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Notes I (1/1)
by Octavian
It's almost over.
The Goodwill people have already left, hauling my meager assortment of household appliances and electronic equipment with them. My clothes - with the exception of the ones I'm wearing and the outfit hanging on the bedroom door - have already been given away. Most importantly, the little nothings and mementos I've collected over the years have been carefully placed in three small boxes. One for each of the important people in my life. The *only* people in my life, really. Each box with a note explaining my decision, asking forgiveness, wishing them the best. Theyeach deserve the best. Especially her.
I walk over to the coffee table, sitting down and opening the largest of the cardboard containers - still only the size of a shoebox - slowly tracing the outline of the name on the envelope that rests on top. Scully. The splash of water that drops on to the envelope startles me because I thought I'd run out of tears months ago. Obviously, I was wrong.
As I slowly sift through the contents of the box, the memories associated with each item assault me:
The page from my old '365 Dirty Jokes a Year' calendar with the date March 6, 1992. A day that changed my life. The first time I met her. She was young, fresh-faced and optimistic. I couldn't help feeling jealous of her.
I'd wished I could be that happy.
"Superstars of the Superbowls". My pathetic excuse for a get well gift after she woke from a coma that had nearly killed her. I wanted to get her flowers, jewelry, lavish gifts. To drop to my knees by the side of the bed and tell her how much I'd missed her, how much I needed her. How much I loved her. But I didn't. I still couldn't open myself up to her that way, so I kept my feelings deeply buried and played my smart-ass role to the hilt. As I held her hand, she smiled at me; a radiant look filled with joy, trust. Love? I thought that as long as she looked at me like that...
I might actually be happy someday.
A turquoise Navajo fox fetish. Albert Hosteen had given it to me after my ordeal in the desert and I gave it to her that Christmas. It was my way of telling her that Fox belonged to her; that I belonged to her. I couldn't put it in to words, but she understood. She hugged me tight and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.
As I held her, I was happy.
The small, metal vial that held a computer chip suspended in deionized water - the chip that, when implanted into the back of her neck, cured the cancer that had almost taken her from me. Even though there has been no sign of the dreaded disease in the last twelve years, the implications of what that chip can do still hang over our heads like the Sword of Damocles. But even those frightening potentialities weren't enough to put a damper on the joy I felt at the news of her remission.
She lived, therefore, I was happy.
A worn and yellowed slip of paper, the penciled numbers faded to illegibility. Not that it matters; I've long since memorized them: 83.00s 63.00e 326 Feet. The coordinates of the gargantuan alien ship that held the bodies of hundreds of humans being used as hosts for the gestation of an alien organism. And Scully. I had pulled in every favor, made promises I knew were impossible to keep, spent every penny I'd ever had and many I had yet to make, to get to Antarctica in the winter where I was told Scully was being held. I went there prepared for anything; prepared to die in order to save her life. It was there, lying on the ice as she held me in her arms that I admitted to myself what I had been ignoring all along:
Without her, I could never be happy.
Finally, I'm holding the most precious memento of all: an engraved invitation.
Ms. Dana Katherine Scully & Mr. Fox William Mulder
request the honor of your presence
as they celebrate their marriage
Saturday, September Ninth,
Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Nine.
After our return from Antarctica and the reopening of the X-Files, I was determined not to hide my feelings from Scully any more. Thank God she had decided the same thing about her feelings for me. We took it slow: dating for several months before finally becoming lovers. It was after our first time together that I proposed. I had been thinking about it since her return, going over the words in my mind like a mantra, but when the time came, I found myself simply staring down into her eyes from where I lay atop her and saying: "Marry me." The shock in her expression was quickly replaced by joy as she accepted and we immediately began to make plans.
On the day of our wedding, I was the happier than I ever thought possible.
Closing the lid, I think of the two items I haven't put in the box:
The first is a newspaper clipping dated over two years ago - my mother's obituary. The damage done by the massive stroke she'd had eleven years earlier finally killed her. For weeks I was numb, unfeeling and dry-eyed as I went through the motions of burying her and settling her estate. Throughout everything Scully was there; her constant loving presence kept me going. When the reality of my mother's death finally caught up with me, I broke down and wept like a lost child. Scully held me, rocked me, comforted me. As always, she was my strength, my foundation.
She restored my happiness.
The other is a PCR scan - the DNA test results for a woman who was who died just seven months ago when she appeared on I-95 - seemingly out of nowhere - and was fatally struck by a Highway Patrol car. All she wore was a gown bearing the name of an exclusive and costly private sanitarium in Philadelphia. The hospital records showed her name as Elizabeth Anne McCall, born in 1963. She had been admitted in the spring of 1979 when she was only 16, the man who claimed to be her guardian told the staff that she was the daughter of a prominent family that wanted her well cared for, but out of the way. He set up an account to make automatic monthly payments to the facility and a PO box where any correspondence could be directed. Then he left, never to return; that was the last time Elizabeth McCall would have visitor.
The doctors diagnosed her as delusional schizophrenic because it seemed all she ever did was babble and scream about bright lights and little gray men who took her away to experiment on her. The remainder of her tortured life would consist of nothing but sedatives, therapy and restraints.
