TITLE: Mirror Images (1/42)
AUTHOR: Ana Vicente

RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: X
KEYWORDS: None
SUMMARY: Indicated on Mirror Images head page.
SPOILERS: None
TIMELINE: Indicated on Mirror Images head page.

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files trademark, concepts and characters are the property of Twentieth Century Fox Television, 1013 Production and Chris Carter. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVE: Just let me know about it (before hand would be nice:)).
FINISHED: July 20th 2000
APPROXIMATE SIZE: 22K(8 pages)
FEEDBACK: Constructive criticism would be much appreciated, whether or not you liked it. To Thorn17@mailcity.com or alienmoon76@hotmail.com. All flames will be sent to Kaye to light her pipe. 
ICQ: #86468911
WEBPAGE: http://members.tripod.com/Thorn17

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I guess you could say this corresponds to the teaser.

-------*-------

                                       1

The seventeenth of July 1993. For everyone else in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, this was simply another Saturday, the early afternoon meaning nothing but the end of a tiring business week. For Raymond Gurlt, this would be the day when he would lose himself.

He strutted along the business district, glancing at his own reflection in every shop window he passed. He could swear his countenance seemed graver and his eyes had grown older, wiser somehow. He looked at the faces of the strangers going by, wondering if, even by definition not knowing him, they too could perceive the metamorphosis he had undergone.  But how could anyone possibly miss the glow of victory that radiated from his whole being?

With delight, he relived every word spoken, every gesture made during the lunch he was just coming from. He shook his head at his own fears, at the needles of ice that had shot through his veins when he had received the invitation from his boss. In the three years he had been with Olmstead & Wilkins, he had only known it to be one reason for Marshal Hershey to invite one of his subordinates to lunch: the invited party was about to get canned by the inviting party. Hershey's lunches had been dubbed The Last Supper among the company's junior executives.

From the issuing of the invitation on Friday until the time he was supposed to meet Hershey at the restaurant of the Royal Riverside Hotel, Raymond had tortured himself with the most trivial details of everything he had done for the firm in the past six months or so. Once that course was exhausted, he had started going over all the decisions he had made outside the firm. There was nothing he could think of that would justify his being laid off. The reason for that was simple: nothing did.

He smiled ecstatically at the squalid blond woman in red walking one of those toy dogs he had always found annoyingly spoilt and loud. Today, he just felt like picking up the obnoxious little thing and kissing it.

Promoted! Transferred to Philadelphia! He still couldn't believe it. Hershey had waited for the end of the meal, the amused glitter in his eyes showing he had known all along what Raymond had expected of that meeting.

Raymond had floated out of the restaurant. This was more than he had dared hope for. Since his mother had dies, nearly a year ago, he'd been thinking of leaving Sioux Falls. With his mother gone, he had no family left; he had no serious, long-lasting relationships, either. Other than his job at Olmstead & Wilkins, nothing tied him down to this place anymore.

He had stayed on, though, knowing how hard it would be to start from scratch some place else; life wasn't easy for anyone these days. He had stayed on, but there was an aching inside of him, a feeling of being irrevocably trapped. Now, he'd been offered a safe passage through, a safe passage to a new place and a new life. 

This was, therefore, a day to be remembered. From here on, nothing in his life would be the same again. He would never have to go through those streets again, looking at those same buildings, day after day after day.

He was leaving everything behind. He was being given a chance to reinvent himself, to become someone new. Today was the last day of an old life.

Raymond Gurlt strutted along the business district, unaware that he would soon become just another soul lost in an inner crowd.

*

The excitement over his promotion had swept away from his mind the memory of the presence that had haunted him for the past few days. As he was entering the narrower, less-crowded, darker streets that led to his apartment building, the feeling of someone or something watching his every move returned as strong as before.

Maybe he should've taken a taxi. He would be home by now.

He shook off his fear - Stop being an idiot! - No one was following him. Women got stalked, movie stars too. Not junior executives with nothing more to their name than an old car and an even older apartment.

Yet there the sound was, audible only when he was walking, silenced when he stopped and looked behind. He examined the street behind him. Nothing. No one. He was imagining things.

He restarted walking. His ears, sharpened by the instinct of the prey, again picked up the deliberate sound of footsteps following him. Faint enough for him not to be able to pinpoint its exact origin. Frightening enough for it to overwhelm the drone of the cars going by in the distance.

