"Fly" by Shell Brown, eyore@mindspring.com Copyright February 1998 SPOILERS: Schizogeny CLASSIFICATION: S, A RATING: NC-17 for Violence and Language WARNING: This piece contains scenes of child abuse and neglect. KEYWORDS: Muldertorture, Mulderangst SUMMARY: The events surrounding Karin Matthews vengeful acts resonates with Mulder, setting off a series of flashbacks to his childhood. Angry and resentful, he puts both his life and Scully's life in danger in attempt to avoid his ultimate and most important confrontation with the man responsible for the loss of his sister -- his father. DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and Characters of Mulder, Scully, Melissa, Skinner, Bill Mulder and other characters you recognize, belong to Chris Carter, Ten- Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement intended. ARCHIVE: Please to Gossamer and MTA. Anywhere else is fine as long as you keep my name attached. FEEDBACK: I would appreciate your feedback, especially anything constructive. I promise to respond to you. Please refrain from flaming me. I just don't need that in my life. THANK YOU: Special thanks to Abbie for beta reading and suggesting a major plot line. The story comes together because of you. Also humble thanks to Vickie for beta reading and editing copy. Your encouraging words mean more to me than I can say.
Send feedback to Shell at eyore@mindspring.com
Part 1/17
"My God, Mulder, you're bleeding" said Scully. She instinctively took out a linen handkerchief from her coat pocket and held it against the wound on Mulder's forehead. "Ouch! Scully, that hurts," complained Mulder. She was in doctor-mode again.
Although he had to admit he did give her ample Opportunity to use her medical training. How many times had she used her training to help him while on the field? Plenty. Was it only a few weeks ago they were in the Florida woods? He was attacked and Scully took care of him.
"Mulder, how did this happen?" she asked.
He was shivering in the Michigan winter air. "I had a little accident in the car."
The paramedics must have arrived, he saw someone checking out Bobby Rich. They both had just pulled themselves out of 4 feet of cold mud. Damn, it was cold. He hoped Scully didn't say he was in shock. She said that all the time.
She surprised him by lifting his muddy hand and placing it over the wet handkerchief. "Keep putting pressure on that wound, Mulder. I'll be right back."
What? She wasn't going to stay with him and talk to the Paramedics? She wasn't going to insist he go to the hospital? This wasn't Scully SOP at work here. His eyes were following her as she approached the orchardman=20 and began speaking with him.
"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have been in that car wreck about a mile from here would you?" asked a paramedic. "Gary" was written in white stitching over the left breast of his dark jacket.
"Yeah, that was me," Mulder replied. He had a mind altering headache to prove it.
"Man, you are one lucky son of a gun. I guess you weren't wearing a seat belt," said Gary.
Mulder shook his head and then stopped as this caused the world to spin. "Can I lay down?" he asked.
"Joe! Get the backboard for this guy," Gary shouted. "This is the guy who was in that car we passed."
"Oh, yeah?" Joe shouted back. "He's one lucky son of a gun. I'll be right there."
Mulder rolled his eyes. Lucky? I don't think so. That's not an attribute he ever applied to himself. He worked damn hard to get where he was and what did all that work get him? He had no friends, no "significant other", no family in his life. Heck, he didn't even have a dog that loved him.
Before, the work was enough to sustain him. Now. . . He looked over at Scully who was still speaking to the orchardman. Now, the work wasn't enough. The truth that was out there had become less relevant, less urgent. His sister was alive and well and didn't want to have anything to do with him. Scully was alive and well, thank goodness, but, their relationship had changed since her remission from the brain tumor. He couldn't articulate how or what exactly changed but they were different with each other as well as with the work.
"Here we go, mister," said Gary. Gary had let the backboard drop to the ground and had positioned himself behind Mulder to help him get on to the contraption.
"Mulder. My name is Mulder," he said.
Gary shrugged then said, "Fine, Mulder. Let's get you on this thing and get a look at the head wound."
Mulder sighed. He didn't want to fight about it. No arguments. Just do what you're told. Do what you're told -- an old feeling washed over him: a role he was accustomed to playing at one point in his life. It was comfortable, well known and understood. The feeling carried a sense of fear and hopelessness with it. Mulder felt his stomach do a queasy turn. He was being lifted onto the tan backboard and told to lay down. He dropped Scully's handkerchief when his arms and legs were strapped into the back board by bright colored safety belts.
