Date: Mon, 6 Apr 1998
Title - Half Life 1974
Rating - PG (but with a language warning)
Classification - V, A
Author: Joann Humby
14 March 98

SUMMARY:
A year after Samantha Mulder went missing. What's
happening to Fox?

Thanks to my trusty beta readers for edits/encouragement.

Legally:
The people you know in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit. This story, is mine.

---------------

HALF LIFE - 1974
November 27, 1974

Dinner is served.

A family affair. Mom's zoned out on one too many valium. I guess she
took the bonus pill when she heard Dad would be home for the night.
Dad is as calm as thin ice.

I can feel him staring at me. I know the expression on his face
without looking. He's the cat and I'm a particularly ugly mouse he
left in the porch. Daring me to move. Chew the food fifty times, be
careful not to choke.

"Fox. Eat your food, don't play with it."

Shit. That's rich. Coming from a cat. Don't smirk.

"Are you having a problem with the food your mother prepared?"

Mom prepared? I went to the shop. I peeled the potatoes. I cooked the
food. I laid the table. I put it on the plates. I brought them to the
dining room. Why don't you send me on a cookery course Dad, it would
be more useful than the little pep talk you've doubtless got planned
for me tonight.

I can hear his silence. Is that stupid? I didn't answer his question.
Do it now, he won't want to have to ask twice. "No."

He starts breathing again. Seems that my survival skills are being
honed by isolation.

Cold, crisp voice like jagged glass. "I was thinking about you on the
way over."

Did my hand twitch? Bad idea. Keep it steady. Cats are attracted to
sudden movement.

"I was thinking that it's time to see what more you can remember."

It definitely twitched that time. Can he hear my heart beat? I can
hear it. I can't remember. I can't. I try and I try and I can't. I can't.

"You had my gun in your hand. We got your fingerprints from it. But
you didn't fire. Why was that? Maybe you just froze, but maybe
you saw someone you knew. Who did you see, who could have
stopped you pulling the trigger?"

Oh God, oh God, oh God. "I don't know."

"You're shaking like a leaf. You can't be scared all the time.
I think it's time for another visit to the Doctor."

Don't shake. He's going to take me out of school again if I shake.
I've got enough trouble at school without that. Everybody knows and
everybody understands. I've got leprosy, they get out of my way. I've
got memory loss but they've got it worse, they act like I never had a
sister. Like I don't have a sister.

"I hope you aren't going to have another little bout of hysteria.
Only babies and toddlers cry for no reason, Fox. You aren't a child."

Why not? Why the hell not? The kids in my class at school are
children. They have curfews. They have parents who watch them
in the school play. They have birthdays. They have mothers who
cook their meals. They have fathers who take them to ball games.
I keep my eyes down, stare hard at my plate.

"You aren't stupid. You know that tantrums and tears don't change
anything."

Nor do doctors. Nor does that bottle of whiskey. But he's right. I'm
not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to give him the
satisfaction of making me cry. I'm not going to give him the
satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"Don't slouch."

Don't slouch. Jeez, he's slipping, or I'm getting better. Slouching
doesn't constitute anything more than a minor misdemeanor. Maybe
I am getting better. Or maybe I'm just getting less interesting as the
novelty of him being home diminishes.

I risk looking up from my plate. Mom looks back at me as if she can't
remember who I am or why I'm here, as if she's still trying to place
my face from among the crowd of memories in her head.

Dad turns towards me, a hungry look in his eyes. "Eat your food."

Of course. Food. First anniversary of Samantha's disappearance and I
have to eat my greens. Aren't they going to say anything? Raise a
toast to absent friends? Oh shit. Now I've done it, now I have made
myself cry. Maybe he won't notice. Provided I keep my head down,
provided I keep eating. Chew don't choke.

"Fox. Your mother would like her dessert now."

What? An escape route. He's just going to let me walk out of the
room, just like that? I gather up the plates. No one's eaten very
much. Maybe it's not that easy for them either, maybe none of us
really have an appetite tonight. Maybe Dad's just putting on a show
of indifference for me. Maybe I just can't cook.

His hand snakes out as I walk past him, he grabs my wrist. I don't
drop the plates I'm carrying but a couple of knives crash to the
floor. He leans in to my ear. "Wipe your nose before you come back
out here."

Sure, he wouldn't notice provided I kept my head down. Why do I have
such stupid ideas? I'm supposed to be a genius. What a laugh. Fat lot
of good it does me. As if I wasn't already a freak.

Canned fruit and cream jangles my nerves and scrambles my brain.
Escape takes another half an hour.

A phone call for Dad. Bedtime for Mom. The washing up for me. I get
it done fast so I'm through before Dad's off the phone.