Samantha.
Since no next of kin could be contacted quickly, the hospital gave the okay for an autopsy to be performed. When the woman's blood and tissues were typed to determine her organ donor compatibility, the anomalous results confused and frightened the hospital staff and were brought to the attention of the health department. Her records showed that her guardian had brought recent x-rays with him at the time of her admittance, so she had never been x-rayed during her time at the sanitarium. So the hospital was shocked when the autopsy revealed she had small, unidentifiable pieces of metal in her stomach, gums, nasal passage, and the back of her neck.
Implants.
As an Assistant Director, Scully has the X-Files division under her command. Her agents brought this case to her attention immediately, and when she saw a picture of the victim, she knew. Just as I had tried to protect her so many times when we were partners, so she tried to keep the news from me for as long as possible, until she had incontrovertible, scientific proof. Using hair she took from my brush, she had my DNA analyzed to see if it in any way matched that of the victim; and it proved that she was my sister. The sister that I'd convinced myself was alive and well, that had a husband and children of her own, that didn't want or need me in her life anymore. Just another lie in a life which has been nothing more than 49 years of lies. When Scully broke the news to me, I realized I'd done the one thing I'd sworn to myself I'd never do: I'd given up on Sam.
Like all things, happiness ends. Mine did that night.
As a psychologist, I know what happened: major clinical depression. I became taciturn and withdrawn; I stopped eating regularly; my insomnia, which had become less of a problem over the years, returned with a vengeance. After three months of my monosyllabic replies and lack of interest in anything, Scully tried to break through to me. Continuing her litany of absolution - it wasn't my fault, there was nothing I could do, I shouldn't blame myself, I did the best I could, etc. - she tried so hard to remind me how much she loved me. I know she did; I know she still does. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't take the pain away.
Finally, she suggested I seek professional help. Of course, being the kind of woman she is, she said 'maybe *we* should see someone' not 'maybe *you* should see someone'. It would make things better, I know it would. An intensive course of counseling and medication is what I need, is what I would prescribe for this patient if he weren't me. Therapy, drugs, possibly restraints. Just like my sister.
With the memory of Samantha's years of psychiatric imprisonment haunting me like a specter, the thought of turning my already-damaged psyche over to a professional was terrifying. In my fear, I lashed out at the one person in my adult life who ever loved me unconditionally: my wife. I felt betrayed that she would even consider letting the same kind of charlatans who dismissed my sister's memories as the ramblings of a psychotic, have their way with me. The same kind of charlatan that I spent years in Oxford becoming.
I screamed at her. God forgive me, I screamed at Scully with a degree of hate I'd never heard from myself, even when addressing my enemies. Even worse, I blamed her. I blamed her for diverting me from my quest, for letting me think that I could live a normal life. I accused her of using the guise of friendship and love to break down my defenses and slowly undermine my determination to find the Truth.
I stood on the porch of our home, yelling at her as she continued to try and calm me. I couldn't take her concern anymore; I didn't deserve it. She wouldn't leave on her own, so I had to push her away. I remembered the case of Melissa Rydell so many years ago: a deluded, psychotic woman who was supposedly so in touch with her past lives, that she could bring up any of her past incarnations without hypnosis. And in all of those lives she was with me, her soulmate. Being the gullible fool that I am, I had myself regressed and bought into her psychosis - 'remembering' my previous selves as always romantically connected with Melissa while Scully was nothing more than a friend or sibling or parent. In a word, Scully thought it was bullshit, and over the years since that terrible time, she convinced me that she was right.
I wanted to believe.
But that night on our porch, I told her that those past lives of mine were real. That Scully and I were never meant to be more than close friends and that becoming lovers and, even worse, husband and wife, was the biggest mistake I had ever made in my life - any of them. If there was a more hurtful, cruel thing I could have said to her, I don't know what it is. When I said those terrible words to her, she shrank from me, recoiling in horror as she had never done when faced with the most dangerous and frightening situations when we worked on the X-Files. In retrospect, I realize just what I was doing: I was severing the ties, preparing her for my leaving and even trying to hurt her so much that she would actually want me to go away and never return. With a final, gut-wrenching shout of "I wish I'd never met you!" I tore the wedding ring from my finger and threw it into the bushes surrounding the front of the house. When I turned my back and began to run away as fast as I could, I kept waiting to hear her call my name.
There was nothing but silence.
I walked around the neighborhood all night, finally returning to the house before dawn. Scully's car was gone and the lights were out. I didn't know whether she had gone to her mother's or was out looking for me, but I knew I had to act quickly. We kept a large amount of cash in the house - very well hidden - just in case we ever had to leave at a moment's notice and didn't want our ATM withdrawals or credit cards traced. It had come in handy occasionally over the years, and I took advantage of it one last time. I took my half of the money, clothes, and my laptop, as well as some photographs and the trinkets which now fill the boxes before me. I left my wallet with my driver's license and credit cards still inside, along with a note telling Scully that I just had to get away for a while, to find a way to make the pain stop so I could stop hurting her. Then I went outside and spent over an hour searching through the shrubs and grass, trying to find the ring I'd so stupidly taken off. I didn't put it back on - I don't deserve to wear it anymore - so I'll wait until it's over and let Scully decide if she wants to put it on my finger one last time. I hope she will.