Where was Scully? he wondered.
The smell of the mud that had covered him was sour and making him fee queasier. As Gary and Joe lifted him up and started walking to the ambulance, Mulder fell into the unconscious void that he had been battling since the accident. Who cared if he was sleeping or awake. Scully wasn't there. Why should he care?
End Part 1
Fly (2/17) by Shell Brown eyore@mindspring.com Disclaimer in Part 1
Part 2/17
I ran up the stairs to my room after baseball practice. About half way up the stairs I can smell dad -- scotch and cigarettes. Oh, man! Now, what did I do?
I don't want to go into my room, but I know I have no other choice. I see my dad standing there; his belt is in his hands folded over once. I hear a *snap* the belt makes when dad pulls the leather straps quickly and tightly together.
"Do you have any idea what you put your mother and me through?" he asks.
"Dad, I'm sorry. I don't know . . . "
Dad slaps the left side of my face hard enough to make me stumble to the floor.
"Shut up, Fox! I am sick and tired of hearing you say, 'I'm sorry this and I'm sorry that'. You shut up and listen to me good," dad tells me.
I try to get to the corner of the room. If I can keep my back to the wall, I'll be a little safer. I make sure to watch what dad is doing. His face is red and he is breathing hard.
"Where did you leave your books, mister. Tell me that! Where did you leave your school books?" he yells.
Okay, try not to panic. Maybe this time, if I don't panic and don't show him how much he scares me I won't get hurt. "I left them on the kitchen table. I have homework to do before dinner, so I put them there, dad." I glance at the belt. It is still in his hands, ready to snap again.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"N-no." I hate it when I stutter! He'll know. He'll know how much he scares me.
Dad comes at me. I put my head down and my arms up. I am sure I'm going to be hit. He stops about a foot away from me. "It's almost 6:00 p.m. Dinner time and where are your books?" he yells.
"I'll go get them now, dad. I'll help mom set the table, okay?" That's good. Maybe he'll just let me go help mom.
Dad takes the one step he needs to get right on top of me and pulls me up by my hair. I can hear my hair being ripped out of my scalp. "Don't you ever think about anyone else but yourself? Do you think you're the only one who has to live in this house, huh? Live with your filth? Do you? You are selfish! You make me sick, boy."
"Dad!' I yelp and try to wriggle out from under the fistful of hair he has on my head.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson that's not in any book. What's the matter with you? Come here!" He grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me across the room over to my bed.
I fall on my bed belly first. My arms are flailing and I'm trying to wriggle out from underneath the fat, strong hand on the back of my neck. "Dad, no! Please!" I can feel that brief moment of cool air; that moment between the time the belt is raised followed by the time the belt hits me. I close my eyes and hold my breath waiting for that next moment and the next . . .
"No!" He was screaming. His voice was loud and he could hear an echo. He tried to move but his head was held down. "No!' he yelled again and forced his eyes open. He saw nothing but white. What? What was happening? Where was dad?
"Mulder, I said can you hear me? I need you to say something, Mulder. It's me, Scully."
Scully? Something was very wrong. He raised his hands to his head and felt the strap of cloth that was keeping his head immobile. He began pulling at the cloth when he felt hands on his legs and belly.
"Mulder, stop it! You're okay. You're getting a CAT Scan," said Scully.
"Get me out of here, Scully!"
He could hear her say, "Okay, bring him out."
His body was moving away from the white circular contraption he had awakened in and into the cold hospital lab. Someone was grabbing his left hand and lay it down along side of him. Soon he saw the surgical tube that led from his arm to IV bags lying alongside of him.
"Scully, what the hell is going on here?"
"Mulder, you were in a car accident and have been unconscious for close to two hours. The doctor's are doing a CAT scan to see if you sustained an subdural hematoma."
He felt her warm hand on his left shoulder and he jerked away from her. "Get away from me! Don't touch me!" he yelled.
"What? Mulder. You need to calm down," she said slowly and firmly.
He blinked hard. Why did he just that to her? Why in the hell would he yell at her like that?
"Sorry, Scully, I'm . . . ah . . . confused, I guess. I thought . . . um . . . doesn't matter. Sorry, Scully." He hoped she would accept his apology and not scrutinize his behavior, not in front of other people.
"Scully," he said softly, hoping only she could hear. "Get me out of here before I go postal."
She was frowning with her head bent down that way she does right before she tells him something he doesn't want to hear.
