her attitude."
"Lewis, what's the problem?"
"I was sittin' down, all ready to go to bed when I heard this god awful cry. It came from outside
somewhere. I'm up at the cabin. I think it came from up north."
"Why are you up there?"
"Why does it matter why I'm at my goddamn cabin. It's none of your goddamn business. There's
someone or something getting killed out there and all you can think to ask is "Why are you up at
your cabin Lewis?"
"Settle down Lewis. Okay. I'm trying to help."
"I know but someone is gettin' murdered and....I'm sorry."
"Have you had anything to drink tonight?"
"What do you mean?"
"Come on Lewis, you know what I mean."
The old man huffed in defeat. "A little."
"A little?"
"Okay a lot, but I'm not lying. I heard somethin'."
"You said the sound came from up north?"
"Yes. I think up by that old summer house by the beach."
"And you say the cries seemed... ?"
"Strangled."
"Yes, strangled. Have you heard any more." He could just imagine Lewis holding his breath
straining to hear the slightest sound.
"No."
"Thank you Lewis. I'll check into it a.s.a.p."
"You promise?"
Scott felt a tinge of guilt.
"I promise."
He almost wanted to add cross my heart and hope to die stick a needle in my eye, but held his
tongue. Maybe Lewis would make him pinky swear.
"Thank you Sheriff. I appreciate it.
"Good bye Lewis."
Lewis managed to spit out, "Sheriff....be careful." Before the dial tone cut him off.
Scott hung up the phone and continued sorting out papers. He would check it out sooner or later.
~~~~~~~
He sat quietly alone at a diminutive round table gazing out a window above the sink. The sun
had
just come up a half hour ago and shone brightly through the small dusty window.
The light filtered down creeping sluggishly to the sea foam green linoleum as if it were a chore.
The sun rays revealed and reflected upon minute particles of dust languishing slowly in space.
He scrupulously broke away from his hypnotized stare and glanced scornfully to his immediate
right at the lifeless body laid out flat. He brought his eyes back around and down to the table to
contemplate for a moment. While his eyes strolled back to the window they caught the sharp
reflection of light off a metal instrument that had no sane purpose in a kitchen.
The lovely sensation inside him was superficial. The thought was mellifluous. It would only get
better with time. This was only the beginning. His barely perceptible grin said it all.
~~~~~~~
A small quantity of saliva was leisurely tugged down by gravity as it dribbled past his cracked
pouting lips and down a cheek that was compacted against the soft give of linoleum. Hazel
appeared out of nowhere then disappeared again. They soon returned to skitter around heavily,
passively studying the room at an odd angle.
They swam through the dark green sea foam below them and came to rest on polished brown
leather that stood only a wary foot from his unprotected face.
His arms were free. Palms opened toward the ceiling beside his hips. He didn't move though.
Didn't feel like provoking a blow to the head. Didn't want to think about the horrible things that
had gone on in this room while his mother was away at the neighbors.
<Funny how mom had always been outside or gone visiting a friend when dad got angry.>
Wished he could just lay there and play dead.
His body betrayed him when a rough cough found it's way out of his chest.
A mean foot drove itself into his upper body near the collar bone. All he produced was a stunned
grunt before a booming crack of light burned itself into tired eyes.
Tired and scared.
<Alone.>
<Where was mom? She wouldn't leave me home alone with dad again, would she?>
Another expertly placed kick to his stomach.
<Yup.>
He grunted again as he said farewell to the whoosh of air that tore it's way from his lungs.
He looked desperately around to the only two doors that offered salvation.
A hand grasped him by his hair and dragged him over to the table.
"No, Fox." As if he were a dog being berated for messing on the floor.
<Oh god not this.>
He was still on his knees when his chin was forced down on the table. His eyes panicked as they
swept over its surface contents. It almost took his breath away. Strange how ordinary everyday
utensils could make you writhe.
Timid hands tried to pull away from the tormenting grip his father had on him. His father's
intolerant hold grew stronger as another hand dug into the back of his neck and applied pressure.
Said his name strangely. As if it belonged to a dog. "Fox."
The hands squeezed unbearably tighter crushing the life out of him. Tears of so many things
rolled
down his bruised face freely. "Dad. Please. "
<I didn't mean it. Whatever it was, I didn't mean it!>
Loud and threatening with more than a hint of warning. "FOX!"
