Echo By Anna Otto anna_otto@hotmail.com 09/16/97 Disclaimer: Though there are no names in this one, all characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX. No copyright infringement is intended, no monetary profit is made. Rating: PG Classification: VA, MSR Spoilers: Gethsemane Summary: A tribute to Gethsemane. Feedback: my little laptop smiles when it gets email. Please send all comments/criticism to anna_otto@hotmail.com; I love feedback. Archive: yes, anywhere, as long as my name and the rest are still attached. Author's Note: I have been thinking about Gethsemane (haven't we all?) and I am coming to a strange realization. I love this episode. I have been denying that it ever transpired, but now, as I contemplate it, the word "excellence" comes to mind. It was an episode of distinct flavor and poignancy few others managed to achieve. This vignette is my tribute to Gethsemane, or to the period immediately afterward. Though I labeled it as MSR, I believe that it is palatable for non-shipper consumption as well : - ) Please see the author's note at the end of the story for any immediate questions that you might have upon reading it. I must warn you now that this one is not so simple. OK, and on with the story. ************************************************************************************** Time mocks me with its intangibility. I measure hours backward but present refuses to change, and past clings to my memory stubbornly. Unbending, fourth dimension slips between my fingers, impotent to stop its passage. The future it grants me is as bleak as the grief that envelops my heart. I am constructing dozens of scenarios, all of them ending the same way: you are alive and you are here. With me. It shouldn't be so hard to find the tunnel leading to the day when I didn't go with you. The power to rewrite events would be mine, albeit the rules of the game would be yours. I clamp my mouth shut as sobs wreck me. I can hardly see past the tears obscuring my eyes. The world swims and I hope it stays that way: unclear, ambiguous, equivocal. I wonder how no one notices my crying intermittently. I am not attempting to hide it. Even if they saw it, they would say nothing. Afraid that my melancholy would spread onto them like a virulent infection. Mute as their thoughts die before being put into words. Powerless just as I am to reverse time. * * * As seconds merge in minutes, and minutes in hours, I imagine that I hear timekeepers counting evenly: "one... two... three..." They are packing days away into little crates that they hide in annals of history. History that is rich with wars, famine, and epidemics. In the grand scheme of things, my impatience and worry are so insignificant and pathetically small. Petty almost, they serve as an additional weight in the common anguish of the world. I am a mere dust fragment in the endless, enigmatic universe. If my breathing ceased, the energy of my cells would continue on, unabated, while all I had been disappears. Then, I am locked in the little crate, voiceless for all eternity. But I am persistent and refuse to be silenced. I also deny your demise, so intractable on the surface. Death and I have long conversations and my night-light burns until morning, it's ironic, how intimately familiar we are now. I think we might be coming to an agreement. Time may be my enemy, but it's also my friend. Because I have just enough of it to persuade the darkness to stay away. There will be no curtains thrown over your body. You will stay with me. ************************************************************************************** Violet sun is drowning in the horizon as it shares a few dying rays with the glaciers covering the mountains. Multicolored snow, at times indistinguishable from clouds, swirls around the peaks. Giant shadows fall over the white valley and the mosaic of trees confuses the eye. At several thousand feet above the level of the sea, frosty air lacks in the supply of oxygen. It is increasingly difficult to breathe. The cold trickles through a warm jacket and a thermal shirt, into the skin and bones. My heart beats faster in protest; shallow inhalations do not draw enough air inside the bursting lungs. I deny myself the thought process, concentrating instead on the climbing. Hands and feet finding adequate support. Proceeding forward. Higher. Faster. Closer. Higher. Faster. Closer. It's so hard to keep my eyes open. I have to catch up to you, somewhere near the top of this mountain. I grind my teeth and force my torso up. It's a long way to go. * * * Winter governs in the high country even as summer suffocates flatlands with heat and humidity. Snow spreads in all directions, banishing the memory of steamy cities and scorching temperatures. Jagged peaks surround the smooth plateau on which I stand, alone. Capricious sun hides behind them, allowing the darkness to creep from the frigid menacing caverns. But the stars are hesitant to arrive because the time of night has not come yet. I am so close to the sky I can almost touch it. The clouds hover a few meters away, offering a soft and tantalizing