Lonely Nightmare XI: Darkest Night
by Justin Glasser
Notes and dedication in section 0
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“Even on the darkest night . . . when the lights of hope are fading quickly . . . ”
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--it wasn't the same as dreaming of monsters, because in dreams you could see. See Scully, see Scully run. See Scully save her partner Frank from the thing that breathes, from the beast, but careful, careful, not too quick, what big teeth you have--
--Scully hadn't let him apologize for the tattoo joke. He'd tried more than once to say he was sorry, to draw her out about what had happened in the city of brotherly love, brothers were supposed to protect their sisters, keep them safe and he hadn't been able to do that, not any better than Alan had been, because everything was about him, and he had sent his Scully right into the mouth of danger, right into Philadelphia, right to have her heart cut out, and she had come back anyway, marked now, marked for life, and told him everything was not about him, and when he had found the hearts and wanted to cry, Scully had let him press his face against her, but she hadn't let him apologize and now it looked as if he had lost his chance for good--
--he wished that he didn't believe. He wished he were Scully, so full of science that there was nothing in this room but other people. He wondered if it would work like that, if it were a matter of belief and if he could convince himself that hell was only other people and not that which swirled around his ankles, purring, licking up the spilt blood--
--the blood tasted like copper, like licking a copper penny, and it leaked into his mouth. They hit him, they, not it, they hit him when he tried to talk to the Lisa, to stop her screaming. She didn’t not scream anymore. He was not sure, but he thought that Lisa might never scream again, not even in happiness when her team made a basket with the blue and gold pom-poms in her hands, and he thought “that's a shame,” because she was probably good at it in a way he could never be, that she was a people person with pretty pretty blue eyes, and all he wanted to do was look into those eyes and put his fingers in her short red hair and kiss her, and hear her cheer for him--
--it was his need to urinate that made him wonder how long he had been here. He didn't know. He couldn't tell, and when he asked they did not answer him. Was Scully looking for him? Had the storm outside lessened enough that she could venture out herself, or was she still at Alan Nelson's house waiting for his parents? How long had it been since he left? Had he gone at Alan's house? He couldn't remember. Were Alan's parents back already? Had days passed? Had he been missing for days? The table pressed against his shoulder blades and his buttocks: his lower back ached from the angle, his shoulders burned, his legs shook. He knew, then, that it didn't matter whether or not he had been here for hours or days, he would be here for eternity. He would never escape--
--you can't see love in someone's eyes. He knew, because otherwise she would know already and he wouldn't feel like there was something stuck in his throat, something that would suffocate him if he didn't keep swallowing it down--
--he could see Scully everywhere, she was everywhere, and he knew he was blindfolded but that didn't matter because he could see her, in her tailored suits, and her short, shorter, shortest hair, looking up at him and smiling, looking down and him and frowning her cool small hand on his forehead. "What'd you do, Mulder?" she said, and smiled. He wanted to answer her, but his throat hurt, his throat had been chewed, and he could not say, and he knew that she was not here, that he was blindfolded, and he couldn't keep doing this couldn't keep watching her, because then he would go mad and what help would that be? And then he thought, what help am I now? But he tried not to see her anyway--
--they did not speak, the men with the footsteps, so after a while he began to speak for them, asking them questions and then providing their answers in a sing-song smiling voice, wagging his head back and forth while he listened to them moving and grunting in the room. "Why did you do this?" he asked them. "The better to see you with, my dear," he answered for them. Eventually, someone came over put a rag over his mouth, a rag wet with something, and pressed, until he was frantic with the need for air, and then they took it away. He stopped speaking, then--
--he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't like this. Even in his memories of childhood, his first day of school, his tenth birthday party, Samantha's abduction, his arms burned and his breath came in rushed harsh gasps. This pain had been there all the time, in his every conversation with her, just waiting for the right time to come to the surface, to reveal itself and show him the truth about himself, that he was weak, that he was a failure, that he was worth no more than this--
--the room was never empty. He wanted it to be, he wanted to be alone so that he could think of Scully and how she would find him, and cry with self pity, and stop being so damn afraid, but the room was never empty, he was never alone. The beast that breathed was always there, just waiting for the others to leave so that could climb up on the table with him and walk back and forth, stalking around him like a cat stalks along a fence top. It would taste him, his wrist where the blood seeped, his forehead, where the sweat beaded above his brow, with a long serpentine tongue, and he would flinch away and not scream and know that it was smiling. Smiling and waiting until it was hungry again. He thought maybe it was better than none of those kids had been found. Maybe they had gone insane from this--
--he thought that he had never understood this, that maybe Scully would understand better than he was what was happening to him, and what it meant. He had been kidnapped, sure, that he understood, but there was something else here, something that he felt in the pit of his stomach, something that maybe had been watching him when he looked at a bloody handprint on Alan Nelson’s door. Something that was waiting for him. And Mulder thought that even though Scully was a scientist she would understand this better, because, although he had thought he knew what she meant, he was realizing now with every breath that he had never really understood the nature of evil--
--leavemealoneleavemealoneleavemealone--
--as long as there were footsteps he was okay. He hadn't wanted the footsteps because footsteps meant men and men meant bad things for Lisa, very bad things, but it had been one of the times when there were no footsteps and Lisa had been crying softly on the table next to him, and he had been trying to whisper to her, when he had heard the soft sound, the wet sound, and the end of Lisa's crying. He had smelled a smell he was too familiar with, the smell of copper, and he had been afraid then, that there would be breath again, breath on his throat, and when the footsteps had come back he had been grateful. The men reeked of evil, but they did not bite--
--he knew that there would be a time soon when he no longer hoped for rescue, for Scully on her white horse, when he would hope only for death. In the meantime, he counted footsteps and hoped that Lisa had gone to heaven--
--outside there would be snow piled high in the road and blowing from the rooftops. The whole town would look like something out of a fairytale, off a greeting card, something perfect and pristine and flawless, and Scully would step off the porch and onto the walk and shade her eyes from the bright cold winter sun, and she would smile at him and say "What did you do, Mulder?" and he would smile back and say--
--he is sorry, Scully. He is sorry--
***end 11/13***
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