He allowed the unimaginable to happen and went limp. Let his hands fall to his sides no longer
tearing at his father's.
The hand on his neck didn't slack, if anything it sunk further into sore flesh.
For a brief second the room was silent except for the sound of his breathing and the whimper he
couldn't suppress that was coming from somewhere in the back of his throat. A slight pull
forward from his head made his scalp burn. His head just not quick enough at following his
father's clenched fistful of hair.
"That's better isn't it."
Cancerman pulled Fox further onto the table, forcing a grunt out of the boy. He was relishing
every moment. Every whimper and tear. One by one they fell down Fox's cheek. The seemliness
of the sight took his breath away. Waited an instant for something he wasn't sure would come
yet and continued.
A snarl. "Now choose."
The blood in his ears pounded. Made it hard to hear. To think. But understood what good ol'
pops was getting at. As if it were his choice. As if he had a say in the matter.
Fox averted his eyes away from the table and concentrated on staring defiantly at the old picture
on the wall in front of him.
Nothing special. Just something his mom had bought as an after thought at a garage sale.
In it, a man in a green slicker was pelted by sea spray and rain as he rowed over a huge ocean
swell. The man was drawn in a precarious position, half leaning over the small row boat looking
into the black water and half heaving the paddles back as to prevent from being swallowed by an
enormous wave that loomed a long dark shadow over his paint chipped schooner. Behind the
waves were gray clouds entrenching the sky, leaving not even a glimpse of a skinny shaft of
smooth mellow light to calm the eyes.
He scanned the crude painting vigilantly as black spots swam into his vision. Half expecting his
father to accidentally choke him to death, he stopped crying.
<It would all be over soon.>
Cancerman saw his son's eyes go lazy and loosened the grip he had on his neck.
No answer? He leaned down deliberately close, invading space that he owned.
Close to his left, a rustle of clothing. Then hot breaths translating into hungry slanted words in
his
ear.
"Choose." Bitter. <Sugar and spice made everything nice and that's what he was made of.>
He barely parted his lips, "No." Uttered so quietly, he wasn't sure whether he had actually said it
out loud or if he had just thought he did.
"No what fox?" No sarcasm. Spoken as an inquiring whisper.
His breath became heavy and labored as a hot slippery tongue found it's way to his ear and
around it's lobe which was inevitably followed by a mouth. It licked and sucked for an instant
drawing back away with the flap of his ear. Shivers and tingles of revulsion shot up and down his
spine as teeth raked sensitive skin. He recoiled away in horror, not carrying about the protest of
shock he got from his head and neck.
Finally, he found his voice buried beneath heaped amounts of objects that resembled hurt.
The warmth that surrounded his ear disappeared, leaving it wet and susceptible to the cold gusts
of air he hadn't noticed before.
It was replaced by a deafening shout.
"CHOOSE GOD DAMN YOU!"
The rumble in his ear hurt.
<It always hurt.>
Large hands shook him hard then leaned onto his back, crushing his diaphragm against the sharp
edge of the table.
Tiny gasps were all he could manage. He had already gone this far and decided taking it one step
further wouldn't make much of a difference.
"You can't..make.....me." He regretted his words as he glanced down at the table again. Things
his father took pleasure in.
<Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet is pleasure after pain!>
An old sawed off broom handle lay farthest to his right. Next over was a thick leather belt with a
large metal clasp on the end. The most nefarious item out of the bunch lay to his left. It was his
father's favorite. It was an innocent father's day gift from his mother. The foot long metal Phillips
wrench was surprisingly lite considering it's size. He had never held it before, but had only
needed
to observe once, how quickly his father could swing it to make the astute assumption..
The mad thrill deep within his heart already had him leaning further into Mulder before he even
heard his son's comment.
"Like hell I can't. Now choose you little fuck or I'll choose for you." He might be old but he was
not feeble. He pushed Fox's head and back harder onto the table.
Mulder's bare feet slid across the smooth ancient floor with ease as more weight on his back
pushed him onto the table, closer to his "choices". His efforts at breathing were failing
miserably.
His patience had worn thin long before and it finally snapped in two. He tightened his grip on
Fox's neck and flung him backwards to the floor.
Mulder's back rebounded off the wooden cabinets as his body collapsed in somber reality.
It was imperative that he got up. All he had to do was imagine the sleek contours of the Phillips
wrench and his body complied almost instantaneously.
