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DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of 1013, Fox and Chris Carter. No infringement on their copyright is intended. Their usage here is non-profit and for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Notes: Thanks to willa for making sense of all this.

---

I'm already dead, you know.

I'm not even sure when it happened. I woke up this morning. It was like any other day. Not like anyone else's day, I'm certain of that, but just like all my other days.

But as I stepped out of the shower, there was a voice in the back of my mind.

It whispered, "why?"

I'm not the type of woman who listens to voices in her head. I'm the type of woman who worries about her sanity when voices appear in her head. But for some reason, it doesn't bother me at all.

"Go away," I whispered. "Go away."

The ride into work happened in slow motion. But familiar. The sensation. Like I'd done it before a hundred times just like this. And the surprise -- or what surprise could filter through the haze -- sank in. It was familiar because I'd been here before. It was almost as if I couldn't remember being any other way.

"I've been here before." Not this place. Not this car. Here.

"Why?" said the voice again.

"Go away." Instinct. The words came from me before I registered wanting to say them.

What would you say about the voices in my head? Not to mention that I've apparently begun talking to myself.

Slow, slow motion. But time slipped by. Somehow, the car reached the garage at work. Somehow, I found my identification in my case and wandered into the building. So excruciatingly slow I could hardly stand it. The only thing that kept me from collapsing under the vague weight pressing on me was that I just didn't care.

And at that thought, just for a second, I started to care. I started to feel. The weight began to close in.

And then I was a blank. The weight lifted. Replaced by the slowness -- the blankness. Drowning in it. Drowning in the faceless crowd of people moving through the metal detectors. Drowning in something I can't even understand. Drowning at something I don't even try to push away.

I'm just falling downwards -- not struggling, just falling into the blackness. I don't know and I don't care why.

I'm not sure how or why I'm still walking. To the basement. Downwards -- falling -- into that darkness.

And there you are. You greet me. You're talking, and God help me, I'm trying to listen. A few quips later, when I can't seem to respond, a few "hmmms" too many and finally you ask.

"Something wrong, Scully?"

Everything. Nothing. I don't know.

"I think I'm coming down with something. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, Scully. You take care of yourself. Get some vitamin C. I think we might have another road trip in our near future."

Should I be excited? Inquisitive? Exasperated? I just can't do it -- not any of them.

"Why?" That voice whispers to me again. And the panic, the feeling I can't name starts to rise into the void. Starts -- only to be shoved downwards by some invisible force, just before I can feel it. Before I can feel anything. I'm not even sure I'm numb. I'm a compass without a needle -- unreadable, without grounding.

And I look up. You're still watching me. Looks like you're dying to tell me the latest theory, the latest case. All you need from me is the slightest invitation.

I can't give it to you, Mulder. And I don't even know why. A look of concern passes over your face.

"Sure you're okay?"

"Are we leaving today, Mulder?" I ask, avoiding your question.

"N -- no. Not until tomorrow at the earliest. Probably Thursday."

"I think I'd just like to take a quiet day. I have a little paperwork to catch up on. Maybe a little rest today will help me shake this bug." I hear the flatness in my voice. From the expression on your face, I guess you can too. I fully expect you to barrel directly into a graphic description of the next horror we'll soon find ourselves in the middle of, the latest case you've dug up for us. But you don't.

"Sure, Scully. I'll leave you alone for today."

"Thanks, Mulder." And here I am, doing reports, catching up on all the paperwork that always seems to creep up on us. You worry, you hover, trying so hard not to look it.

But I can't get mad at you. I should be grateful. But I can't be anything.

And before I know it, I'm back in the car. Blankness and scenery pass around me.

And then my apartment. I'm not sure how long I stood in the entryway. I'm not sure how long I've been home. I'm not even sure when I left work. I changed my clothes at some point...when?

"Why?" The whisper again.

"Go away."

Even though it's only 7:30, I climb into bed. Turn on the television. More meaningless images. A blur of sound.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

A weak tear rolls down my face. Just for a second, I can feel a flood behind it. A flood of sorrow? Of pain? I can't tell.

And then it's gone. I miss it. I mourn it. It was a feeling, and it drowned in me just as I drowned earlier.

I should care.

Another tear. I don't understand.

This isn't my life. My life has nothing to do with me anymore.

Sometimes it's Mulder.

Sometimes it's justice.

Sometimes it's the whole damn world. And you would think that would give me ample reason to care. Enough meaning to build a life around.

But it's not.

"Why?"

And it finally hits me.

If I don't know who I am, why I'm still fighting, why I do any of the things I do, do I really exist?

Why isn't there anything left of me?

---

I should be grateful. That thought, it's a gift. It gives me something I've been missing -- an emotion. Any emotion at all.

But I'm not grateful. I mourn myself. My tears are for my own life, shed as if I was attending my own funeral.

I don't know who I am.

I'm already dead.

---

end

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