8/11,000 Virgins
Title - 8/11,000 Virgins
Author - Lady Disdain
E-mail - The_Lady_Disdain@mailcity.com
Rating - R
Summary - There are eight girls dead and two she
could not kill. One FBI agent has been attacked. How
did this happen?
Award - "8/11,000 Virgins" took second for The Church
Of X August Fanfic Challenge.
Spoilers - Direct spoilers for Requiem and Emily.
There are some allusions to Orison and The Host.
Distribution - Gossamer and Ephemeral are dandy. For
others just ask me first.
Category - uh...stalkerfic? Other POV.
Disclaimer - Fox and 1013 productions may own them
but the fanfic authors give these characters more
depth and feeling than CC could ever dream of.
Dorky Notes - I'm *so excited* this is the *longest*
work I've ever written! It took a whole month!
(...instead of an evening...hehe ;-) This was written
for the August Fanfic Challenge from the Church Of X.
(a.k.a. Blasphemer's HQ...hehe) Many thanks to the
High Priestess and Snark for having the Challenge
because I think its neat-o.
Thanks - To my betas, Jen, Lilith, Jewel and
Julieanne, for being anal retentive about grammar
because I can't be. To my buddy T for actually
believing that I could make this deadline.
Other - School and soccer is picking up but I
promise, I'll read and write when I can.
DEDICATION - To my fifth grade English teacher, Mrs.
Cooper, who died last night. I don't think you can
ever measure the impact you had on your student's
lives.
-----------------------------
8/11,000 Virgins by Lady Disdain
<The_Lady_Disdain@mailcity.com>
June 20, 2000
"Ms. Knoll, we want some answers!" The bad cop puts
his fist down on the shabby wood table to punctuate
that last word. His fingers are short and chubby,
like the rest of him. Over the past half an hour or
so I have cataloged all of his imperfections, from
the thinning of his gray hair to his small girly
feet.
I haven't really answered any of their questions and
his patience is beginning to run out. He looks at me
with eyes made of ice daring me to ignore him. I
avoid his cold eyes and stare at the wall to the
right of him.
The good cop kneels down next to me and takes my
hands into his. His hands are warm and comforting.
They block my hands from the icy blast of the air
conditioning vent that I'm sure was strategically
placed directly above the interview chair.
He has his part down pat. All during the questioning
the golly-gee look remained on his face. Good cop has
been trying to win my trust by running nervous
fingers through his hair and frowning at the bad cop
whenever he loses his temper. I know he reminds me of
someone though I can't remember whom.
He looks up into my eyes and I into his. On his big
blue eyes I see my tired and haggard frame. But I'm
not going to let them win. It's all her fault. What I
did was righteous, they just can't and won't
understand.
His voice is soft; it's almost a whisper. "Karen,
out of nowhere, you attacked a Federal agent in her
home." He rubs my hands with his, like he's a boy
scout trying to make a fire. "During the attack
you confessed to killing several girls. We just want
to understand what's going on."
I turn my head and stare back at the cracked
concrete wall; I have a gift for noticing all of
life's imperfections. The crack started out simply
enough, a little rivet in the top of the wall. Slowly
time wore away at it, urging it on until it branched
out dividing the wall into inummerabal sections.
The bad cop face slowly turns redder, "Damn it,
Fielder, *stop* babying her. I'm tired of your crap.
She doesn't deserve this. Back off!" He pushes the
good cop aside and my hands are instantly cold.
Bad cop gets right up into my face, his warm breath
heaving at me like the flame of a dragon. "You killed
little girls too, didn't you? You took them away from
their families, all frightened and scared and you
*hurt* them, didn't you?" He grabs my arms, "DIDN"T
YOU?"
I tear my eyes away from the cracks on the wall and
look at the good cop standing in the corner. In a
calm voice I give him my answer, "The great ones
never die."
"What the *hell* does that mean?!" Bad cop spits in
my face as he speaks but I do not flinch.
I look into bad cop's eyes and see the years build
up. Years of taking the stress caused by people in
this very chair. I think I'll add another wrinkle.
I slowly tilt my head towards the two-way mirror
where I know she stands. I speak in a matter of fact
tone.
"She knows."
The bad cop shakes his head in disgust and stands
up; his knees cracking as he does so. Both cops put
on their jackets and then walk out the door.
The air conditioning blasts overhead making bumps on
my skin rise. I cross my arms across my chest in a
futile attempt to stay warm.