He deftly reached for the top of the kitchen counter to get some leverage and hoisted himself
onto two feet. His balance took offense to the sudden upright posture and would have fallen back
down had he not been holding onto the counter top for dear life.
Cancerman reached over undoubtably to Bill's fathers day present. Clamped a sweaty palm over
its handle and slowly dragged it, scraping along the table top towards the edge of the table.
Fox shakily turned towards his dad not wanting to be caught in a vulnerable position. He was
also
ready to bolt out of the room should the opportunity arise. <I could hide......maybe.> The voice
inside his head was not very convincing.
Suddenly a white hot vivid line shot across his eye line, scorching his senses for the moment.
Gripping the handle tightly he saw the disorientation in Fox's eyes. <The drug must need another
kick, so to speak.>
Mulder peered out from slit eyelids to find the bastard right in front of him.
"You!" Blind rage had him charging the sick excuse of a man and blind rage had his brain
obliviously overlook the large blunt object in the sick excuse of a man's hand.
From behind his back he swung the wrench sideways in a parabola like motion. It buried itself
fiercely into the soft muscular tissue of Mulder's lower abdomen just as it had when he was a
child.
The drug lowered it's rearing head chipping further into Mulder's subconscious as his mind held
the blow in remembrance. It hit pay dirt and tapped a spring of vile childhood memories.
Another searing pain of light rose like the sun into the murky waters of gray numbness.
<Was he drowning? Can't breath.>
Fox looked up. Above him was a bright clear surface of blue. Hovering over it was the iridescent
shine of a pure golden sun. Beautiful crisp lung fulls of air awaited and whispered to him.
<So far away.>
Cancerman threw back the wrench again and swung down creating a huge ark over his head as
the wrench plowed downwards.
Uncorrupted pain startled him as it broke out across his chest. No air to scream, but felt himself
do so anyway.
<Nice and quiet.>
The inky black water around him absorbed sound rendering him deaf. The heavy water began to
solidify.
<I need to breath!>
He kicked his legs in an effort to gain a few feet. The darkness that had him surrounded held on
tight. Fought harder and gained an inch and lost it just as quickly. He made rash movements out
of panic but the water was no longer water. His muscles and lungs were on fire.
<Nothing to fall but off, nowhere to stand but on.>
His body was becoming numb.
<So tired.>
He took one last glance upward at the promise of paradise.
<Not now... maybe later.>
Another monstrous back handed swing that landed on the upper side of the young man's back
with an ugly thump. The beaten body visibly slumped unmoving.
An annoyed sigh escaped from between his lips. He gave the boy one last blow to the lower back
before paging Moore.
~~~~~~~
Moore checked Mulder over quickly. His eyes were dilated to their fullest extent and his
breathing
patterns were irregular at best.
"Sir, he needs rest if you want him to last more than two days."
His eyes glowed. "Fine. Take him upstairs."
Moore paged the other men outside to come in and help him.
He whispered the line from Hamlet in his mind as a couple of men carried Fox roughly off.
<Rest my perturbed spirit.>
~~~~~~~
Monsters lurk in the dark. They creep and tiptoe stealthily outside my door. Slip under the thin
wood through a small slit and hide. In the corner where the light cannot go. Or maybe in the
closet. They like the closet. Hiding, waiting for the right moment to hurt me. They like that too.
I need to turn on the light. They're coming for me again.
~~~~~~~
Slow and heavy that's the way the shadows moves.
Cancerman walked in achingly small steps studying the ground until he came to the side of the
bed. When he lifted his eyes, the suddenness of the sight was all the more pleasurable. Not even
the semi-darkness could dispel the emotions storming inside him.
Below him Mulder lay strapped to a single size bed in manacles and genuine hospital leather. An
iv tube snaked its way down from a small plastic bag hanging beside the bed into the crook of
his
right arm.
It was night now and the moonlight falling in from a window was the only thing keeping the
room
from being thrown into pitch blackness. Mulder was bathed in the moonlight. It played with
shadows across his chest and lower legs but his face lay turned into its direct path.
He wanted to get closer.
Bending down on his knees beside the bed he placed his hand awkwardly on Mulder's. His eyes
were distant as he brought his left hand up from his side to rest on Mulder's head. He began
paternally patting the unruly mass of short chocolate that shot out from odd angles.
An adverse effect achieved from sleep.