"Mulder, I want you to listen to me. You will be okay. You need this test. We need to make sure that you're not bleeding inside that thick scull of yours." She paused. "Also, you've had so many concussions in the past few years,=20 you might have some serious head trauma."
"Traumatic encephalopathy," he said. The words sprung out of him. He didn't even think about it.
"That's right. Also known as "punch drunk" syndrome, a condition that is seen in prizefighters. It looks a lot like Parkinson's but the etiology is different." He heard what he thought was a frustrated sigh from her. "Look you're here. You're prepped. The technicians are here and ready to do their job. Let them do it, Mulder. It'll take only a few minutes. Listen to me for once and let us finish this test. Okay?" She gently put her hand on his shoulder.
He didn't jump this time or yell. "Where will you be?" he asked sheepishly.
"I'll be in the control room looking at the pictures as they come in. If there is anything wrong with you, I will tell you right away. Okay?" she asked.
He needed to touch her hand, he needed to sit up and talk with her. He searched her eyes. Her eyes never lied to him.
"Yeah. Okay," he said. He had a weird feeling, but he couldn't quite identify it. Not yet, anyway.
He felt a squeeze on his shoulder, "I'll be close by. There is a monitor inside the scanner and I'll talk you through it. The best thing for you to do is to close your eyes and try to breathe normally," she said.
"Let's get this over with," he said.
What's the matter with me? He made an effort to wiggle his toes and fingers. He couldn't feel anything. He felt like he was floating. What kind of drugs am I on this time? He wondered.
"Keep your hands down at your sides and close your eyes. We're going to put you back into the scanner, so you'll feel yourself slide backwards. I'm going into the control room. As soon as I get in there I'll start telling you what's going on and you'll be aware of everything." Her voice was reassuring.
"Okay," he said and immediately felt his body move back into the white ring. He closed his eyes and began to do breathing exercises.
"Mulder, it's me. I'm with the technicians and everything is fine. How are you doing?"
"I'm okay, Scully. You don't need to talk me through. I'm okay," he said and took in another deep breath to the count of ten and out to the count of ten. He heard the machine whirl into action. Just a few more minutes and I'll be out of this contraption.
"That's good, Mulder. Keep breathing," Scully said.
Breathing is one of the things I do best, he thought and began to count the breaths again, 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .
End Part 2
Fly (3/17) by Shell Brown eyore@mindspring.com Disclaimer in Part 1
Part 3/17
It is dark in the house. The only form of light comes from the flickering television. I came downstairs for a glass of milk and hope to god dad is passed out. Walking on the balls of my sock covered feet, I try to make no sound. I successfully get a glass out of the cabinet and open the door of the refrigerator.
"Fox, is that you? Come here, boy," says dad. He is drunk, but not drunk enough to pass out. At this stage of drunkenness he likes to have "talks."
I walk over to the living room and sit on the couch, a 90-degree angle from dad in his chair. I keep my eyes down and wait.
"Let me tell you something about your mother, Fox," he says. "She's no slut. I don't care what anybody says."
I look up nervously at him. I've heard that word in school and I know it isn't a nice thing to say about somebody. Why would he say this about mom? Dad is sitting back in his chair, his posture extremely relaxed. Yes. I'm pretty sure this will be just a "talk" session for now. I fold my hands in my lap and sit up straight and look at his dad's face. Appearances are very important to both mom and dad. I must look like I'm listening intently. Sometimes, I think my life depends on it.
Dad drank down the last of the brown liquid in his glass and reached for the bottle on the end table. The bottle filled his glass halfway before it emptied.
"Damn!" he says while staring at the empty bottle. "Go get me another one, boy."
I get up quickly and walk into the kitchen. Crawling underneath the kitchen sink cabinet, I find a scotch bottle in the back. I pick it up and come back into the living room.
"Put it here," dad says, pointing to the end table.
I sit back down on the couch and resume my=20 former posture.
"Listen to me, boy, I'm telling you something important," he slurs. "Used to be a time when your politics were the same as your country's. Those days are gone. Now, you make your own decisions and choices and decide what is in the 'best interest' of your country." He settles back into the chair and his eyes seem to focus on something very far away. "My politics have never been my own. Now, we all have to pay for that. Pay dearly. You understand me, boy?"
I shake my head. "Yes, dad." I have no clue what he's talking about, but I know enough to just agree with him, no matter what he says.
