Well, here I go again with another shortie.  I'm working on a longer
story, but I'm stuck---again---so I thought I'd try my old remedy for
writer's block.   This one takes place after "Duane Barry."   The usual
"I-don't-mean-to-violate-the-dang-copyrights-but-I-guess-I'm-gonna-do-it-an
way" disclaimers apply.  ;-)  A big thank-you goes to SciNut for being kind
enough to distribute this to the e-mail club.   
     This story is dedicated to the AOL X-Philes. 

                                        ECHOES
                                        by mel taylor


     He woke up as he had for the past three nights, going from sleep to
wakefulness with the barest  hesitation between the two states.  His heart
pounded in his throat, echoed in his ears.  It felt as though sand had been
forced beneath his eyelids and down his throat.  He brought one hand up,
felt the wetness on his face.  Sweat or tears or both; he couldn't tell. 
Had he said her name again in his sleep?  He'd wakened twice the night
before, shouting for her.   The nightmares  were worse now, much worse. 
The dark-haired girl had been replaced by the auburn-haired woman.  He
still heard her voice, especially at night, just before his fitful sleep
claimed him.  
     Don't worry, they told him.  We'll find her.  
     Don't believe them, a darker voice insisted.  Don't trust them.  
     But the only one he could trust was gone.  
     All he had left of her was the tape.  He'd played it over and over,
listening with headphones and without, trying to shove aside his own fear
and frustration, to hear the clue that had surely escaped the others. 
     He'd heard nothing more than what he'd heard a dozen times already. 
Instead of fading, his pain grew even worse.  
     We'll find her, they insisted again and again.
     And if they didn't?  He couldn't even consider this extreme
possibility
without feeling something in his chest constrict.
     He dressed in the TV-lit dimness of his livingroom, pulling on
sneakers
and jacket and pocketing keys.  Sometimes it helped to walk.  It was better
than sitting on the couch and listening to the voices in his head.  He
walked the streets without fear, without thought for his own safety.  When
he passed other people, he kept his gaze on the sidewalk in front of him.  
When he chanced a glance at his reflection in darkened shop windows, he
jerked his gaze away.   More than once, the thought came and went that he
was beginning to resemble a ghost, a pale shadow of what he'd been.
     He walked without direction.  Sometimes a couple of circuits around
the
block was enough.  That wouldn't be the case tonight.  He watched his feet
and glanced up only when a glimmer  caught his eye.
     Despite the lateness of the hour, light glowed in the high mullioned
windows.  He walked up to the door and touched the cool metal handle. 
There were no answers here.  He knew that from experience, but he pulled
open the door and stepped inside.  
     A few people sat scattered in silence, heads bent.  No one looked back
at
him, and he slipped into a seat, drawing his coat around him.  A bank of
ivory candles glowed against the wall to his left, citrine flames dancing. 
 She had candles like these in her livingroom.  They smelled of vanilla
when they burned.  Fresh pain broke open in his chest, and he turned his
gaze away from the candles and listened to the silence that echoed in his
ears.  
     And when he whispered her name, it was the closest he could come to a
prayer.

                                        *end*


This story is based on the characters and situations created by Cris
Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without
permission and no infringement intended.