blanket where I could lose myself forever. Yet I resist their temptation because I know there is something I have to do before going to sleep. I am reluctant to leave my safe haven, but I start my descent determinedly. An illusion of free fall beckons as I grab cold stones, crumbling beneath my hands. I have to catch up to you, somewhere away from the top of this mountain. I exhale chilly air and lower my body further. It's a long way to go. ************************************************************************************** My weak body is losing the battle against the disease. I sleep into afternoon and am loath to open eyes when I wake. I listen to the beat of my strong, healthy heart and pity the futility of its rhythmic, obstinate motion. It is forcing contaminated cancerous liquid through my veins, at the same time as my inner organs clutch at the semblance of soundness and do their job contumaciously. I do not go to work today, again. My presence there has lost its meaning, both to others and me. I do not inform anyone of my absence, knowing that they will understand, even as misconception plants its roots in their minds. Slowly, I reach over and take the phone off the hook. The despair that floods me every time a voice other than yours answers it shreds the remnants of my self-composure. I imagine your face and calculate the hours left before I see it again. Your long, deft fingers sweep over my cheeks and I still my breath, trying to sustain the sensation longer. I need you. I stare at the ceiling and wonder how many more days will I have to contemplate it. I hope very few. * * * The blood pump inside my chest has a peculiar structure and no anatomy book can explain its geography. I made special little sections for the people I love. For the people I hate. I know I have to allocate certain compartments for the victims so that it can bleed with grief for them and for monsters so that it can beat faster with loathing until it reaches the boiling point. My love for you soothes my anger and cools the raging fires in my veins. It patches the wounds in my soul effortlessly, and I wonder at the power you hold over a humble piece of flesh that is my heart. Without you, I am inadequate and weak. As I remember your eyes searching mine, I imagine that you were able to divine my thoughts. Maybe, you know that I love you. Maybe, you feel the same way. One day I will see you again and then I will never stop the words from rolling off my tongue. And your reply will stitch yet another gash in my physique, never to be reopened again. The day that I will wait for. ************************************************************************************** The world is waiting for blackness, anxious and apprehensive. The night brings temporary relief from light, concealing deformities and peculiarities. But danger prowls under its covers, seeking new victims, sweeping the planet with precise, unyielding eye. I must not allow it to notice my fear, my exhaustion. White flakes settle on me. Their mass should be slight, yet it acts as ballast to my trembling body. The remaining warmth melts them, and my clothes grow heavy, pulling me down. I shake my head and wet hair frames my face. I cannot run away from my task though every nerve at my core begs me for it. I open my mouth and catch the cold powder. It caresses my tongue and my parched lips ache for more. Such banal hazards as pneumonia escape my conscience. I hug the earth and eat snow, in greedy, gluttonous gulps. My blood becomes liquid ice. Satiated, I sigh and look up. I can no longer see the goal in sight, but I have to believe that it's still there. That it hasn't betrayed me like my flesh threatens to do. I climb higher. Just a little more. * * * The snow serves as a substitute for stars. The night swoops down on the mountain slope, and small flakes appear to be of celestial nature. Silent and nonchalant, they swirl in slow trajectory toward the sleeping planet. They are bright and graceful in their flight, but I am disappointed that real distant suns do not light my way. I imagine their anger at my treason. I abandoned them on the removed plateau when I initiated my plunge. Each step distances me from the upper atmosphere; as the altitude drops, the pressure increases. My shoulders ache from tension as I embrace a limb of the dead tree, hit by an avalanche. My knees scrape against the rugged rocks and I screech in burning pain. I do not permit myself even a moment of relaxation, because I am certain that I am running out of time. The valley beneath me is indiscernible; haze and fog shadow my vision. But I believe that my goal is still below. That it won't betray me and that I will meet you upon my descent. I climb lower. Just a little more. ************************************************************************************** In my dreams, we always run in different directions, in parallel lines. Never destined to cross. Never fated to walk alongside each other. Uncompromising science supplies the geometric axioms and theorems, and Euclid shakes his head in consternation as I labor to prove them false. Space