Summary/Warning: NC-17 for violence and sexual content. Mulder confronts his captor.

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Thanks to Rebecca and phyre for their assistance in making this a readable piece of work. Heartfelt gratitude to the many people who coddled me during the most challenging months of my life. Bal'shoye spaseeba!

Ending Life

story copyright by Jen Collins 1998

The bitch made a mistake. Finally, after all of this waiting. In her eagerness to fuck, she threw it over her shoulder. Miraculous that she or her staff didn't notice. I didn't either, not until later. Not until she finished me for the night, lengthened my chain for sleep. This night I can't sleep, or surely all will be lost. Darkness still dominates the basement.

The wink of light caught my eye as I dragged myself to my cot. I scanned the basement with narrowed eyes before I reached for it, afraid of a trap. Terrified, despite the fact that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. My palsied hand groped for it, clutched it and wild, fearful joy shook me when I realized I had in my possession the exacto knife she used on me.

The knife I'll use on her.

" I struggle to still my trembling -- doesn't work. My seething anxiety just feeds it. Static noise floods my ears.

With a shaky blade, I wrap my wrists in thin circlets of blood. Slippery crimson wells from self-inflicted cuts. My teeth sink into the flesh of my upper arms to stifle screams as I rip each hand through its respective cuff. Pieces of broken skin roll up during the procedure, facilitating my escape. Tiny bones in my thumbs...in my hands...snap. A small price to pay to be rid of this hateful place.

The shackle binding my neck presents the most immediate problem. My fingers grope the heavy ring of metal to locate the keyhole. I try not to think about my pathetic grin when I find it. Lifting the blade, I use it to probe the lock. Silver agony gnaws my hand as it twists and turns, seeking the hidden tumblers that imprison me. They elude the blade with supernatural ease. Steel fleetingly catches steel, slips and scrapes across omnipotent iron. Again and again I repeat the process until my hands are shrieking and my body heaves with desolate sobs.

The bitch will find me in a quivering heap amidst the tools of my aborted escape and I'll pay in pain. My hands. What will she do to my fucking hands? I can't face the answer.

Forgive me, Scully.

I lift the blade with fatal intent.

And it occurs to me. I know the weakest link. Not my iron necklace, but the metal ring welded to a metal tile, embedded in the floor. Each corner of the tile is bolted into the concrete. I've even prepared for this. I've worked bleak, fevered nights loosening these. I am repaid. Two of the four are already stripped. Dumb hope rekindles and I spend moonlit hours sweating as fingernails break and bleed, as crippled thumbs fumble to strip those bolts that remain.

When morning light filters through the filth of the eastern window just outside my cell, I am free of the concrete.

The celldoor isn't locked, why should it be? need to take out the staff first. I creep up out of hell, taking care not to rattle my chains. Stillness greets me; not another monster stirs. Only it of the peeling wrists and broken hands, wielding the hate and slice and weight of revenge.

Eyes blink and water at sudden brightness. They adjust quickly as I haunt the bitch's pristine lair, casing the main floor. Past the polished chrome of the kitchen, into the lush hall lined with dark paneled doors. Moving with all possible stealth, I check each.

They sleep tangled together, Things One and Two. My erection swells with inhuman rage as I glare down at faces content in sleep. An inferno of lust for their violent death engulfs me. I want to shackle them, these monsters, I want to hurt them, I want to revel in their futile screams and violate white walls with their bloody entrails. But I want the bitch more.

Slowly, I approach the bed. I ease my chains to the floor...they clink gently. Thing One stirs in his sleep, murmurs and nuzzles Thing Two. I strike with speed born of insane hatred, ignoring the glassy pain of splintered bones grinding. My left fist grabs thick hair in the same moment my right hand arcs to deliver razor death. The tiny blade slices through his throat with Berserker strength. The cut parts like a lover's lips and red warmth rushes onto crisp sheets and Thing Two, who bleats a startled cry before meeting the same fate. My thirsty eyes drink in the sea of blood surging.

Gathering my chains I lurch from the room, leaving her staff to meet their gurgling end in each other's arms.

I mount the staircase that winds to her Olympus with predatory stealth while memories of pain and violation cascade through my mind. The tiny hairs at the nape of my neck stand as electrically rigid as my cock. I allow myself to anticipate her death. I'll cut her, I'll fuck her, I'll cleave her throat. I'll languish in the sight of her savage eyes dimming as I pummel her. Yeah.

She's sleeping, a black pearl pillowed in satiny white. I loom over her. When I was Mulder, I would have taken her into custody, charged her with everything under the sun. Now fury howls demented through my being raving for a different justice; for things forever lost, for I who am no longer. I heft the chain backward, swing it up and over my head and sink the iron square of my prison into the soft flesh of her belly. She bolts upright shrieking vast disbelief. Her white hands wash red as they finger the metal emerging her abdomen. My own crazed cackles blend with sweet harmony into the song of her screams. Our sounds wheeze to a stop.

She looks at me now, her expression a wonder of incomprehension of her imminent death. But I comprehend. I've killed the bitch. She just doesn't know it yet. My face aches with the strain of a grin too long absent. I lower myself to the bed, repugnance and hatred weighing heavy between my legs. I crawl to her, ready to descend on her, into her, to help her die in indignity.

She laughs suddenly, a sunny, tinkling sound. Instantly I draw back, repelled.

"I'm dying, Fox. I'll be dead in a moment." The effort of speech costs her a rattley, bloody cough.

"I know, you stupid *bitch*. Meet your killer."

"Not only mine." she whispers. Her eyes stare past me instead of at me and I realize she's dead.

Not only mine. Not only mine. The words slice through the whirlwind of my thoughts and I understand.

*****

Kanyets!!!!

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