I'm calm. Flat calm like the sky at night, confident of bright stars
in the dark. Blank. If there's a God then he's found her, found her
and brought her back. God can do that, omnipotent, omnipresent. Heard
that in school. Here now. If there's a God then this can all just be
my nightmare and it's time for me to wake up. Time. A year's long
enough.

Time for the visit. Today's a bit special, so I'll take the radio.
Close my eyes, I can see her on the bed. Tired but excited. We've not
seen one another all day. She wants to tell me about school, about
dolls, about her friends. She wants to tell me stuff I'm not
interested in. But that's ok, I just want to hear her voice.

Wish hard. If you have faith, you can move mountains. I have faith.

Practiced ease, I can find the doorknob without opening my eyes, push
the door open. Deep breath and walk inside. Close the door behind me
and stand very still and listen hard.

I can hear her. Tiny giggly splutters of breath. Like we're playing
hide and seek and I'm close to finding her and she's trying not to
laugh, trying so hard it's making her breath catch.

I can see her. Sitting up on the bed, arm wrapped round that dumb
doll, a story book at her side. I know what she'll say, "read me the
story". And I'll tell her she's too old to be read to. And she'll say
I'm just scared that the book will have big words and I don't want
her to know that I can't pronounce them or say what they mean. And
I'll tell her that I bet I know all the words in all her books.
And...

And I open my eyes. Her hair's still in braids ready for school and
she's smiling that challenge of a smile. Daring me.

She's not there. I don't have faith. Not enough.

Switch on the radio. Doesn't do to get caught talking to yourself, or
the walls, or the bed, or Sam's dolls. A visit to the hospital and a
room with no view if you get caught doing that. Whatever you do,
don't get caught.

"Sam. Where are you?"

You can come back now. I've learned my lesson. I never really thought
that you were in my way. Not really. I need you to come home. If you
come home, maybe Mom or Dad will visit us sometimes. And even if they
don't, it doesn't matter, because at least we'll be together.

I haven't had a very good year Sam. If Dad could have a hole drilled
in my head and my brains sucked out to see my memories he would.
Aw shit, so would I. They've tried therapy, with and without the drugs.
They tried hypnosis but I just screamed until I brought myself back
awake. Dad tried staring it out of me. Mom. Mom can look in my eye
and see straight through, but she can't tell me what she sees on the
way.

They don't talk about you, you know. No one does. Not Mom and Dad.
Not the kids at school. No one. It's like you're a taboo subject.
It's like you never existed.

But I know that's not true. I've been to things, school fairs and
stuff, Mom doesn't go, but the other parents are there. They talk
about you. Or about me. < That's the Mulder boy. You know, the one
whose sister went missing. They left her alone with him and when they
got back. No trace. > Like I'm not there either. As if I'm deaf as
well as marked with a death's head.

I haven't had a very good year? What a fucking messed up thing to say.

"How's your year been Sam?" I bet it's been a barrel of laughs. Did
you go to Disneyland? Did you get a bike for your birthday? Did you
spill coke on your new dress? Did you get eaten by worms in an
unmarked grave?

The police used to call. Every few weeks. To see what I remembered.
They don't bother now. The FBI came a couple of times. Because of
Dad's job. In case it was political.

In case what was political?

"Are you dead Sam?"

I'm going to overdose on stupid today. How does she answer that?
Knock three times for yes?

If I knew something, anything. I'd come and find you. One way or
another. Kid or not.

I can hear the door opening. I scramble off my knees and onto my
feet. Switch off the radio.

His voice like a pack of nails pinning me to the floor. "What the
hell are you doing in here?"

All the muscles in my arms lock as my fingers curl into my palms. The
shiver that runs up my spine leaves gooseflesh behind, curls me up
into a hunch.

"You're in here playing the radio?" Contempt and sarcasm in equal
doses.

He steps in close, leans down, so I can feel his alcohol laced breath
on my cheek as he speaks. "You've got no right. This is hers. Your
mother wants it that way." A pause, I can see the red of his eyes.
"What are you doing in here?"

I'm sorry Sam. I can't stay here. I have to get out. I have to
breathe. Try to say it, can only mumble, "sorry." Run. Run for it.
I'm frozen.

He picks up the radio, throws it hard at the door. Plastic crash and
it cracks and the door shakes and a scar appears in the white gloss
paint. "Get out." The sound of thin ice buckling.

Out the door and keep on running until I'm out of the house and don't
stop then. The frost is already hard and I'm not dressed for outdoors
and these slippers are not for running in. And this is stupid and I
have no choice.

Survival skills. The stable block of the big house, only a mile and
not very good locks. I have a certain knack with locks. Maybe it'll
be a talent one day.

The horses make no noise at my entry to their home. I've visited them
before. They seemed to be expecting me. One of them politely moves in
his stall so I can see the spare blanket hanging on the rail.
Generous. I won't stay the night. Just until I stop crying. They
won't tell on me.

Next year. I'll find something. Next year. Will be better.