His breath caught in his chest for a moment then inhaled sharply. The corners of his eyes
softened
as he lowered his head down to Mulder's and softly kissed the lines of tension on Fox's forehead.
He lowered his mouth further searching eagerly and halted.
Those full lips were not his own. Fox had gotten those from his mother. Along with his
insolence.
He fixated a profane stare on Fox's chest, watching, as it barely rose and fell beneath a leather
restraint. Vigor raced through his blood urging him into action. His movements remained slow as
the hand he had placed on Mulder's drifted up to an exposed neck. Warm soft skin turned to
goose flesh when it met with his cold fingers.
He ran a gouging fingertip down the throat feeling the cartilagineous rings of his trachea one by
one.
<He was so delicate.>
The fingertip retraced its path upward.
< So breakable.>
That honor would soon be his.
He embraced the neck with his whole hand. It rested there, fingers massaging below the jawline.
Tightening with each small circle of movement until disguising the action as massaging was no
longer possible.
A slow pulse beat steadily against his palm.
He tensed his fingers, tightening his hand a bit more. Each stuttering pump struggled beneath his
snug grip.
The small space between his index finger and thumb relaxed close to the windpipe, then
lingered,
rubbing against it. Finally enclosing the throat he began to squeeze the airway, sealing it shut.
The
small rumbling sound beneath him ceased. He squeezed harder, crushing the pipe with bruising
force.
He was sweating now. The room was hot. He held his breath for a moment and listened.
Nothing.
Except for a dull electrical hum and the distant sound of waves breaking, the house was silent.
He relaxed his grip and leaned an ear down to Mulder's slightly parted lips to hear the desperate
intake of breath. A warm presence blew against his ear, dispersed, and was replaced by a new
one.
His eyes grinned.
Nap time was over.
He raised himself to his feet.
A day's binge on barbiturates seemed more than enough rest for young Fox. He eased his right
hand out of his pocket at half speed, careful of the small needle.
He got up and tapped the needle into the iv line, gently pressing the plunger down.
~~~~~~~
...I just want to touch you a little. I just want to caress you a little. I just want to kiss you
a little--your lips, your throat. I just want to embrace you a little. I just want to comfort you a
little. I just want to hold you tight!--like this. I just want to measure your skeleton with my arms.
These are strong healthy arms, aren't they? I just want to poke my tongue in your ear. Don't
giggle! Don't squirm! This is serious! This is the real thing. I just want to suck you a little. I just
want to press into you a little. I just want to penetrate you a little. It won't hurt if you don't
scream but you'll be hurt if you keep straining away like that, if you exaggerate. Thank you, I just
want to squeeze you a little. I just want to feel my weight against your bones a little. I just want
to
bite a little. I just want a taste of it. Your saliva, your blood. Just a taste. A little. You've plenty to
spare. You're being selfish You're being ridiculous. You're being cruel. You're being unfair.
You're hysterical. You're hyperventilating. You're provoking me. You're laughing at me....."
~~~~~~~
He half-opened his eyes lazily.
It hurt to open his eyes.
There was a glare coming from the window.
He turned his face away.
That hurt too.
His head sank back deeply into warm cotton. Felt the constricting leather that restrained his
body. The brown straps that encircled his ankles and wrists were tight. They laid lifeless with an
occasional twitch. The uncuffed limbs were slick and sticky with sweat. The sheets under him
clung to his back and were uncomfortably hot. It was stifling, so much so that it was hard to
breath. It felt like he was on fire, burning.
<This is your fault. You deserve to burn.>
A drop of sweat arched over his brow and down the side of his face as his eyes lay closed
towards
the ceiling.
<The flames are everywhere. Nowhere to hide. You're going to die.>
He licked his shriveled lips and inhaled involuntarily. Torrid. The air was deaden. No life. It just
sat there smugly.
<He said Samantha wanted to talk... and you believed him?>
Movement made it worse. Made it grow unbearable.
<I'm sorry Scully. I wanted to keep you safe.>
He arched against leather and was punished.
<Scully.>
His body was set ablaze. The sweltering heat encroached upon his senses and encompassed him.
<Sculleeee!>
More black burnt flesh. He had smelled it before, but this time it was his own.
A light touch brought him back to reality.
Something cold and calloused brushed across his cheek, for the moment he was lost in paradise.