I need to get off the couch to double check the apartment. It took some work to find a place that would rent a fully furnished apartment to me that wasn't an absolute dive, but that also didn't require some kind of credit check. It's a small one bedroom with a scenic view of the alley, but it's clean; especially since I spent yesterday scouring the whole place from top to bottom. The kitchen looked cleaner than it had when I moved in, not hard to do when I never cooked anything in it and the only food that ever saw the inside of the refrigerator were take out cartons, and even that was a rarity. The living room is equally spotless. I
unlock the front door as I pass by - don't want to lose the security deposit because of the damage done when someone busts down the door to get in. I've left a set of instructions for the landlady to return the deposit to Scully, along with some money and a card for 'Crime Scene Cleanup'. Mrs. Kwok did me a huge favor by renting to me; the least I can do is make sure she won't have to deal with the aftermath.
I check the bedroom next. I just washed the sheets yesterday and the bed looks boot camp perfect. Ironic considering I never slept in it once since I moved in. The suit on the back of the door is fresh from the dry cleaners and should fit perfectly since I had it altered just last week. Eating has never been a priority in my life and the last few months has seen it fall even farther down my 'to do' list. As a result, my clothes all hang off me like I'm a teenager trying on Dad's suits.
While I'm in the bedroom, I switch on the clock radio and tune in the local NPR station. Like me, Scully has very eclectic taste in music, but she always loved to have classical playing while she was in the tub - either alone or with me. It suddenly seems fitting that I should do the same.
In the bathroom, I run the water in the tub as hot as I can stand and turn to look at myself in the mirror as I undress. The shorts and t-shirt go into the trash along with the aspirin bottle I had emptied an hour or so earlier. Just a little blood thinner for insurance. I don't recognize the man standing before me anymore. He's a contradiction: hair recently trimmed, face freshly shaved, he appears neat and put together. I don't have to look much closer to see the prominence of the ribs underneath the pasty skin, the dark purple shadows under the bloodshot, lifeless eyes. I follow the movements of the large, long-fingered hands in the steam-fogged mirror as they run gently over his face and upper body, down his torso and hips, taking inventory of all the changes that his anatomy has undergone in not quite half a century. Most importantly, I notice that the hands are calm and steady in their inspection. There is no hesitancy, no fear.
It is time.
I've already checked the sharpness of the straight razor the way my father taught me - it neatly severed a hair with just a light touch. It'll do nicely. I turn off the water and consider turning off the lights as well, but I need to see what I'm doing. I don't want to fail at this as I've failed at so many other things before.
The water is scalding hot, but the pain is irrelevant. I sink as far as I can into the tub, causing my knees and a good portion of my legs to stick out of the water, but most of my body is submerged and getting warmer with each passing second. The heat causes my skin to turn red where the water touches it and I raise my leg out of the water slightly, noting the way the red cuts across my thigh as if I had been dipped in paint. This flush will soon be replaced by a different kind of red.
The radio announcer is describing the next piece to be played. I can't understand everything he's saying, but I do clearly hear the words 'Mozart' and 'Flute'. Ah, 'The Magic Flute', one of Scully's favorites. I'm smiling for the first time in months as I unfold the razor, holding it firmly in my left hand. I'm right handed, so I figure I should make the first cut with my left in case the blood loss affects my motor skills.
Laying my right arm in the water between my legs, I give it a few moments to warm up before laying the razor on my wrist. I can see the vein running up the inside of my arm and I follow it with the blade, stopping at the crook of my elbow. The scarlet blooms from my arm, mixing with the eddies of water and fading to pink. Damn! The pain is worse than I expected, but not nearly bad enough to stop me. I need to move more quickly now; switching the razor to my right hand and leaning forward to keep both arms submerged as I make my final cut. My hot blood is almost cold in comparison to the water surrounding me and I can almost feel my body temperature dropping already.
It's hard to keep blood from splashing on the tiles as I place the folded razor in the soap dish and lay my arms back in the water at my sides. My heart is pumping wildly, trying to keep my rapidly diminishing supply of blood circulating, but simply forcing it out more quickly. The edges of my vision are darkening and as I close my eyes, I remember another time when I was laying it a tub, listening to classical music.
It was our honeymoon. Scully had filled the giant old fashioned tub with vanilla scented oil and we had simply snuggled together, taking quietly about the day behind us and our plans for the future. Then the beginning strains of Ravel's 'Bolero' came over the radio and we had laughed together as she began to describe to me how that piece had come to be known as one of the most erotic compositions ever written. And then she showed me just how effective it was.
That night, I made love with my wife for the first time. As I quickly grow colder and the sound of my heartbeat becomes fainter, my nose smells not blood, but vanilla; I hear not Mozart, but Ravel; and I see my beautiful Scully above me. Her smile wide and full of joy as she makes love to me.
I am happy again.
END