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From: Emmalanna
Date: 16 Dec 1998 06:04:34 GMT
Subject: Anno Orbitus (1/1) by Alanna
DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and
1013 Productions. The situations into which I have placed them are of my own
creation.
CATEGORY: VA
RATINGS: PG-13 for language
ARCHIVAL: Gossamer, please.
SPOILERS: Mild ones for The Ghosts who Stole Christmas, Christmas Carol/Emily
SUMMARY: The forgotten ones.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: While The Ghosts who Stole Christmas was certainly enjoyable,
it left me quite troubled, especially regarding Scully's emotional state on the
anniversary of what happened in San Diego. This is my attempt to confront some
of the issues which Chris Carter chose not to touch.
ANNO ORBITAS
By Alanna
+++++
Devastation at last
Finally we meet
After all of these years
Out here on the street
I had a feeling you would
Make yourself known
You came along
Just to claim your place on the throne
And I have been overthrown
"Mockingbirds", Grant Lee Buffalo
+++++
Four.
Four years old.
Four years plus twelve months.
Christmas is the season for giving. For Santas' laps and "Baby's First
Christmas" ornaments and fighting other parents for the latest toy craze. For
wrapping paper festooned with candy canes and dancing gingerbread men.
I wrapped my gifts in plain red paper this year. A breadmaker for Mom,
leatherbound day planners for my brothers, a day at a spa for their wives, and
a gaggle of stuffed toys for the nephews.
An engraved compass for Mulder, so that he might always find his way home.
And, stuffed in the bottom of my closet, a porcelain doll for Emily. The only
package wrapped in bright paper, with snowmen grinning merrily.
And for myself, a very large bottle of Drambuie I stopped bothering to mix with
coffee an hour ago.
Everyone pretends I'm just fine. Hell, I do too. Or maybe they honestly
believe nothing's wrong. I suppose that technically, nothing IS wrong. The
internalization of pain is certainly nothing new for me. Who would know?
Mulder knows.
He keeps watching me, as if I might suddenly ignite and melt into a lake before
him. He insisted on staying with me this evening, Boxing Day, and I didn't
bother to argue with him.
Doesn't he know? Scully doesn't melt.
But Dana just might tonight.
He hasn't said a word since I discarded the pot of coffee. I'm glad. I don't
want to hear his awkward platitudes right now. He thinks he's keeping me from
being lonely, but his presence doesn't make a goddamned bit of difference. Or
maybe it does. Who the hell knows?
We've been here before, though it's usually me who's tiptoeing around, trying
to crack his shell. I'm not used to being the needy one. I don't like it.
Even though all rational thought left my mind some time ago, the whiskey is
making me philosophical, like a college philosophy student the night before
finals. But instead of making me feel young, it's only making me feel old.
I'm thirty-five years old, and what do I have to show for my life?
Dead father.
Dead sister.
Dead daughter.
And then there's Mulder. Who is he? He's not dead. Yet. I'm not dead. Yet.
Fuck this.
Will every Christmas be like this? I think, as I move my fingers along the
golden bracelet Mulder had given me and take another sip of the Drambuie, my
throat long-numbed to its searing effects. Will I sit in a nursing home when
I'm eighty - provided I live that long - and mourn for everything I lost or
never had at all?
And Mulder's still silent.
Something propels me up off the sofa and into my bedroom. My drunkenness
doesn't betray me as I walk with a steady gait, but the edges of my mind are
fuzzy. I make my way to the closet and open the door, then bend down and take
the heavy box in hand. I stare at it for a long, long moment. The snowmen
seem to dance in my slightly hazy vision, as if they might leap off the box and
smother me with their icy flesh. Or perhaps my mind is lost.
I return to the living room, my white-knuckled hands gripping the parcel.
Mulder is still sitting on the sofa, watching me with barely-disguised concern
and fear in his eyes. I know he thinks I might become one of those snowmen, or
have already become one.
I stand before him and hand him the box. He seems taken aback, but takes it
from my grasp. I nod my head slightly, indicating that he should open it. His
eyes skim over the wrapping, then he notices the gift tag taped to the top of
the box.
It reads, "To: Emily. From: Dana."
He flinches as if slapped.
"Scully-" Mulder begins, but I cut him off with a stare. I don't want to hear
his words of comfort right now. I just want him to open the fucking package.
I can't open it myself. It's a gift. It needs to be opened by someone else.
With visibly trembling hands, Mulder carefully removes the paper, not making a
single tear, so unlike the glee with which he opened my gift to him a few
nights ago. Solemnity has smothered our lives this evening.
The box is beautiful - a classical golden Florentine design so inappropriate
for little girls, but so enamored by their mothers. He runs his fingers along
the rim, then I can hear him catch his breath as he removes the lid.
Inside, nestled in a bed of soft velvet, lies a porcelain doll. Her cheeks are
painted peach, her eyes are painted blue, and ringlets of strawberry blonde
acrylic hair surround her like a halo. She is such a beautiful doll, but at
that moment she looks unbearably ugly.
Mulder looks up at me, and I can see tears shining in his eyes. I don't want
him to cry, dammit, but I know he will. That is who he is - sensitive and
caring when I cannot allow myself to be.
We stare at the doll together as rain begins to beat against the windowpanes.
I refuse to cry, so the heavens weep for me. Finally, I cannot bear the
porcelain beauty of the doll anymore. My life isn't perfect and I can't stand
to see the doll's childish perfection. I lean down and take the box from his
hands. He doesn't resist, his fingers easily curling from around the box. I
hold it up to me and stare at it for a very long moment, then remove the doll
from its velvet coffin.
And, with a quick contraction of my biceps, I dash the doll to the floor.
She shatters into a million pieces against the hard wood, creating a cacophany
of breaking clay which sounds like a child's wails.
I expect Mulder to rise to his feet, to draw me close and try to smother me
with his body.
But he simply sits there, afraid to touch me.
And I'm afraid to be touched.
I would melt.
+++++
END (1/1)
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http://alanna.net
"i'm a fountain of blood
in the shape of a girl" -- bjork.
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