Again he turned. Again he saw nothing but the empty street.

"Hey!" he called out to the shadowy doorways and corners. "Is somebody there?"

There was no reply.                                                       

"Look, I've got no money on me. I'm afraid you chose the wrong guy to pick on. I'm not worth the trouble."

And still the street remained silent.

There was no one there. He was going paranoid. And he had just made a fool of himself yelling at an empty street - shouting at ghosts.

He shook his head, smiling at his own skittishness, and again resumed his way home. But this time, as he was turning around, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape moving from an unlit recess to another.

Raymond swiveled around and bustled towards where he had last spotted movement. He could clearly make out a human form pushing against the wall, trying to blend in with the shadows.

Anger took over. "Stop that. I can see you. Who are you? What do you want? I told you. I have no money on me."

"Oh, I'm not interested in your money, Mr.Gurlt, financial matters seldom influence my choices," a soft slithering voice muttered disdainfully as a man stepped calmly out of the shadows.

"What do you mean *choices*? Who are you? How do you know my name?" Raymond asked, disturbed.

The man was fully visible now. He couldn't be over forty but there was something painfully old and cruel in his gray eyes. He was dressed in a dark gray suit that had clearly been specially tailored for him and his sandy blond hair was neatly combed backwards. Not what Raymond would've expected of a stalker.

The man moved forward. Unwittingly, Raymond took a step back. "I know a lot about you, Raymond. Not all there is to know, but that will soon change."

Now that he could take a closer look at the man, Raymond realized he looked even older than he had first noticed. His skin seemed parched but not from the sun or the salty sea air. It had the unhealthy color and texture of the skin of a mummified cadaver, as if it had been slowly dying from the inside.

And it wasn't just the skin; his flesh also seemed to have dwindled, leaving his facial bones unpleasantly apparent. This was especially noticeable around the eyes, which had probably not been that deep-set before whatever seemed to be consuming the man had taken over.

Raymond was so immersed in his observations, so utterly fascinated with that tattered human being, that the man's next movement took him completely by surprise.

Displaying an astonishing agility, the man pulled something with a metallic gleam from inside his clothes and charged towards him, moving the object in a wide but precise circle in the direction of his face. Raymond felt the pain searing through the left side of his head. Blood started trickling down his face and neck, slowly dousing the thin blue fabric of his shirt.

He screamed.

Without as much as a sound, the man tore down the street, disappearing around the next corner, leaving a stupefied Raymond standing in the middle of the road, bleeding.

Raymond started stumbling along, unable to understand what had just happened to him. He found himself wondering what he'd done wrong, and somehow that didn't make sense.

A hand fell heavily on his right shoulder. "Sir, are you alright?" a feminine voice asked.

Raymond turned his head to face a black policewoman that was warily looking at him. "You're bleeding!" She held his head to take a better look at the wound. "You better come with us. You need medical attention."

She gently pushed him in the direction of a squad car parked by the curb. Another police officer, this one a freckled-faced, red-haired man, was standing by the vehicle. "Is he the one who was screaming?" he asked his partner as he opened the back door to let Raymond in.

"What do you think, Cooper?" She reached for a first-aid kit and took out some gauze. "Here, press this against the wound," she said to Raymond, placing the gauze on his cheek and his hand over the gauze. He obediently did as she told him, his movement being more a reaction than a conscious action.

"I think he's in shock, Farrell," Cooper said, already sitting behind the wheel. "You should ride in the back with him, just in case."

Farrell sat next to Raymond on the back seat of the squad car. "Sir, can you tell us what happened to you? Were you mugged?"

He shook his head, part of his face feeling as if it might just fall off. "No. There was a man ... I ... He was following me ... I asked what he wanted ... " He took the gauze down and stared at the blood. "My face ... "

Farrell took another piece of gauze from the first-aid kit and replaced the blood-drenched one. "Calm down. We're taking you to the hospital; you'll be fine. Later, you can give us a description of the maniac that did this to you. Is there anyone you'd like us to notify?"

"No, no one."

Cooper parked the car and turned back. "We're here."

Farrell helped Raymond out of the car and into the waiting room of the ER, that was almost empty. "Slow business today, Grace?" she asked the nurse who came to take Raymond in. "Sir, I'll need your name."

"Raymond Gurlt," he said, following the nurse.

He remembered the doctor who was now examining his faced. She had been the one to treat his broken arm, some three months before. Dr.Michaels, Michelson, something like that. He looked for the nametag on her lab coat - it was Michelson.