"There's going to be some changes around here, young man."
He said this to me before, but for some reason I believe him this time and it frightens me.
Dad leans towards me. "I don't care what anybody else says. Your mother isn't that kind of woman. We all have our jobs to do. One day you'll understand all of this." He relaxes back into his chair.
I look at the clock on the bookshelf. It is 10:30 p.m.
I keep my mouth shut and watch dad drain another glassful. On his insistence, I tasted it once. It was disgusting, like drinking poison. Dad opens the new bottle and starts to=20 pour into the glass. "Oh, hell," he says and throw the glass down on the floor. He guzzles down the scotch as if it were water.
Dad dropped the glass! What should I do? Oh, no. There are some drops getting on the carpet. I feel my heart start to race and I try so hard not to breathe fast because I don't want him to hear me. I need to figure out what he wants me to do. If I leave the glass there then dad might become angry because I'm not cleaning it up. But, if he is drunk enough not to care bout the mess, he would be mad if I stop listening to whatever "insights" he felt he needed to share this evening. I'm trying to figure out what to do when dad finally puts the bottle down on the table. I watch him carefully for clues: is dad ready to pass out, did he want to continue to talk, was he sober enough to realize the glass was on the floor? I study him, anxiously. I can see his eyes droop. Half-mast eyes. Okay. Just sit here and wait for him to fall asleep.
Dad raises his head and shakes his finger at me. "I'm telling you something important here, boy, don't you forget it. It doesn't matter what anybody else says, you make your politics your own. That's the only way to protect yourself from the truth. The truth is ugly, Fox, damn ugly." He stares off into the distance again. Is he thinking about something or is he just trying not to pass out?
"Your mother and your sister are what's important, nobody else and nothing else matters. You understand what I'm telling you here?"
I nod. "I understand, dad." I feel really scared because Samantha has been gone for almost a year and he's talking like she's upstairs asleep in her room.
"Good," dad says. I watch drool escape dad's mouth and watch it run down the front of his chin and onto his shirt. He disgusts me. But I can never let him or anyone else know that. "The only person you have to answer to is me, boy, don't you forget that either. When I say 'jump' you say what?"
" 'How high', dad," I answer.
"Right. That's right, Fox."
I watch my dad's eyes glaze over. I have to be sure. I sit on the couch waiting for him to wake up and call me into action. =20
I wish mom would come home. Then it'll be her job to get him up and to bed. I don't know though. They fight so much. I wish that they would get a divorce and then I could go live with mom. Maybe we could move somewhere, far away from him. No, that's no good. When Samantha comes home, she'll come back to the=20 house and what would dad do to her if I wasn't=20 here? I have to protect her from him.
I hear a sharp intake of breath and dad's head snaps up. I watch to see if wakes up. No. He's started snoring again. As quietly as possible, I pick up the glass off the floor. The few drops of the whiskey didn't stain the carpet, thank goodness. I don't want to be blamed for that one. I go into the kitchen, wash the glass, dry it and put it away. It's time to go to bed. The television is still on and dad's head is drooped forward. I can still hear him snoring.=20
I get back into bed and look at the clock. Midnight. In 3 or 4 hours dad will begin the "retching ritual." Sometimes I can sleep through it, but usually it wakes me up. I hate alcohol. When I grow up I'm never, ever going to drink this stuff. I gently turn on my side. Dad hit me today. He hit me on the middle of my back and it burns. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I feel the hot tears roll down my face. I didn't mean to cry; I just couldn't help it. I worry that I might never stop. I stuff my mouth with the covers. No one can hear me when I scream if I have a mouthful of covers. Why? Why is this happening? I'm a good boy. I try so hard. I'm a good boy.
End Part 3/17
Part 4/17
Fly (4/17) by Shell Brown eyore@mindspring.com Disclaimer in Part 1
" 'M good boy," he heard himself murmur.
"Mulder are you awake?" asked Scully.
"What? Scully? Where are we?" he asked.
A small light snapped on above his bed, and he watched her move closer to him.
"Mulder, do you know where you are?" she asked.
He surveyed his surroundings. Wow! He had one hell of a headache. "I'm in the hospital. I hit my head, again."
Scully nodded and picked up his right arm. She held his arm and began taking his pulse. "That's right. What's the last thing you remember?" She studied her watch as she spoke. Then put his arm down on the bed.