He offered a soft groan of complaint as the frigid touch left his flushed skin. It made another
pass,
this time over the inside of his elbow where it caught and pulled on something that pinched and
tugged at his skin. He forced his eyelids open, though it took some time.
The ceiling was adorned with long dark crisscrossing shadows. Above him near his right he
could
make out a small black silhouette against the moonlight. His eyes focused on it and lost
themselves for a moment in the darkness.
A thankful chill ran down his thigh as another touch grazed over one of his bare feet. Intaking a
heavy breath, his eyes diverted from the silhouette back to the ceiling. The sound of swift
activity
and the tread of footfall. Not so much a shuffle but a stroll.
It was him. The drugs couldn't disguise the acrid odor that emanated from his clothes. The room
was disquiet. The silence bothered him. It hurt his ears. Knowing that he was so close agitated
him. His skin itched and ached.
<Say something!>
He wanted to scream and spit in the bastards face.
<Anything.>
He was drenched in sweat. The smell was getting stronger.
<I hate you.>
The bed springs creaked in disapproval as more weight was introduced onto the mattress. It
partially dipped down to his right. Anger and fear welled inside of him. Immediately he snapped
his head back and away as a cold hand was placed on his forehead. He could not and would not
stand it.
"FUCK YOU!" It came out badly slurred.
He strained against the leather, tried tearing at it, anything. The hand found his forehead again
and tried to still him. He yelled nothings at it. At him. He fought harder, pushing and bucking
with
all his strength against the straps that, ultimately, always won.
His back never left the bed more than a half inch.
He felt the prick of tears when he finally gave up and settled back down in exhaustion.
"Fuck you." It was a tired effort, a garbled preamble, and it sounded just that.
"You are burning up." The tone was soft, though not worried. It was a note to be filed for later
use.
He turned his head away but the hand on his forehead ground his head back into the pillow
preventing him. He fought it, straining his neck trying to gain an inch to the left so he wouldn't
have to look into those eyes. Restless and confused thoughts racing through his brain made him
ache.
"No more drugs." His nerves were on fire as he spoke desultorily.
The fingers in his pocket rubbed and scraped against rigid plastic teasingly. He smiled contritely.
He pulled out the small exacto knife from his pocket and slowly slid the button upward, raising
the slightly dull blade. He waved it casually in front of him.
"See this?" As if he had a choice in the matter.
Mulder didn't reply as he saw the blade disappear out of his crippled eye line.
Cancerman ran the unsharpened side of the blade quickly down the carotid artery of Mulder's
neck. Then slowed his pace as he ran it over a now unmoving chest. He leaned down close to a
face that was trying hard not to show its fear.
He had not given Mulder the drug that "helped" him remember incidents of the past. He wanted
Mulder, the adult, to remember this.
Clearly.
And who had done it to him.
Mulder felt the blade carve over his chest.
He turned the blade with a flick of the wrist and lightly slid it down and over each rib that stuck
out distinctively beneath Mulder's shirt. <He hasn't been taking very good care of himself.>
He held his breath as the blade began dancing over his belly. It swayed and shifted to an
impossible tune he could not hear. The blade was pushed deeper into his stomach and he
screwed
his eyes shut. No pain..not yet, just fear. He was not going to breakdown. He kept telling himself
this.
<It wouldn't be this easy. It couldn't be.>
The blade convinced him otherwise as it snuck up beneath his shirt and sunk into flesh above the
hip bone. Instantly he jerked away from the pain but the restraints held and sent him back into
the
blade. It plunged further and started rotating inside the laceration.
He bit down on a scream as it began hollowing out the wound. Lines of torment became
pronounced around his face. Further and further it dug into him until he finally cried out. The
anguished shriek echoed throughout the house. Tears were squeezed through closed eyelids and
rolled down the sides of his cheeks.
Cancerman pulled the blade out slowly, intentionally scraping the sides of the small gaping
wound. It wasn't serious but it probably felt that way.
He brought the blade back to Mulder's chest and wiped the blade clean on a leather strap. He
leaned close to Mulder's cheek and licked away a salty tear.
Mulder grimaced, eyes still firmly shut.
He whispered in Mulder's ear. "I've watched you for a long time..."
"...dreamed about this day..."
"..we have plans for you..."
The voice became dreamy. "Oh Fox...this is only the beginning."
He licked another tear away as he lowered his hand that held the exacto knife down to Mulder's
stomach. It fell to the waistband of his jeans that hung loosely on narrow hips.