"I've never seen anything like this," she was saying. "He seems to have scooped out some of your flesh. I'm afraid it's going to leave a scar. What did he attack you with?" 
 
"I'm not sure, it all happened too quickly. Something metallic." A scar? Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. A scar could look charming on some men. "How bad will it look?"

"It can probably be taken care of. I can put you in contact with someone from Plastic Surgery, but I doubt they'll be able to tell you anything for sure until it's fully healed," she said, and started cleaning the wound, preparing it for suture.

"I'm not staying in Sioux Falls that long. I've just been promoted, transferred to Philadelphia."

She picked up a needle. "Great way of celebrating, huh?"

"Yeah," he replied quietly, cringing as she came closer.

"Stand still, this won't hurt," she said starting to work.

He closed his eyes, an old habit he had picked up at the dentist as a kid. Somehow, it was never so bad, if you couldn't se what they were doing to you.

His mind drifted back to his attacker. It was no one he recognized. But the man knew his name; he had said he knew a lot about him. Raymond couldn't understand what the stalker wanted from him.

What had the policewoman said? A maniac. Maybe that was the answer. He tried not to worry about it. He'd be leaving soon and his stalker, whoever he was, would be a problem for the police to deal with.

What if he knew he was moving away? The thought struck him suddenly. What if the stalker followed him to Philadelphia?

"You're finished," Dr.Michelson said.

He opened his eyes and stared at her startled. She threw her latex gloves and a piece of bloody cotton into a cylindrical container. "It looks like the police officers that brought you in are still waiting out there, they probably need a statement from you."

Raymond stood up and walked to the door. The last thing he wanted was to talk about the attack; he just hoped it wouldn't take long.

"I hope they catch him fast," Dr.Michelson said to his back, but he barely heard her.

Officer Farrell looked up when he walked into the waiting room. "Feeling better?" she asked. "We were told to wait 'till you came out. They got a little jumpy when they heard what had happened to you."

"They're worried you might just be the first one," Coopers added, coming from the vending machines with two plastic cups. "You want something?" he asked, stretching one of the cups in his direction. "These are both coffee, but I can - "      

"No, thanks," he said curtly. Then quickly added, "Sorry; I just want to get this over with." After all, Cooper was just trying to be friendly.

"Hey, you've been through a lot." Cooper calmly took a sip of his coffee. Apparently not much got to him.

"We would appreciate anything you can tell us about your assailant," Farrell said, while the three of them were heading for the exit. "If you come to the station now and press charges, we can take you home afterwards."

"Whatever. As long as you get that lunatic," Raymond said glumly. "I think he's been stalking me."

                                       *

After a while, the Stalker stopped running. Things had proceeded much better than he had expected. Gurlt had been much easier than the last three or four.

It never ceased to amaze him how, against all logic, it was simpler going about his business undisturbed in the middle of a crowded city than in an isolated place. Strength no longer seemed to reside in numbers; the world had certainly changed a lot everything had started.

He smiled bitterly as he glanced at his own reflection in a shop-window. A long time had passed since everything had started: a long, long time.

He watched an over-weighted man in an over-tight green jumpsuit coming out of the public restrooms. He headed into the men's room, hoping there was no one else inside.

A man stood by one of the basins, washing the hands of a little boy, not more than seven years old. When he walked in, the boy stared at him with the kind of social unawareness children have. Just one of the many reasons why he didn't like children.

He walked into one of the stalls, bolted the door and sat down. He would've preferred to do it outside, to be able to watch it happening on the mirror. But he had to hurry before the blood started to clot; he couldn't wait for those two to leave, and there was always the danger of someone else coming in.

He took a plastic bag from his pocket, looking with satisfaction at the bloody object inside it, watching the metal glistening underneath the thick blood. Carefully he took it out of the bag. Even more meticulously, he held the piece of flesh he had torn out of Raymond Gurlt's face between his thumb and his forefinger. He nodded, pleased - it was just the right size.

In a long-ritualized gesture, he pressed his forefinger against the exact spot between his eyebrows where a thing vertical scar stood white against his tanned complexion. He took the pellet he had molded out of the bloody flesh, placing it in the slight indentation that had been left on the skin.

He could hear them whispering. 

He groped at the walls, feeling the pain rising in every neural receiver of his body, converging to that one spot. The voices grew louder: anger, confusion, anticipation, all at once.