He rubbed the grit out of his eyes with his now free hand. "Well, I suppose we're still in Michigan. The last thing I remember is climbing out of a mud pit with Bobby. You were talking to the orchardman; the guy that lopped off Karin Matthews' head. What did he say to you anyway?"
He heard the screech of chair legs being pulled over linoleum as Scully brought a chair closer to the bed.
"Well, he didn't say too much, really. Karin's body sank into the mud and no one can figure out how or why. The orchardman has been charged with murder. I was advising him of his rights when you were taken by ambulance to the hospital."
"Oh," Mulder said. Ambulance? That's right. He was in a car accident. He had a feeling he was forgetting something, a very unusual feeling for him. He wanted to ask Scully about it but felt ashamed for a reason unknown to him.
"Can I leave here tomorrow?" he asked.
Scully nodded. "Yes, you can leave tomorrow. Your CAT scan came out normal. Your doctor is a bit concerned about how much you have been sleeping, however." She squinted at him, "Actually, so am I. This is strange for you, Mulder. You don't sleep much, even when you've had concussions in the past. Usually you're pounding the walls and insisting on leaving the hospital. You've been fairly compliant, except for the episode in the CAT scan lab."
Mulder snapped his head toward her. He then reminded himself not to do that again for a while. Whoa! The room was spinning. He took a few deep breaths.
"Mulder, are you all right?" asked Scully.
"Just a little dizzy, Scully. What happened in the CAT lab?" He rubbed his eyes again, hoping it would help steady him.
She stood up along side his bed and stared at him. She looked at him a little too intensely, he thought.
"What? Scully, what's wrong with you?"
"That's what I want to know about you, Mulder. You honestly don't remember being in the CAT lab and screaming bloody murder?" she asked.
He looked away from her. He remembered, but not with the crispness and clarity that most memories came to him. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt the nausea churn in his belly. His ears were ringing loudly. Could Scully hear it?
He looked up at her. "C'mon, Scully. That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? I was confused that's all."
This had happened to him before. He would remember something but it felt like the memory came from a dream or it was someone else's memories. That happened a long time ago, a=20 very long time ago. It was back.
"What is it, Mulder?" Scully asked.
He felt so ashamed. He should tell her. She was his partner and she had a right to know that he wasn't 100%. God, he was so ashamed of this. He thought he had beat this years ago. Damn it! Years and years ago.
"Scully, I . . . uh . . . think this last case has affected me in a certain way. I . . . um, damn this is hard." He looked into her blue eyes hoping to find strength and courage. "I . . . uh . . ." He cleared his throat buying himself some time. "When I was . . . " He threw his hands up in dismay. "I can't find the words," he said half laughing, hoping to break some of the tension he had caused.
He couldn't look at her. He felt afraid to look at her. Perhaps his eyes might somehow betray his thoughts and he didn't want that, couldn't let that happen. He felt her petite warm hand cover his long fingers.
She squeezed his fingers. "Mulder, you can tell me anything, you know that don't you? You trust me, I know you do. It's okay. Tell me what's going on," she spoke softly, tentatively, as if she were walking on eggshells.
He shook his head then said, "You can't tell Skinner. You can't tell anybody." He looked up at her quickly.
"Okay," she said.
He was biting his lip, something he did when he was nervous or scared. "Do you remember when we examined the hole that Phil Rich died in and you told me that Bobby had been in therapy to control his anger?"
Scully nodded. "Yes," she said. "I remember you saying, 'That could be me.' What did you mean by that Mulder?"
He looked away from her. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to tell the secret? How could something that happened so long ago still have so much power? he wondered.
"Mulder?" Scully said. "What is it?" she asked softly.
He took a deep breath and hated that it sounded so shaky. "I'm fairly sure that I was never locked in the cellar when I was a kid, Scully. I don't think so. Stuff happened to me, when I was little. Not as bad as Karin, I don't think. But I used to have memory lapses back then." He shook his head and pulled his hand out from hers so he could cross his arms. This isn't coming out right, he thought. He felt cold.
"I'm sorry, Scully. I can't do this," he said. I already said too much, he thought and closed his eyes, cursing himself for saying as much as he did.
He heard the scraping of the chair again as Scully sat down. "Mulder, it's okay. You don't have to tell me anything you're not willing or able to do. I want you to know that I'm here for you, though, if you change your mind."