The blade began to nick and fumble with the top button before drawing a line down between his
groin and the femoral artery of his thigh. It swayed between the two for a moment.
A tiny whimper escaped from between his quivering lips.
The blade groped it's way back up to the waistband and dipped under his underwear and jeans.
It was cold against his bare skin and he thought it soothing for a split second. It kind of tickled.
Mulder tried not to pay attention or move. His body was exhausted from holding a still tensed
posture. He thought of someplace else and let his mind drift away from this.
A sharp, crystal-clear pain halted his escape and sent him reeling. He screamed involuntarily
from
shock. The knife lay imbedded in the soft tissue of his upper thigh next to his sex.
"Are you still with me?"
He didn't say anything.
Couldn't.
If he opened his mouth he knew it would all come tumbling out.
It bore down deeper, inching its way into his inner thigh.
Hot rivulets of blood began to trickle down his side and back towards his groin where it pooled.
He let out a low agonizing moan. Then offered a silent plea up to whatever deity might be
watching, in the form of a sob.
It probed further into his leg sawing and slicing away slowly.
He roared in pain screaming for something that might have been help.
It found its way outside to two agents exploring the surrounding woods. They froze for a
moment, then continued on with there work, ignoring the desperate cries coming from inside.
The blade was slowly lifted from inside of him and away from torn flesh. It shifted and slipped
under his penis hovering over his testicles. The blade rotated to its razored edge and raised a
millimeter, lifting his organ.
Mulder clenched his jaw tighter and quieted down a bit.
"Don't make me ask you again."
The acute edge began caressing the head of his penis, back and forth, back and forth, each time
raking harder into tender flesh.
He responded with a strangled, "Yes...I...I'm..." But lost his voice when he tried to say more.
He felt the knife retract itself away from him. Then eager fingers unbuttoning his jeans with
consummate skill, wrenching down his pants along with his underwear.
He hollered and thrashed violently away from the zealous touch of earnest fingers as they
massaged and rubbed.
In response, a finger crept up along his side and gouged itself into the wound above his hip as a
rigid hand was clamped over his mouth.
"Settle down, boy."
Panic filled his eyes. He couldn't breath.
The unwelcome finger slid further into the gash. Its fingernail tunneling and ripping further
inside
of his body. His face contorted and his body convulsed in agony as he unleashed a guttural shriek
into the smothering hand.
"Sshhh." It was calm and cool.
He blinked away tears and arched against the finger still drawing circles in him.
"Fox!"
He slumped back to the mattress. His body giving up. Breathless and spent. Everything about
him
felt heavy.
The finger festered for a moment then was pulled out the wound.
The hands and fingers returned to his groin. They began entangling themselves, busily touching
and fondling him. Always kneading and creeping along, up and down his length. Occasionally,
he
would cry out when they brushed the deep slit on his thigh, but he mostly stayed quiet, hoping
they would forget about him. He was actually glad when a man came into the room and stuck
another needle into his bruised arm.
He drifted away to a place where they couldn't find or touch him.
~~~~~~~
Mulder limped drunkenly with his hands cuffed behind his back, book ended by two muscular
agents on either side of him. His vision wavered as he struggled with each step, grimacing while
carefully putting one foot in front of the other slowly.
The dried blood on and around his groin and penis had turned a dark rusty brown, pulling and
cracking with each step. A cold chill in the hallway snaked up his fully exposed body, forcing
his
back into rigidity.
He had awoken naked, coated in a thick layer of blood and semen from the waste down. As soon
as he had opened his eyes, two men had grabbed and cuffed him and were now forcing him to
take a stroll down the upstairs hallway.
They stopped at the bathroom door, turned, and entered.
Moore looked up from beside the toilet and motioned for the two agents to bring him forward.
Mulder caught his reflection in the mirror, closed his eyes and lowered his head. The word
emaciated came to his mind. Both eyes had dark circles under them and his face was badly
bruised
and sunken. Chin on his chest, he opened his eyes again to find exactly what he had not wanted
to
see. There was so much blood. Both wounds had been taken care of but no other effort to clean
up the rest of him had been made. He closed his eyes and took a quick breath, his mind quickly
flashing on the events of last night. His stomach churned with the urge and intent to vomit.
A finger sternly raised his chin.
"Open your eyes."
He hesitated and felt one of the agents hands slip down to his groin near the cut on his thigh. He
opened them immediately but the hand stayed, tracing around to the curve of his back.