Cracks on a wall have never been more fascinating.
*****************************************************
Journal Entry: November 17, 1999
I saw another one today. The world seemed to pause
as I saw her pink little lips move and her eyebrow
arch. The sight of her stopped my breath. She was
standing by the ticket counter politely asking her
mother if she could have a candy bar. My mind swirled
with a thousand impossible questions and a thousand
unlikely answers, none quite fitting. It was her, the
true child, but it wasn't. I don't understand how
but...it was another one. Dana would have to know,
wouldn't she?
*****************************************************
July 14, 1991
"I suppose it would be all too Freudian to blame all
of this on my mother?" I turn my head and smile at my
psychiatrist, Frank, to no avail. His worn face
remains chiseled in stone. But I guess you can't
expect someone who listens to other people's problems
all day to be constantly cheery. But he could at
least crack the occasional smile though.
I continue with my monologue, "...anyway, at the end
of sixth grade my mom got the bright idea to send me
to an all-girls Catholic school. Get me to be a
better student, right? Wrong. I was always a bad
student, and would always be one.
"I think that if I had been born a decade earlier
there would have been a chance for me to be happy.
Y'know, the reign of the perfect ten? Well by the
time I got to school the ideal had changed. Bye-bye
girls with hips and a stomach. Hell-o tall leggy
chicks whose only fat was in their boobs." I acted
out my greetings by making waving motions; to Frank's
credit he wasn't looking at me like I was a nut. It
was only because he was making a note on his little
notepad but he still gets credit.
"So I entered St. Ursula's Academy not even 5 feet
tall with short stubby legs, huge hips, and no chest.
Things were only made worse by the ridiculous
uniforms we had to wear. To this day I still *hate*
plaid. Before, I might have actually talked to a
guy...
"As a defense or something I started to like fixate
on girls in my class." Frank arches his eyebrow and
scribbles something on his little yellow note pad.
I stumble in my words and try to make my meaning
clear. "Not like a lesbian crush or anything. No, not
like that at all...Just...Ok, in seventh grade in
there was this girl named Amy. She was the exact
opposite of me. Beautiful, tall, blonde haired and
blue eyed. Y'know, they say women notice breasts more
than men?" Frank just looks at me and the light
coming from the window behind him almost makes him
glow. It also makes me have to squint when I look at
him.
"I'm serious. Well, there was no way you could *not*
notice Amy's rack...
"Anyway, she was already dating guys, like, two
grade levels above us. And they were *hot*! I so
totally admired her. But then..." I trailed off and
started staring at the bookcase to left of the couch.
Frank perked up, "But then?"
I sigh at the sad memory. "But...then in the last
week of school I realized she was far from perfect.
"Ok picture this, I'm sitting out the side entrance
waiting for my mom to pick me up and what luck, Amy
and two of her cronies walk out. Amy looks *pissed*.
"She sits down with her back up against the wall,
feet flat on the ground, knees up. The whole world
could see her underwear. She gets out a pack of
cigarettes and lights one. We're not even in 8th
grade yet and she's already a chain smoker.
"So she starts, like, bitching to her two friends
about how what a whore this Lucy girl is. She goes on
for like fifteen minutes on all of the terrible
things Lucy has said about her. And then she said
something I'll never forget.
'I don't care what that bitch thinks about me.'
"It was ridiculous, she had just talked for fifteen
minutes straight about Lucy and she's trying to say
she doesn't care?
"It was then that I realized what Amy truly was, a
dumb shallow little girl who was starved for
attention who tried to fill up her emptiness with
guys.
"That made my next victim Nancy, the top of the
class. Ms. 4.0 average. I idolized her all throughout
the eighth grade.
"But on the first day of English class freshman
year this old teacher goes on a rant about 'how just
because your an A student doesn't mean your an A
person' and vice-versa. Nancy freakin' breaks down.
She starts *bawling*.
"I think at that same moment we both realized that
she lived solely to prove herself in her schoolwork.
What a shame.
"By that time I was doing a little better in school,
not much, but it was something.
"The Biology teacher was *impossible*, at the end of
every test there was an essay question and he always
read the best out of the class aloud. That entire
year he *never* read one my essays.
"After grading our third test of the year he starts
reading this essay about cellular mitosis and I swear
it was the *most* elegant thing I've ever heard. The
vocabulary was astounding, every point was so
well-organized it was amazing.
