Rating: R (gratuitous use of the f-word, on second thought not really, minor violence, and maybe a couple of lewd thoughts here and there though, they're all Mulder's)
Disclaimer: "Him", "her", and "they" belong rightfully to Chris Carter. I'm just a little kiddie so don't go suing me because I ain't got nothin' worthwhile of your precious time and effort.
Summary: In the hands of your worst enemy, we all become a bit bemused. Mulder's thoughts while slowly disintegrating in the bowels of a consortium facility. Or is it?
Archive: Yes, please do. Just ask me first.
Comments: I owe this work to a pitiful day I had at the hospital last week.
Thanks: Muchas gracias to the Roz Scanes
for perusing this over and giving me his eternally perspicacious insight.
Kathy, for her amiable comments. Cyber pals Susumna and Willa for a just
being there. And everyone that responded with feedback on Desert Places.
You know who you
I would also like to give a big hearty thanks to YOU, the reader, for even reading this far. I swear I'm not sucking up or brown nosing so you'll e-mail me with your wisdom. Hint, Hint.
Note: If you don't know-- Magic Fingers
are the motel beds where you put a quarter in a slot and they vibrate.
"Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes but
Contagion to this world."
--Hamlet 3, 2
"Graveyard...there the wicked cease from
troubling, and there the weary be at rest."
--Job 3, 17
My wet, disheveled hair reeks of their cheap shampoo.
It's funny the things you notice when you're put in a position, forced to sit still and wait.
The smell is emetic and burns when you breath in the stench. It catches you off guard as if dragging in a lung full of frigid winter air.
My body is kept and has been uniformly tidied up. You could say this is all just a matter of fanfare or like watching the previews before a movie. It's simply a prelude of what is to come.
My naked flesh stings and aches ubiquitously. They like me scrubbed clean until my skin is nice and raw, supple to their horrifying adept touch.
Night? The time in between passes so quickly.
The nights are insufferable.
The piercing darkness of pain follows me down the path of sorrow and past the place of hope, every time the lights go down.
It seems all to often.
Jesus, listen to me, Mister fucking metaphorical.
That's been happening a lot lately.
The days are also a bitch but not as bad. I like to think I have some semblance of time. That I can actually tell the difference between the two.
I'm only kidding myself.
The deep expanses of white that surround and enclose me have fucked sufficiently with my mind.
I don't remember being taken. They must have come for me when I was asleep. Or maybe they took that from me too.
I don't know.
I don't give a fuck.
At least they left my tireless vocabulary intact.
My sarcasm has become noticeably thick since my stay here. The quarters are pleasant, but the service can get a little fucking particular from time to time.
I started to remember her again. Just the sound of her voice. No face to go with it though.
This pisses me off. I've wracked my brain endlessly only to be rewarded with a flash on an unfocused face.
She was important. She was all I had. She was---
The old familiar burning begins at my thigh. It use to begin at the crook of my elbow. I think they ruined a couple of my veins. They don't start with my arms anymore.
I'm pretty sure it's night out. The air has an especially pungent sterile, antiseptic quality to it. Distinctly clear and unmistakable. They only clean the rooms this immaculately when they intend to make a mess.
I'll try to define it.
I remember one time the blood flowed down my arms to my fingers, rolling slowly off the tips and falling to the floor with a small noise you would think came from a leaky faucet.
That had been a mess.
--- they've strapped me onto something. I'm not sure what. It's soft but not exactly what I'd call a creature comfort. More like a cheap motel bed. Something like that only smaller.
Though, no Magic Fingers by any comparison.
I believe for tonight's special occasion I'll be adorned with the straps made of some kind of rough nylon with plastic cuffs.
No leather? What a pity.
These hurt worse than the leather ones. The plastic and nylon bite into your skin producing a raw burn when you struggle. Much more painful than the leather straps. The leather straps only bruise, which isn't so bad.
The painful sting travels up my sore side and begins to work at my stomach which remembers back to events prior and immediately cramps up in small intricate knots as the substance makes its presence abundantly clear.