is as treacherous as time; the borders of my physical existence are imperceptible but strangely palpable. My reality shrinks to a three-dimensional cube and I struggle within its six walls, claustrophobic and nauseous. An insect beats just as futilely inside its prison, sliding against the unresponsive glass, damaging its frail wings. The oxygen is gradually replaced with carbon dioxide, and merciful darkness replaces the harsh glare of reflected light. Once these constraints are removed, I will arrive in the place where dimensions are innumerable. There exists a certain point in time and space where parallels meet and straight lines distort to serve my purpose. It is my definition of nirvana, a magical garden where I can play with laws of the universe. There our ways finally traverse and I have another chance to meet you. Wait for me, I've been promised to be there soon. Hold on. I am coming. * * * I fight an elaborate battle with cunning demons that taunt and laugh at me. Faith is my heavy sword; distance is my capable shield against oblivion. My self-imposed exile from the land of living - and from you - which protects me even as I lament its effectiveness. Separation is a woman alone in bed clutching her pillow like a lover. Separation is a solitary man looking out the rain-streaked window of the motel room. Separation is a callous deity that feels my mind with apprehension and loneliness. It is a stalwart enemy, but I smile condescendingly at the barriers that it puts in my way. The length vanishes and the chasm between us crumbles when my thoughts turn to you, once again. I believe that there is a place that is missing from all maps. It is the point in time and space where missing souls blend together, where sequestered voices collide in harmonious accord. While my earthbound frame is far from you, my psyche is near. I can almost touch your wan cheeks and finger long eyelashes. You must be surprised to see me. Wait for me, I promise to be there soon. You must not leave. I am coming. ************************************************************************************** Beyond the threatening ridges of the mountain, beyond the clear coldness of snow, beyond the crystallized pain lies a smooth plateau. The jagged peaks that surround it obscure the sun, and the night itself makes home in the nearby caverns. Dark clouds volunteer a safe escape, and inquisitive stars come to visit from time to time. The ascent that I undertook ages ago is nearing its completion, but the path that leads me there is seemingly interminable. There is no strength left in my aching limbs, and the pounding in my skull is burgeoning. I clutch the dark ice, and my fingers slip in vain. The silence is an aching presence, reaching its hands for me, inviting me to join it. I have walked many miles to reach this point. I have waited years to find you. But I am deluding myself in hopes that patience and perseverance will suffice in my struggle upward. Forgive me, my friend. Forgive me if I don't reach the top of this mountain. * * * In my mind, I keep an image of your small hand disappearing inside of mine. Your beautiful fingers warm my palm and I want to hold them captive forever. In my dreams, I kiss this exquisite treasure and I miss it upon awakening, when my memory mercilessly provides me with the smallest details of your face. My feverish conscience blurs the edges between mirage and reality as I struggle downward. You are the fresh air that feels my lungs with life. You are the clean water that quenches my undying thirst. You are the flame that heats the cold night around me. You are the stable land in the midst of shifting stones and sliding snow. You are my only point of support in the agonizing descent. The mountains are untrustworthy and treacherous, and I am so afraid that they will lead me astray. That I will be lost in their labyrinth. That I will stumble and the tiniest mistake will be my last one. That inevitable fall will prevent the completion of journey for both of us. Forgive me, my friend. Forgive me if I don't find you on time. END Author's Note: The story is constructed as an interchange of unspoken monologues of Scully and Mulder. Any kind of stars *** indicate where one ends and another one begins, first one is Scully's; there are 12 small parts altogether. My sincere apologies that the explanations seem to be in order! Another question I received was about Euclid reference. While I am not qualified to give his biography, I will say this much: he was an ancient mathematician and basic geometry they teach in school these days is based on quite a findings. The term `Euclidean geometry' comes from his name. For those curious, I view it as a poem in prose (if there is such a thing!?) instead of a vignette. The reason for such strange classification is the organization of the story - it is structured as a poem. There are three big parts. Each one of them has two parts, one reality and the other a "mountain sequence." Each of these smaller parts has two other subparts: first from Scully, next from Mulder. 3*2*2=12 in other words. anna_otto@hotmail.com