The skin on his forehead slit open and creased, avidly swallowing the bloody pellet. He felt the scream rising in his throat; an animal scream, mix of agony and power-lust. He stifled it -- sweat beading his face -- until finally the skin on his forehead closed and the reddish lump disappeared, leaving only the familiar white scar.

He smiled. It was done - all he had to do now was wait.

                                       *

Raymond trudged up the stairs of his apartment building. Damn good day for the elevator to be broken! He was tired and confused; his briefcase weighed a ton in his numb hand.

He had found himself unable of recalling anything about the attack, unable to tell the police anything that could help them in catching his assailant. They had told him it was normal, nothing but shock; he would remember things more clearly as soon as he had had some rest. But how shocked did you have to be to forget your own address?

He had lived in that same building - in that same apartment - for the past ... the past ... 

He couldn't remember! How could he not remember?! It was getting worse by the minute.

He rechecked the address in his driver's license, panic starting to take over him. Apartment 206, that was it. He stood facing the door marked 206, fumbling among his keys until he managed to find the right one and open the door.

He entered the unfamiliar dimness of the apartment. Without turning on the lights, he sat on the edge of a couch, his face between his hands.

His memory had been fine, until they had reached the police station and the questions had begun. Suddenly he couldn't remember anything. Not his assailant, not his address - he had even had trouble remembering his own name. It hadn't stopped since.

He switched on the lamp that stood on a table next to the couch as if in doing so he could cast off the shadows that shrouded his mind. Directly under the lamp was a photograph of a man and a woman in their fifties. His parents, at least that much he could recall. He clung to that thought. 

In vain, he tried to remember their names. It was ... no ... Who were those people, again?

He stood up, helplessly. This couldn't be happening. This was insane. He switched on the lights on the ceiling and looked around. He didn't remember that room; he didn't remember that apartment. But this was his home. It said so in his wallet and someone had also told him. But who? He just couldn't remember.

He scratched his forehead, between his eyebrows; while he desperately searched for the wallet he had placed in his pocket just a minute before. He took out the driver's license and stared at his own name: Raymond Jeremy Gurlt. 

Noticing his photograph, he looked around and found a mirror hanging from one of the walls. He looked at his own reflection - that was his face. He drew nearer, comparing the image on the mirror with the photograph. His face seemed to have changed somehow.

His skin itched; it seemed to be drying up. He had been in the hospital, hadn't he? He touched the dressing on his cheek - it was recent. Maybe they had given him some drugs, something that had affected his memory.

Again he stared at his reflection on the mirror, as if he could condense his identity on its surface. "Why can't I remember?" he wailed, ripping the mirror from the wall and smashing it against the floor.

"Because you won't need to," a soft, slithering voice muttered from behind him.

Raymond turned around startled. Another man was standing in the room. A man appearing to be about forty, and wearing a dark-gray suit. A man who had sandy blond hair and cruel gray eyes. A man who had a thin vertical scar between his eyebrows.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Do I know you?" He tried to remember, but couldn't. His mind was a blank.

"We've met. But of course, you won't remember. Not at this stage of the process," the man said, smiling.

"Process? I don't understand." Something about Philadelphia crossed his mind. "Who are you?" he repeated. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to finish what I've started. I'm sorry if you had to go through all this, but there really is no other way," the man explained, seeming genuinely contrite as he closed down on him.

                                       *

Some ten minutes later, Raymond Gurlt was picking up the phone and calling the police.

"Officer Farrell? It's Raymond Gurlt ... Yes, you could say I remembered something. The man, the one that attacked me, was hiding in my apartment, waiting for me. I'm afraid he's dead."

He listened carefully to what the woman was saying on the other side of the line. "No, he's not up here anymore. We were fighting ... he ... he fell through the window. I ... I'd never ... I didn't mean ... " The voice died on his throat on cue. "Yes. I'll wait here. Please hurry. God! This is like a nightmare."

He hung up and approached the shattered window. It opened to the empty space between his building and the next one. Down on the street, sprawled over the hood of a parked car, was the inert body of the sandy-haired man.

Raymond Gurlt smiled as he stepped away from the window. The reflection of his face split itself across the jagged pieces of glass still clinging to the frame.

Had someone who had known him seen him then, they would've noticed that there was something new in his eyes. Something painfully old and cruel.

END OF CHAPTER 1