"So he starts walking out from behind his desk to
give this essay back to the author. I knew it wasn't
going to be Nancy because after the English class
incident she started hanging out with Amy. I was
guessing Sarah. But instead he walks all the way to
the back of the room and gives it to this girl
sitting in the corner.
"I have never seen anyone so beautiful as that girl.
She had an untraditional kind of beauty. Ok, she did
have legs and boobs but she was *short*, like *me*.
She had freckles and bright *red-hair* and braces.
And she was gorgeous. An angel.
"I'll never forget her name, Dana Scully. Don't you
think that's a wonderful name?"
The mass of light known as Frank takes that as a
rhetorical question and doesn't answer me, so I
continue.
"Over the next couple months I learned more and more
about her. She had an older sister who was a grade
above her at St. Ursula's, her dad was in the Navy. I
knew she was Catholic because she always wore that
cross and actually behaved in Church without being a
goody-goody. She was a *great* at field hockey, a
real team player, y'no? She was really good at
softball too, she broke a school record for the most
homeruns that year.
"She also won the essay contest. Her paper was about
St. Ursula, I still have a copy of it. The school
paper published it.
"One time I actually got to go to her *house*. It
was wonderful. Her mom was the *sweetest* woman I
have ever met. Her older brother was *hot*. We
studied for Math together in the living room. She
explained everything to me. She taught me how to do
my work quickly and neatly. I got an A on that test.
"I remember in the living room on the mantle there
was this picture of Dana and her older sister. They
were about five or so. They were adorable with
strawberry-blonde hair and little freckles across
their cute little noses. Both of them were beaming at
the camera. It was a perfect moment featuring two
perfect little girls..." I stared up at the ceiling,
smiling as I remembered that photograph.
"And?" Frank is looking at me with his fingers
laced, he holds the pen between his thumb and
forefinger expectantly.
"And what?" I ask, not exactly sure what he wants.
"Well what did this Dana person do to show you she
was fallible?"
"Nothing, she moved away suddenly after Christmas
break. I never saw her again."
I turn my head to look at Frank through his
glasses. The couch makes squeaky noises as I shift.
I squint at him trying to meet his eyes, "Y'know,
she
really was perfect."
Despite all of his professionalism Frank's face
actually changes at this revelation. His brow furrows
as he scribbles something on his notepad.
From there he goes on to talk in a soft voice about
how my need for perfection put stress on my marriage.
The whole time I just stare upwards remembering that
picture.
*****************************************************
Journal Entry: March 16, 1992
SHE DIDN'T DERSEVE TO LIVE!!! SHE DIDN'T DESERVE TO
BREATH THE SAME AIR AS *HER*!!! SHE MADE ME SO MAD
ACTING ALL FRIGHTENED AND SCARED! THAT LITTLE MONSTER
WAS TRYING TO BE LIKE *HER*! *NOBODY* CAN BE LIKE
*HER*!
SO I TOOK MY GUN AND PUT IT INBETWEEN HER BLUE
LITTLE EYES BRUSHING AGAINST HER RED BANGS AND PULLED
THE FUCKING TRIGGER!
...she had it coming.
*****************************************************
St. Ursula Academy School Newspaper: November 11,
1969
It is the St. Ursula Academy Newspaper's pleasure to
reprint this year's essay contest winner.
"11,000 Virgins"
by Dana Scully
The legend of St. Ursula is an inspiration for all
young women.
Although over the years the number of martyrs has
increased from the original eight to eleven thousand
I believe the message is still clear.
Sometime in the fourth century a British Christian
king unwillingly betrothed his daughter, Ursula, to a
pagan prince. Ursula was allowed to delay her
marriage to go on a pilgrimage. Her true intention
was to remain a virgin and dedicate herself to God.
She sailed for three years and made her pilgrimage to
Rome. On their return they stopped in Cologne. Ursula
and her companions were martyred by the Huns after
Ursula refused to marry their chief.
St. Ursula's sacrifice is an inspiration because it
shows the wonderful impact faith and perseverance can
have on someone's life.
*****************************************************
Journal Entry: June 3, 1981
I watched him all night as I sat at my desk by my
window. I probably would have never noticed had the
dog not barked at something. I pushed the drapes back
to see what it was and after not finding anything on
the ground my eyes looked up and into his window.
Our windows both look out into our back yards and our
back yards are parallel. Must be fate.