He let his head rest back against the pillow and pulled the thin hospital blankets up closer to his chin. "Thanks, Scully." He looked over at her. She didn't look repulsed or offended. That is a good sign.
His mind clouded and he began to feel numb, especially in his arms and in legs. He wiggled his toes and fingers. He knew he had willed them to move but he was unable to feel it. He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. Maybe if he counted the holes in the tiles this wouldn't happen to him again. Somehow, he floated up and away from his body. He was hovering at the end of the bed. He could look at himself lying on that hospital bed, shivering, holding onto the blankets for dear life. The body in the bed was just a body: it was a shell, nothing more. The hovering figure at the end of the bed was the *real* Fox Mulder. The one who remembered everything. The one who didn't want to be around when those memories started hitting him again. No way. He's been through this before and he wasn't going to dance this dance again. No. He would numb out. What did he do when he was a kid? Oh, yeah. He'd enter a book and live in the book. He needed something, somewhere to go. He needed to hide from the memories.
"Mulder?" Scully stood up and touched his hand. "Mulder, are you with me? You've been staring at the ceiling for a while now. Do you feel sleepy?"
A voice had suggested he was sleepy. That was a good idea. The body on the bed closed his eyes and fell into the nothingness. Yes, sleep was good. The core being at the end of the bed knew better. Yes, let the sleep come but it will not be restful. It was imperative to remain alert, turn on the radar, keep a defensive posture. A possibility of unthinkable pain was within arms reach. He was=20 the guard of this shell -- this delicate shell. He was the keeper of memories and the protector of the shell. He must perform the duties he was created to serve.
End Part 4/17
Part 5/17
I can hear the sound of children laughing. My feet feel funny. I look down and see my feet immersed in seawater. Oh, that's right. Samantha and I rode our bikes to the beach.
"Whoa!" I say, hopefully not to loudly, as I slip into the cold Atlantic water. The ocean never warmed up; even in August the water was freezing.
"You're such a klutz, butt munch," my sister informs me.
I make a funny face. "Shut up, Samantha, you're no ballerina yourself," I say.
Samantha kicked salt water and it splashes on my face and into my eyes.
"Ow! Cut it out. Samantha, that hurts. Why do you have to be such a pain!" I rub my eyes and stand up. Okay. I have had enough of the water for the day and I'm ready to ride home.
"Why don't you try and make me," she teased.
I hate it when she acts stupid. "Fine. Indian wrestle. Right here and right now and whoever wins has to admit that the other is a Supreme Being," I say.
"Fine," says Samantha.
I walk over to where she is standing. The icy water is over her knees and just below mine. We put the sides of our right feet together and clasp our right hands together tightly.
"You're going down," I say with sincerity.
She sticks her tongue out at me. "I say 'go.' Ready. Set. Go."
I pull on her arm, not very hard, she was a lot smaller than me and I would never hurt her. We struggle. I like to let her think she is winning and then I pull back hard to remind her who has the power.
"Say it, Samantha, and you won't have to go into the water," I tease.
"No way!" she says through gritted teeth.
"Uh, oh," I say, watching the strands of red seaweed come close to my sister. She is terrified of the stuff. She calls it the "red ick!" She freaks every time it touches her.
"Samantha, watch out!" I yell and grab her around her middle up and away from the seaweed. She struggles and falls into the cold water.
"Fox!"
"Get up! There's the red ick you hate," I tell her. "Here, I'll help you. " I reach for her hand and begin pulling her up and she slips out of my grip and back into the cold water, submersing completely.
"Samantha!," I yell and drop into the water and find her waist. I stand up in the ocean, pulling her up with me. "Are you okay?" I ask.
She was choking on seawater. "I'm 'kay," she tells me and coughs some more.
"Fox Mulder, come here!" says a deep, booming voice from the beach.
"Fox! Oh, no. It's dad!" she says, still clinging to my arm.
I feel my body rush with heat. "Come on, Samantha. It's time to go home." Oh, god. Please don't let him yell at me, not here, not now, I think.
"Don't worry, Fox. I'll tell him it was a game=20 and it was my fault I fell," Samantha says.
I know it that it wouldn't make a difference. "That's okay, Samantha, don't worry about it."
She begins collecting the beach towels and books as I walk towards our dad
"I said get your butt up here, boy!" he yells.
I hang my head but I'm looking out to the sides to see if people are watching me. The beach is crowded today. Great, just great, I think.