"How do you feel?"
He opened his mouth partially and whispered a smart ass reply but found his mind and body
concentrating in horror on the hand that was now sweeping across his backside.
A hand shot up and snatched a fistful of hair, dragging his head forward while the rest of him
was
tightly held in place. Moore was in his face, staring coldly.
"Don't fuck with me. I asked you how you felt."
The hand on his ass was now trailing a course finger deliberately down between his crack.
His voice rose slightly as he uttered, "Sick."
Moore abruptly let go of his hair. He grabbed a small Dixie cup and placed it below Mulder's
penis.
"Piss into this."
Mulder swallowed hard. "Why?"
"We can do this two ways, you can piss on your own or I can take the urine sample myself.
It's your choice."
Mulder licked his lips and shifted his eyes around the room.
The cruel finger at his back wormed its way forward into his anus, tickling inside of him. He
groaned, lunging away wildly. The finger inside of him pulled out as he shoved and kicked away
from the thick meaty hands that held him like a vice.
A spry hand shot into his stomach. Then a sweeping knee found it's target and slammed into his
privates, seizing the fight out of him.
He slumped forward hanging by his arms, head bowed in pain, moaning as he sucked in a breath.
He was yanked back to a standing position by his hair till he stood on the balls of his feet with
his
back arched as far as it would go. All he could see was the ceiling.
It was spinning.
"Fine."
Moore placed the cup back on the sink and slipped his hands into a pair of rubber surgical
gloves.
Then reached for the catheter on top of the toilet.
"Hold him steady."
The thick hands holding him grew more insistent. He backed away into the two agents holding
him as he heard Moore approach, somewhat thankfully, unable to see what was going on.
Moore held up a long thin flexible tube that looked like a thin silver needle and ran it down
Mulder's chest for effect.
Mulder's breath became rapid as he strained to see below him.
"No."
Moore bent down and swabbed the end of the needle like instrument with cotton. Then lifted the
foreskin of Mulder's penis and placed the tube at the beginning of the urethra.
"Please." His voice was unstable and ready to break at any moment. All he could think about
were
those molesting hands.
Moore held the head of Mulder's penis still with his left thumb and index finger and inserted the
catheter. He stuck it in hard, wiggling it in small circles as it gradually disappeared up
Mulder's length..
He wouldn't have been able to move even if he wanted to. Biting pain ripped at his bowls as he
felt every grim inch of the tormenting tube slip inside of him. His groin was on fire. It lanced up
his belly. His lower half throbbed against the fingers that held it still.
He shouted in a last effort. "No... Don't. Pleeese. I'll...."
Mulder tensed as he felt the sky fall and the world quickly dimmed as it came crashing down.
Moore smiled at the purplish urine flowing down steadily into the plastic bag attached to the end
of the catheter.
~~~~~~~
When you are in pain and the pain is in you, you are without language and no one can pursue
you into that country for you are the pain and no one remains and even the curvature of the earth
and the slow dreamlike floating fall of the moon through the sky and the myriad constellations of
the great sky have disappeared. When you are in pain the mirror's lead backing has dissolved so,
for once, you must gaze into nothing....When the pain is.
~~~~~~
Raw.
Bruised.
Bloody.
Infected.
Encased in shiny metal.
Hazel was wrapped in stony silence to cover the wicked pain. They would not venture further
than his shackled wrists. The blood on his finger tips was moist. Even under his nails. He had
long
since stopped trying to yank and rip away from the pipe. A loud crack from behind startled him,
but his eyes never wavered.
Naked, crouching against the pipe that held his shackled hands, bare feet flat on the floor,
shoulders pulled up around his ears.
The soft roar to his left was not nice. The warmth that licked up and down his exposed backside
was not soothing. The drug that coursed through his veins was not comforting.
And everything was not going to be just fine.
Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
<truth.> It just didn't have that certain ring to it anymore.
Laboring breaths tried not to finalize the inevitable. He was not here.
This was not happening.....this was not going to happen. It would not happen. It would not come.
It would not. It. No. Never.
It lied.
Rocking on the balls of his feet. It would be nice. It would soothe. It would comfort.
Back and forth, to and fro, back and forth, to and fro.
He sensed the shadows at his back. They rattled off harsh whispers. Stopped. Continued.
Stopped. They were gone. Never there. Never?