I sat there as he talked on the phone for hours. His
tall lanky body paced back and forth as he ran
fingers through his sandy blonde hair, his blinds
split him up into sections.
Later he got out a guitar and played a couple songs
for whoever he was talking to. I wish I could've
heard him, been the person on the other line. I would
listen for as long as he would talk.
*****************************************************
August 29, 1995
I'd already killed three of them. Three little
imposters with their red hair and blue eyes. Only I
saw through their facade, or dared to. Three
kidnappings, three gunshots to the head, three
different states, three different abandoned
buildings, three different unregistered guns, in
three years there are three less monsters. I'm
protecting her and everyone from them.
*****************************************************
911 Emergency Phone Recording: February 27, 2000
"911, what is your emergency?"
"YOU HAVE TO HELP HER!"
"Who m'am, who do I have to help?"
"HE'S HURTING HER!"
"M'am, please remain calm. Please identify these
people."
"OH GOD HELP HER, SHE'S AT 35-3170 W. 53 Road,
HURRY!"
*****************************************************
Journal Entry: July 24, 1982
I sat on the deck for two hours tonight, debating. I
wanted to see if he was there. His parents must be
divorced because I only see him every once in awhile
but I can't figure out the pattern. I didn't see his
light on and I wanted to know if I should stay up to
watch.
I wanted to run across our backyards and see if his
car was parked in the street. It is a red Ford with
the license plate number 837 TEJ parked in front of
138 Windmire Lane. But to do that I would have to run
the risk of being seen and mistaken for a cat burglar
or something. Somebody could call the cops. The
neighbor's German Shepard might chase me. Or in the
blackness I could miss a mole hole and twist my
ankle.
Above everything else, it would be crossing a line.
So I sat on the deck steps for two hours looking at
the stars, the trees and his darkened window
wondering what I was going to do.
Finally at two a.m. I began to walk down the creaky
wooden steps. The night air was warm and seemed to
stick to my arms. Once my feet touched the soft grass
I bolted down the hill with my arms and legs flailing
through the air to the yard below.
I felt free.
*****************************************************
August 12, 1992
I saw her today in the airport. Krysti was
whispering to me about one of the stewards when *she*
walked by. She was so beautiful dressed in business
clothes her small hands clutching a briefcase.
She had a cell-phone up to her ear and was talking
as quickly as she walked.
I told Krysti I had to go and didn't wait for her
bewildered response. I walked slowly behind her as I
held my breath. I never got very close to her. It
was as though she was a candle in the dark and if I
approached too quickly my movement would cause her to
die out.
But then she made a turn into the concord area and I
lost her in the crowd. Not even her beautiful hair
could direct me to her. She's perfect, I'm surprised
there weren't wings coming out of her back.
*****************************************************
January 5, 1999
Something amazing happened today. I thought I had
another imposter in my hands. Surely she couldn't be
anything but? She was picture perfect. She was
exactly Dana and she had to be stopped.
I had everything ready. It was going to be quick and
neat just like all the others. A warehouse, a chair,
a piece of rope and a gun. But then something
happened that has never happened before. My aim was
actually off, I don't know how but I think the girl
made me do it. I barely skimmed her left shoulder.
Oh God, her blood. It was green and made my eyes
burn. I blindly turned and ran pushing open the huge
metal doors welcoming the cool air. I threw the gun
away in a nearby dumpster as tears streamed down my
face. When I returned later that night the chair was
empty the rope untied. She had fled.
I am not afraid. I know she will keep my secret just
as I will keep hers.
She was the real thing.
*****************************************************
Journal Entry: October 17, 1983
I can't believe it. He's gone; he gone. Cars were
lined up in front of his house. There was people
dressed in black, people dressed for a wake.
I hadn't seen him in a while but I had found out
his name was Michael. I had almost forgotten
completely about him. Of course every time I walked
the dog I checked for his car but...it was never
there. I just figured he went to live with his dad, I
guess.
But he didn't. He was in the hospital instead. He
had Lukemia...and he died. Michael was so perfect and
he was taken away from me.
*****************************************************
March 13, 1999
Just another day, just another flight. I have to
look at the board behind me to remember where we're
flying to. Cleveland.
"Flight number 520, direct service from Washington
to Cleveland is now boarding rows 35-30. I repeat,
flight number 520, direct service from Washington to
Cleveland is now boarding rows 35-30."