I approach dad cautiously. "Samantha tripped, dad and I was helping her up," I tell him.
Dad's mad. He says through tight lips, "Put your bikes in the back of the car and get in. We'll discuss this at home."
I feel my insides turn to mush. "Okay, dad." I walk over to our bicycles. Usually, I take them at the same time, riding mine and holding onto hers, but he's watching me. I need to be careful. I go get my sister's bike and walk it over to the car. I watch as dad throws it into the back of the station wagon. Samantha is already in the car, in the back seat, shivering. I go get my bike and walk it over to the car. I try to help dad put it into the car.
"Get in, young man," he hisses.
Dad uses the lighter in the car to light his cigarette. Samantha begins to cough. She is allergic to cigarette smoke, but dad doesn't seem to care about that. No one says anything on the way back to the house.
At the house dad gets the bikes out of the car.
"Fox, I want to talk to you. Help your sister with the bikes and then meet me on the back porch," he instructs.
"Fox, I'm sorry," Samantha says. I know she is scared.
I don't like to see her upset. I notice that her lips are purple. We were in the water for too long. "It's okay. Go clean up before dinner. Maybe we'll have time to play a game," I say. I hope that makes her feel better.
"Can we play 'Dream Date'?" she asks.
Gross. "Yuck. How about 'Clue' instead?" I say.
She nods and she walks into the house in silence.
I start to walk to the back porch. I look into the shed in the back yard. I can see my dad's head tipped way back as he drains yet another bottle. I hope he doesn't see me. I turn away quickly and walk onto the porch. The cedar=20 boards feel hot under my bare feet.
I hear a "whoosh!"
My dad is walking towards me very quickly from the shed. I can see a frayed length of clothesline rope in his hands. "What in the bloody hell did you think you were doing? I=20 saw you push your sister into the water. What the hell is the matter with you? Are you stupid, boy?" Dad raised the rope.
The first hit was across my bare chest. It takes my breath away. I clumsily fall backwards over a lawn chair. "Dad, it wasn't=20 like that. I . . . "
"Stop lying to me! You good for nothing . . . " dad says more but I only hear the sound of the rope as it whistles through the air. It hits me across my left arm and part of my back.
"Dad! Stop!" I yelp. I'm all tangled up in the lawn chair. I have to turn away from him to get my legs clear. I know my back is fully exposed now. I feel that whoosh of cold air and then 'smack' a hit across my back. I see some red droplets hit the cedar on the patio.
I disentangle myself from the chair and try to get away from him. I put my left arm behind me. My arm can handle another hit but I don't know about my back. Whoosh! Smack!
"Ow!" I yell. I can feel blood dripping from somewhere on my arm. I bring my arm up and see that my little finger on my left hand is laying funny and that there is a gash deep enough to see the bone. I sit up, my back is still facing him but I don't care. I cradle my left hand in the crook of my right arm.
Whoosh! Smack! Another hit to my back.
"Turn around and look at me, boy! I'm teaching you a lesson you'll never forget," dad says.
I try to stand up. The rope hits me across my left cheek and forehead. I can feel myself stumbling backwards and I fall onto the porch. I instinctively move into a fetal position. Oh, man. I can't breathe. Metallic liquid fills my mouth and I have to spit it out.
I think there were a few more hits before dad sees the blood pouring from my left hand.
"Let me see that!" he demands.
I hate it when he does this. He always makes it hurt more. I obey and hold out my left hand. Blood is dripping everywhere. I watched the blood drip onto the deck. It feels like I'm watching a movie or something. I realize I don't hurt anywhere at all. I can feel some blood dripping into my eye. I guess I should do something about that. I just can't think of what it is I should be doing.
"Now you've done it, you selfish son of a bitch," dad yells. "Go get a shirt and put it on," he says flatly. "Looks like you'll need some stitches. Hurry up, boy, I don't have all day."
I get up and walk into the house. I find a shirt in the laundry room and put it on. I don't care that it is dirty. Dad said put on a shirt so I'm putting on a shirt.
"Get in the car, Fox," says dad. He is standing by the car.
I trip on the way to the car.
"What's the matter with you? You got a problem or something? Get up and into this car right now, mister."
