Author notes at end

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Blanket of Dreams
by Piper

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There was a time in my life when I had a security blanket.

It didn't start out as mine -- it was Samantha's. She loved that thing when she was little, and it rarely ever left her side. It wasn't really a spectacular blanket. The light peach wool was fairly threadbare but soft, belying its history of being passed down through the warm, loving hands of generations. It had been a comfort to her from the start. It kept her warm in the cool New England nights, and she huddled with it when she was sick and miserable.

It was the only thing that kept me company in the lonely years after she was taken.

Those first couple of nights following her disappearance, I avoided my parents and they avoided me. They spent a lot of time at the police station and organizing search parties, and I was left to stay at our next door neighbor's house. When my parents brought me home at night, they sent me to my room while they stayed downstairs and argued till early in the morning. Afraid they blamed me for her disappearance, I foolishly thought that if I just stayed out of their way, they would forget that it was my fault.

Their loud voices reverberated through the house at night. I'd lie in bed, covers pulled tightly over me, protecting my ears from the harsh sound. When I finally did fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion, I was haunted by crushing nightmares. Samantha screaming my name was a common one.

Sometimes I dreamt that I would get up in the morning, late for school because Mom forgot to wake me up. But when I went downstairs, the entire house would be empty, all the furniture missing and my parents would be gone forever, punishing me for losing my sister. Then I would go into Samantha's old room, hoping that they at least left her things for me. All that would be there was her blanket lying on the cold, empty bed.

And sometimes, in the more terrible nightmares, They came back for me too.

One night, courage be damned, I went into my parents' room to sleep with them, where I thought I would be safe. My father was nowhere to be found, and my mother lay alone on the bed. As I crept closer to her, the moonlight illuminated her pale skin and the tear tracks on her cheeks. I tried to shake her awake, but she didn't respond. When I tried to slip my hand into hers, an empty medicine bottle greeted me instead.

My eyes stung and I blinked to make out my mother's dark body under the covers of the bed, making sure she was breathing. After confirming the slight movement of her chest, I quietly slipped out of the room.

After that, Samantha's blanket became my companion in the dark, frightening nights. There was something comforting in its softness, in the faint scent of my little sister that still lingered in its threads. Sometimes I could even feel crumbs, remnants from forbidden late-night cookies. I slept with it at night and put it back in her room in the morning. I didn't dare try to go in my parents' bedroom again, and I never mentioned the incident to my mother.

Then one day, my father didn't come home in the evening at his usual time. I waited up for him, way past my bedtime. As she went to bed, she looked at me with an expression of resignation. And deep down, I knew what her eyes told me. Even if she didn't say the words. But with the stubborn denial of a child plugging his fingers in his ears, I refused to believe. Every evening, I waited for the sound of his car pulling up in the driveway, his keys in the door. But he never came.

Waking earlier than usual one morning, something drew me downstairs. I saw him in the front hallway. He was closing a large suitcase, and before the lid shut, I caught a glimpse of a picture of Samantha and me lying on top of his clothes. Our eyes met. I saw his sorrow and the apology that he was making.

As I ran upstairs, I heard the sound of the door shutting behind him.

My mother didn't come home till later that morning, and after fixing me lunch, she retreated to the garden. As the days went by, she grew more and more distant, and I withdrew more and more into myself.

One day when I got home from school, I caught my mother in Samantha's room, packing her things into boxes. I think that's when I knew, really knew, that she wasn't coming back. That my sister was really gone. And all I could do was just stand there and watch my mother pack up eight years of her child's brilliant life into plain cardboard boxes.

I don't know if my mother even noticed that I was there or not. She was lost in her own world, her world of grief over Samantha, a world that she excluded me from and did not allow me to share. When her hands landed on Samantha's blanket, a sob escaped her throat. Probably at the thought that the blanket's legacy was over. The female line had ended. She laid the blanket on top of a box and pushed it all aside, abandoning the lost dreams woven into its threads. Her eyes met mine for a brief instant, and then the contact was gone. I grabbed the blanket and left the room, never saying a word.

After that, I never returned the blanket to Samantha's room again. It remained on my bed during the day and kept me warm at night. If my mother ever noticed its presence in my room, she never commented on it. I slept with that blanket until the day that I was ready to leave for college. And even then, I packed it up and took it with me, although I never slept with it again. It was the only tangible belonging of my sister's that I had, and I kept it with me as a reminder of my loss and to add fuel to my determination to find her. I would not let that blanket get lost in the ruins of my broken family.

To this day, I had not found anything that replaced the comfort of Samantha's blanket -- that got me through the lonely nights the same way. The television is a talkative but cold companion, impersonal and aloof. So I took away the need. I convinced myself that I didn't need the comfort, that I was fine as a lonely, weary soul.

But tonight, my new blanket has proven me wrong.

Despite the difference in height, her warmth covers every inch of me, enveloping me under it. Her hair tickles the bottom of my chin, her head tucked securely underneath it. As my chest rises and falls with every breath, she rises and falls with it. Her arms are wrapped protectively at my sides, shielding me from the terrors of the world even while she sleeps. And my arms are wrapped just as snugly around her, unwilling to let her go.

Looking back, I now know that Samantha's blanket was just a stage of my life. A necessary one to get me through those terrible years, but in the end, just a phase.

Tonight, that blanket has been replaced by Dana Scully. She is not a phase of my life, she *is* my life. And she provides the love and fulfillment that I have always needed.

For the first time in my life, it's not about letting go, it's about holding on.

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The End

Author's Notes: Much, much thanks to my awesome beta readers. Bugs, for putting up with my endless questions on IMs and going over this thing countless times; Shawne, for the late- night sessions; Alcott, for the awesome comments; and Barb, for the never-ending encouragement. Thanks, guys!