I let Natalie take over the ticket taking and get on
the plane.
I walk up the aisle and make sure everybody
has on their seatbelts. At the end of the plane Mike
pulls me aside to tell me about the problems he's
having with Rachel. I pretend to listen as I stare at
my nails. The sight of chipped red polish makes me
grimace. I'll take care of it after we land.
"Flight attendants please secure the cabin for take
off."
I lock the exits and after Natalie finished with
the safety demonstration she complains to me about
two passengers barging in late. She also tells me she
has a headache and asks if I can do the cart today.
I don't mind pushing the little cart and serving the
refreshments. Its times like that that my small size
is actually useful.
I frown as I hand one of the first class people
his champagne, on one of my first flights as a
stewardess a man got drunk and started screaming at
the flight attendants after we refused to give him
more alcohol.
Coach is almost full, with five people to a row and
twenty-five rows it looks like I've got my work cut
out for me. I try to be efficient, I fill A, B, and
C's cups and then ask D and E what they want.
Over the years all of the planes have started to
look the same. The ugly chair designs, the tiny
aisles, the overloaded overhead compartments never
change. Only the people do. I find that comforting.
When I first became a flight attendant seven years
ago serving the drinks was a challenge. I now know
its all in the wrists and ankles. Plant ankles, pop
the soda top, pour, hand drinks, repeat four more
times and then push cart up another row. If you do it
right its very quick and neat. My work certainly
isn't brain surgery.
"Sir?"
The man does not look up from his papers. I clear my
throat to speak louder, "Sir?"
I finally get a reaction; he tears his eyes away
from the file he was reading. I find myself staring
into his haunted hazel eyes.
"Sir, you'll need to move your leg out of the aisle
so the drink cart can get through."
He apologizes quickly and tucks his leg in, his
knees now touch the underside of the tray table. He
looks like a teacher sitting in a kindergartner's
chair. He immediately disappears back into whatever
he's reading, I'll have go through that whole ordeal
again just to ask him what he wants to drink.
21 A wants a Coke, 21 B a Sprite, and the
toddler in 21 C wants a juice box. My ankles pop as
I search the lower compartments of the drink tray for
the juice boxes I *know* we have somewhere. Finally I
spot the elusive grape juice in the back of the tray.
With a sigh I stand up ignoring my back's protests.
The little black haired girl's smile makes it all
worth it though.
Here we go again, "Sir?" I tap his arm in a futile
attempt to get his attention.
Natalie's headache must be contagious. I bet this
guy was the one of the ones who barged in late.
"Sir?"
As he lifts his head up I find myself once again
under his spell. His eyes almost seem green now. He
may be self-involved but there's something about
those eyes.
"What would you like to drink?"
"Oh, um, I'll have a Pepsi." He says absently.
"All we have is Coke, sir."
"Coke's fine."
I pour 3/4 of the can into a cup and give him his
drink and start to push the cart forward.
I feel a tap on my waist and as I turn around I hear
a woman's hushed voice: "Mulder, its fine, really."
*He's* the one that poked me and he speaks up in an
innocent voice, "M'am, you forgot to ask her what she
wants to drink."
The man is now leaning back and pointing and the
woman sitting next to him previously hidden by his
large frame.
"Oh I'm sorry, what would you--" I stop as the woman
turns to look at me, light coming from the open
window refracting off of her gold cross necklace and
igniting her red hair. I stare into her crystal blue
eyes feeling my knees go weak.
"Ohmygod, Dana?"
She arches a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at me, "How
do you--"
I grip the cart handle to keep her from noticing my
shaking hands, "Its me, Karen, Karen Knoll. I went to
St. Ursula's with you."
A pause and the a glimmer of recognition flickers
across her perfect face, "I remember you." She smiles
at me. *She* smiles at *me*.
Not wanting the conversation to end I think of
*something* to say, "So what are you doing?" As soon
as those words come out of my mouth I realize how
dumb they sound.
"I work for the FBI. We're on a case in
Cleveland. This is my partner, Mulder." Her voice is
so perfectly pitched, its a wonder she could never
sing.
The lanky man smiles at me and shakes my hand. An
awkward moment passes and I realize I still have a
job to do. I ask her want she would like to drink and
hand her her bottle of water.
I must be grinning like an idiot, "It so nice to see
you again, we should keep in touch."