I brush the gravel off my knees and elbows and get into the car. Once in the car, I notice that my knees are bleeding from the fall. Funny, it doesn't hurt. I feel numb. I lean against the car door and close my eyes. What excuse will he use at the emergency room this time? Fell off my bike? I don't know. I=20 imagine what it would be like to fly. Fly up and away from everything and everyone. Just fly like the red tail hawks I see flying around=20 my house.
I want to fly.
End Part 5/17
Part 6/17
"Mulder, are you awake," asked Scully.
"Hmm. Yeah," he said then licked his dry lips. "I'm awake."
"You looked like you were having a nightmare. Did you have a bad dream?" she asked with concern in her voice.
He blinked hard and made an attempt to sit up. He still had a headache, but it was better. He sat up as much as he could. "No, Scully. I wasn't dreaming." Funny, his mouth felt numb. "You been here all night?" he asked.
Scully picked up his bag from the floor. "No, I just got here from the hotel. Here are some fresh clothes. Get changed and we'll go home. How does that sound?" she said.
Scully didn't stay? Huh? Scully didn't stay, he thought. She didn't stay with me through the night. She always stays with me. He made a decision not to indulge himself in self-pity at the moment.
"Really, Scully? Your place or mine?" he teased.
She clucked and shook her head. "I'm getting coffee and then signing the papers for your release. Just get changed, Mulder." She closed the door behind her as she left.
Mulder swung his legs over to the side of the bed and took a deep breath. There was another problem that filled his thoughts; he was having the memory dreams again. Damn it!
He got out of the bed and felt himself sway a bit. Must be a lack of fluids, he thought. He began to change into the jeans and dark polo shirt he had in the bag. He wondered what happened to the suit he wore into the mud bath? Oh, well. I guess I'll have to expense it, he thought. That ought to make Skinner's day. The thought made him smile.
He dug into the bag and pulled out a sweatshirt and began to put it on.
"Ow!" he said. He looked at the source of pain, his left hand. He saw a sterile pad held in place with tape. There was blood on the pad.
He saw his left hand, fresh stitches and a splint taped around it.
Mulder blinked hard and looked at his hand again. No, his finger wasn't broken. He managed to sit back on the bed, before he fell. The feeling of numbness was wrapping him like a blanket. The blanket would protect him from the pain. He could depend on it to help him.
Damn it! He knew what was happening. The lack of control was the most frustrating part. He was having memories resurface from his childhood. Not the good stuff either. He half laughed, like there was good stuff.
He was reacting to the case -- Karin Matthews and her abusive father. For some reason it triggered something in him, making his own memories resurface.
Mulder stood and looked around for his sneakers. No. They are called running shoes now. What in the hell was he going to tell Scully? Should he tell her at all? Things had changed between them and he didn't understand what that change was exactly. Sometimes, he felt very close to her. Other times he felt like . . . what?
He found his shoes and leaned against the bureau to put them on. He turned and went into the bathroom to wash up. He stared at the pale=20 reflection in the mirror.
Other times he felt like she was moving on and away from him. He felt that he was being abandoned.
"Oh, shit," he said and sat down on the floor of the bathroom. The thought made his whole body ache. "Stop it!" he commanded himself. Stop the thought from entering his mind and body. Make it unreal. He dug his palms into the sockets of his eyes. "Stop it," he whispered to himself.
"Mulder?" said Scully, "Can I come in?"
He didn't have the strength or the energy to respond. He didn't want her to see him like this. Get a grip, Mulder, he thought. Stop this now!
He emerged from the bathroom and opened the door to the hospital room. "Gee, Scully, what took you so long? Hey, is that coffee for me?" he asked and made a grab for the green Starbucks cup.
She backed away playfully. "Hey, Mr. Grabby settle down and I'll give it to you. Here sign these papers," she said and dropped a pile of papers on the bed.
He grimaced. "Sure, fine, whatever." He looked up to see if it made her smile. It didn't.
He signed off on the last of the paper work and put out his hand. Scully placed 2 pills in his palm.
"Here. Take these and then we're on our way." She handed him the coffee.
He stared at the medications. "What are these, Scully. What have they been giving me?"
"Actually, not much. The IVs were a saline solution and dextrose with water to keep you hydrated. They also gave you Tylenol with codeine so you don't complain about killer headaches, a broad spectrum antibiotic to=20 prevent any infection and a sleeping pill last night."
He nodded. There was nothing that would make his dreams more intense. In fact, the drugs might repress his REM sleep. He swallowed the=20 two pills without comment. "Let's get out of
End Part 6/17