I remember certain things but vaguely.
I still remember Fox Mulder. Why they thought that was necessary is unknown. I would rather remember her than my god awful name.
The steady pounding in my chest begins to slow. I don't have much time now. The anxious feeling in my gut unspools in a hurry.
I remember the color of her...
My body tingles all over but the sensation quickly starts to settle and leaden. My eyes gloss over with strain and disenchantment. The sweat already settling on my brow.
I always panic at this point. Even though this has become routine I just can't help myself. I just can't lay there like a good boy. I don't think it would matter if I did anyway. Disobedience is my only escape. Even if only for a moment or two.
As if on cue I strain my hips upward and twist my wrists impetuously, wincing as they become slick with a familiar warm substance underneath the binding plastic.
It produces a cruel sound as it grates into my raw and tender skin... almost as if a rusty saw were struggling to cut against the grain of wet wood.
I've noticed I bleed a lot more than I used to.
There's a light deriding laugh above me. Blended in a deep rich tone, it drifts over me as it's expelled from the lower chest. The pitch becomes heavy as it leans down close, sending small vibrations of warm breath into my wet ear.
The bitter warmth doesn't say anything. It's just left there to drive me up the wall.
They know this kills me. They've never spoken to me directly. To them I don't exist. I'm an object at best.
I have no leverage but continue on with my insistence until the weight of exhaustion and futility becomes thoroughly apparent.
Tired and drained, I quit.
My last efforts at defiance are quickly forgotten as motion begins and an admonishing hand over my forehead keeps my head from lolling from side to side.
I know where I'm going.
It's recess. It's time to play with their new toy.
That's what I am to them.
The jarring motion of aged wheels sweeping noisily over cracks on the worn concrete floor comes to an abrupt halt.
Tears have long since lost their meaning as they roll languidly down the sides of my face. They drip over my cheekbone, down to my ear, where they follow the maze of my lobe and pool, waiting. In the end they wined up traveling down and across to the nape of my neck.
I wish I didn't cry. When they dry, the tears make me itch.
Brightness from above.
With a loud, repetitive electrical hum, it completes the atmosphere that has been ingrained into my little old memory.
The first time I saw it I thought I was dead. I can't help but giggle painfully at the irony of the thought.
I remember a scene from the movie Poltergeist where the psychic keeps vainly shouting to the little girl, I think her name was Carol Ann, "Don't go into the light! Stay away from the light!"
I almost smile inwardly.
She rented that video for me once when I had a bad case of the stomach flu. I think I slyly told her that I was much more inclined to watch the Exorcist at that given moment. The image of Linda Blair's head spinning wildly while spewing out nasty bile almost did me in.
A hacking cough snaps me out of my reverie and grim reality settles back down again, arbitrarily in its usual chair.
My eyes are disengaged, dulling the light's intensity, for which I'm thankful for. My jaw clenches from reflex and repetition as the light is adjusted by an impatient hand.
I speak in the matter of a whimper. Never giving up. The first night I just belligerently swore at them.
Now I plead.
My mouth sputtering out fragments of words and sentences at a ridiculous pace. Though, I know my cries are wasted on uncaring ears.
This is the routine.
It's all I have.
Here, no one talks to me.
Here, no one listens to me.
Here, everyone touches me.
A brief cold touch of karma in the form of sterilized rubber flitters across my eye lid. A furious wail soon follows.
I wonder where it comes from?
It's not me!
It can't be....
But it is.
I'm the only one here who makes such sounds.
Not to me.
The words are strung together in crisp accented English. Spoken too quickly for my diluted brain to comprehend.
All that is left to do is wait. Intently listening for that first sign of the inevitable pain that is on its way. After all, they have a schedule to keep. Or so it would seem. Organization is key.
I'm not fooled as the gentle probing begins.
I let myself slip away quickly and relax, falling back into the mind numbing roar of silence. Just letting myself ebb away from that place. Away from their assorted toys and razor tongued comments.