I feel so blessed as she smiles back at me, "Yes,
yes we should." The passengers of row 22 are starting
to look impatient. I reluctantly push the cart
forward.
*****************************************************
Scanner Transmission: March 6, 2000
"Hello?"
"Hey Scully, its me."
"Hi Mulder."
"Watchya doin'?"
"I'm baking a cake for my godson. Its his birthday
tomorrow."
"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you while
you're busy..."
"No, its all right. The cakes in the oven, you've
got awhile."
"Ok good."
"...Mulder, what are you watching?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me, I know what you're watching and I
think its horrible."
"So what do you think I'm watching by myself on a
Friday night?"
"...Beyond Belief."
"I'm stunned, how'd you know?"
"I'd recognize Jonathon Frake's voice anywhere."
"I never knew you were a Trekkie."
"Actually we prefer the name Trekker and yes I did
watch it all the way through college."
"What made you stop?"
"Life, I guess. You give up one obsession for
another...But stop trying to get me off track. Beyond
Belief is a terrible show. They claim to present
actual events yet they give absolutely no evidence to
back it up. It's misleading."
"...I bet you had a thing for bald men growing up."
"MULDER!"
"Wait till I tell Skinner."
"Ew, I'm not even going to dignify that comment."
"C'mon, you get Skinner and I get his secretary. We
can double date."
"Now you're just being absurd."
"Hey absurdity signs the paycheck."
"I'm well aware of that, Mulder. I'll forever check
for Flukemen before I take a shower."
"What are you eating?"
"...Nothing."
"No, tell me."
"Fine. I'm eating a popcorn ricecake."
"Gross. I don't understand how you can eat that
crap."
"I could say the same about you."
"At least my food tastes good."
"Hey, so does mine."
"...like munching on freakin' air..."
"Did you say something?"
"...No, probably just the TV."
"Probably."
"What's that beeping noise?"
"The timer. Cake's done. I've gotta go Mulder."
"All right. Talk to you later. Bye."
"Bye."
*****************************************************
Journal Entry: August 24, 1999
Alls quiet on the D.C. front, she's been gone for
the past couple weeks. From the frantic call she made
to a very bored travel agent I think she left for
Africa (of all places) and that even she doesn't know
when she will be back. There's something wrong with
her partner she called a man (her boss, maybe) to
check on Mulder's condition (not well) I miss her so
much, hearing her voice on the scanner, seeing her
sit at her kitchen table reading the paper, I miss
just watching her walk across the street to her
favorite coffee house (Geena's Java). Of course over
the past three months I've gotten used to her being
suddenly called off on a case or something but this
long absence is like a dull ache. I need her.
*****************************************************
March 21, 2000
He's been staying longer every night. They've gotten
into a routine now. She greets him at the door. He
brings a movie, she makes dinner. They eat at the
table in front of the bay window. I watch as they
talk and laugh. Every week they talk a little bit
longer before drifting out of sight into the living
room. Every night he leaves a little bit later, she
lingers longer while cleaning up the dishes
afterwards.
My body has gone rigid at my post in front of my
living room window. I'm startled when she walks into
the kitchen. I must've missed him leaving. I glance
at the wall clock it ready 2:30 a.m. My eyelids
droop, I'm not really a night person.
Instead of clearing the table she like always does,
she gets out a bottle of wine. She pours herself a
glass, its a dark red that matches her beautiful
hair. She leans against the counter occasionally
taking a sip but mostly staring off lost in thought.
She smiles.
*****************************************************
Cleveland Terminal Computer Screen: March 13, 1999
Welcome to AirAmerica Frequent Flyer Database
Query?: Scully, Dana
***Searching***
Found: 1. Scully, Dana
2. Scully, Bill
3. Scully, Charles
4. Scully, Melissa
5. Scully, Meghan
Press Space Bar For More Selections
Selection?: 1.
***Retrieving Information***
Frequently Flyer Found: Scully, Dana
1. Address
2. Flights
3. Consumer Information
4. Frequent Flyer Miles
Selection?: 1.
35-3170 W. 53 Rd.
Georgetown, D.C.
*****************************************************
June 18, 2000
I listen to the recording again and again; slowly my
disbelief gives way to rage. Like a broken dam it
floods my apartment drowning me in its hateful tears
<howidon'tunderstanditcan'tbetruebutitiswhyelsewoulds
hesaythat>
I have been LIED to. That BITCH that SLUT that WHORE
has lied to me.
I thought I was invincebile, I could see through the
masks of those little imposters, couldn't I? Yet, I
missed the BIGGEST fake of all. HER. I SHOULD HAVE
KNOWN!
I angrily yank the scanner out of the shelf and
throw it to the floor. As it crashes we both break
into a thousand pieces.
I throw myself onto my couch sobbing not because she
is my angel has fallen but because she never was an
angel at all.
She made me think she was this smart pretty little
Catholic girl. I fell for it and thought she was an
image of perfection. And now I've broken through her
mask and found an ugly selfish stupid TEMPTRESS.
I was such an IDIOT to think that those girls were
protected by something DIVINE. I saw them as having
Michael as their guardian angel but now the card has
been flipped and the angel has grown horns. *They*
are evil...like their mother.
I bet she got pregnant with twin girls and gave them
both up. She never gave them a thought again and just
went on her way tricking everyone.
...and now she's pregnant again.
I don't know how I missed the signs. Of course *he*
found out and ran away, that's why she's been looking
for him. Those cryptic calls from her boss and those
other men; it all makes sense now.
For too long I have made sacrifices for the Devil
under false pretenses. One more person will lose
their life...but this time it will be for the right
cause.
*****************************************************
June 19, 2000
It's late and she still hasn't come yet. But when
she does I know she's going to open this window, I
watched her do it so many times.
Sweat sticks to my shirt as I lean against the fire
escape. I try to take deep calming breaths but my
body still shakes.
Finally the building vibrates as she shuts the front
door. In my mind's eye I see her walking through the
kitchen running a hand through her hair and dumping
her briefcase and high heels by the table.
I hear the soft bump of her feet stop by her bedroom
doorframe and the clatter of her gun holster
being set on the dresser. She sighs and her pantsuit
jacket quietly hits the comforter.
My heartbeat quickens as she approaches the window.
She hums a nameless tune while pushing back the
curtains. The window unlocks with a snap and I
scrunch myself as close to the wall I can get my
heart pounding inside my ears. I hold my breath and
she doesn't see me.
From the sound of her footsteps I know she's gone
back into the kitchen. I quickly climb in, kneeling
on the tableau. I hear her pouring water into a pan
and shaking a box of pasta. Using the running water
as a cover sound I scramble onto the floor, it creaks
unexpectedly and swear under my breath as I hide
behind the door.
Her humming stops and I hear her walk toward the
bedroom. The angrier thoughts of two hours of waiting
build of inside me.
I DID SO MUCH FOR HER AND GOT NOTHING BUT LIES IN
RETURN. SHE FOOLED ME FOR SO LONG AND GOT ME TO
PROTECT HER FROM HER RIVALS. SHE HAS TO BE STOPPED.
I clench my fists my nails are digging into my palm.
I bite my lip so as to remain silent, like a bomb.
She walks through the doorway alert but my presence
remains unnoticed like so much of my life. Slowly she
turns to look further to her right.
I see my chance and tackle her throwing all of my
weight on top of her. A yell of some sort escapes
both our lips. Her head nearly misses the edge of the
backboard of her bed. Her nails dig into my forearms
trying to restrain me from hitting and scratching
her.
"YOU TRICKED ME! YOU BITCH YOU TRICKED ME! I KILLED
THEM FOR YOU! YOU MADE ME THINK THOSE GIRLS WERE
EVIL! BUT THEY WEREN'T EVIL, DANA, YOU ARE! YOU AND
YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTERS!"
Before I can say anymore with a cry she knees me in
my stomach and knocks the wind of me. My vision gets
splotchy and with a groan I fall to my left clutching
my abdomen. I close my eyes and remotely hear her get
up and reach for her gun. The word failure rings in
my ears.
I force myself to open my eyes and look at her.
Although she was always taller than I by an inch or
two she now seems huge standing above me. With steady
hands she holds the gun pointed at my heart.
Her lip is cut, her right eye is puffy, her white
blouse is torn and reveals firey red scratch marks
against her pale skin. The lack of blood shows only
how truly futile my efforts were.
For the first time since the beginning of our
struggle she can see my face clearly. I watch as
confusion and astonishment cross her once beautiful
face. Her ice colored eyes go wide and her face gets
impossibly paler. Blood slowly trickles from her
split lip catching in her teeth as she speaks. She
utters one word and only one word.
"Karen."
----------------------------
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