The probing turns into the vicious prod of an instrument.
I exhale loudly through clenched teeth and closed eyes. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, drawing blood, throwing myself back into the sharp darkness of my own pain. I won't allow myself to turn back now.
The prodding stops and I happily sink further away. The bright light is gone, along with them and their abrading leashes and collars.
I came to this place when I was just a kid. Or maybe not. I'm not sure at the moment, but the surrounding wood is quiet and that's good enough for me.
The grass is wet where I lay. Stray, uprooted blades cling to the forearms that lay lifelessly at my sides.
A cold wind deceptively passes over my supine body.
It's late and I shouldn't be out here. Dad will come looking soon.
I remember not caring.
A chill runs a spidery tickle up my spine as I look up at the immense star strangled sky.
I use to do this all the time, just stare up, hypnotized for interminable amounts of time or at least until sleep came.
This was my place to think, to hide, to cry. There were no scornful looks from teachers passed at me here while I wasn't looking. There were no sobering slaps to the face for spilling milk, for denying what he said I did nor for what I didn't do.
There is no pain here.
I know what they're doing to me.
It doesn't take a fucking degree from Oxford to figure it out. They're slowly chipping away at my intellect, dissecting, breaking, and taking it apart till there's fucking nothing left of it.
I feel like screaming up at the glimmering
surface above me. I feel like screaming until I am empty and sated, till
the rage and pain have vanquished all that there is. I feel like it, but
I don't. My
tongue is heavy and unwilling. It wouldn't matter if I could, I just don't have the heart for it right now.
The color flashes in front of my eyes, though it's more of an auburn.
The color is pleasant and for some reason, comforting. Embracing it. I close my eyes shut and try to reproduce it behind clenched eyelids.
I open my eyes and stare coldly, my face upturned towards heaven, nothing clicking.
I have forgotten.
My lower lip is quivering. I know I should remember. Christ, why can't I remember? This woman and I were one. We were strong together. Why can't I just remember?
The low velvety voice aching with a slight sense of worry. "Are you okay?"
Why couldn't I have told her something other than fine? Why couldn't I have held her close to me then, close to her scent?
Fine. That had always been my reply as well as her's.
This doesn't make sense. We were dangerous? Am I weak,... susceptible without her?
That couldn't be right.
I stare accusingly upwards. My mind angrily wrestling with itself.
Why is she so special? Who is she anyway? Why is she so important?
I'm not sure.
Yes you are. She is nothing. She is nobody. She is no one. Not important
A figment of your garbled imagination created to passively deal with the pain.
I stop the conversation in my head out of fear. I can't hide from them here. They've already found me. They've already gotten inside of me.
Inside my mind.
I notice the large granite headstone to my right is blank just as are all the others in the area, subjugated with moss and weeds from age and disuse.
My is head throbbing, as I search beseechingly for a name or a face.
A splice of agony yanks my unwilling thoughts back to the assaulting white walls and asperities of their creation.
I'm fucking screaming at them now.
They're all leaned over me, eyes set with grim fascination and a pleasant smirk.
At least until I shout her name.
Right in their fucking bastard faces.
Some drop their jaws momentarily while others grimace as if tasting some vile substance. But decidedly, all of them quickly regain an indifferent composure as if the word, the name, were just nonsense.
I know they've heard me. They cannot hide the disappointment in there faces.
I know I have beaten them for once. They cannot hide the acknowledgment in their somewhat slumped posture.
I most likely won't remember this.
No recollection whatsoever.
Nothing left for me to hold onto.
A stinging presence at my shoulder confirms this, as my eyes close and my brain clutches to that name for as long as it can.
As long as they'll let me.
"And for those who understand:
We shifted that day, until there was no more."
--All and Some
"The question is," said Alice, "whether
you can make words mean so many different things."
"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master-that's all."
--Through The Looking Glass
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criticism, & polite flames ( just watch the f$@'in language. Okay?)
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