Title: Dark Places Author: Susan E-mail: susanf34@comcast.net Classification: series of six vignettes that tell a story Keywords: dark Mulder angst, disturbing content (at least it may be for some) Rating: R Spoilers: post-Ascension, pre-One Breath Archive: No archive without permission. Disclaimer: This character doesn't belong to me. I wish he did. **I originally wrote the first four vignettes a couple years ago, the fifth and sixth vignettes recently came spilling out of my muse in one big glorious rush.:) More author's notes: Those of you who know my work, know that I adore Mulder and have written many stories about him. This too, is a story about him, but much of it is a dark and disturbing one, and one that you would probably not expect me, of all people, to write. It may make you feel uncomfortable in places so BE FOREWARNED... Those who choose to keep reading, keep an open mind as you do, and then please read my other author's notes at the end. Summary: You just want to feel. ******************************************************** Dark Places by Susan ~~~~ ~~~~ cheap ~~~~ Tonight you want to feel cheap. Tonight you want to do something different, something dangerous. You look in the mirror at the dark shadows beneath your eyes, the straight line of your mouth, the way your eyes droop at the corners. You don't like what you see. But you don't care. Walking over to your closet, you pick out a loose fitting blue shirt, black jeans, and a pair of sensible shoes to wear. Hell, if you're going to act cheap, you might as well be comfortable while you're doing it. Once you're dressed, you look at yourself in the mirror again and start to comb your hair. Raking the comb across your head, you press the teeth down into your scalp as hard as you can. It hurts, but you keep doing it anyway. When you finally pull it away from your head, you can see that it's covered with several droplets of your blood. But you don't care. Tonight you want to feel cheap. You want to do something reckless, something dark. You put some cologne on your neck, shove your wallet into your pocket, and head out the door. The club you choose is filled with other people who want to feel cheap tonight, but you're able to quickly find a seat at the bar. And so you sit and you drink and you wait. You know that sooner or later someone will come to you and make their move, and you'll be ready when they do. Tonight you want to feel cheap. And you don't care who wants to feel cheap with you. Tilting your head back and closing your eyes, you let your third glass of dark cool rum slide slowly enough down your throat so that it burns. And it does burn, just like your heart does every day now. When you open your eyes, she's there sitting next to you. A brunette with long legs, dark lipstick, and a dress that clings to her in all the right places. And she's yours for the taking. You buy her a drink, then two, and the next thing you know you're out on the dance floor, rubbing your bodies together like two cats in heat, and not giving a damn who sees you. When the music finally stops, you kiss her...on her cheek, her neck, her fingers. But not her lips. Then you grab her hand and whisk her out of the club, taking her home into the darkness that is your life. Tonight you want to feel. ~~~~ dark ~~~~ Your hands slide down her body, working their way down over her breasts, around the sides of her stomach, the curve of her hips, then finally slipping them under her skirt and inside her panties. She gasps. Your fingers move faster. And then you pull them away, pressing your hardness against her smoothness, and she quickly tilts her hips upward, grinding herself against you. You grind back. She moans. Throwing her head back and digging her fingernails into your shoulders, she closes her eyes as she rides out the waves of pleasure you're giving her. You can see the veins in her neck pop out and you can feel the wetness between her legs and you can smell the alcohol on her breath. And she trembles. She trembles and screams, then collapses against you, her entire body limp within a matter of seconds. Standing there in the dark holding her in your arms, your pants down around your ankles, you suddenly realize that you really don't want to be here. It's your home and it's your life and you don't want anything to do with it. Not anymore. Not if *she* isn't in it. Stumbling over to the couch, you drag her half- naked body with you and lay her on the cushions. She says something in her drunken stupor, her words slurring and ringing in your ears, but you can't listen to her. You can't look at her. And you can't touch her. Not again. Not ever. Bile rises in your throat, your stomach lurches, and you start to run to the bathroom, tripping on your pants and banging your knee hard against the edge of the coffee table. And there's blood. Blood on your skin. Blood on her cross necklace. Blood on your hands. Blood on hers. Why is there always so much blood between the two of you? Finally making your way to the bathroom, you drop to the floor and empty the bitter contents of your stomach into the toilet, not caring about the fact that your bloody knee is ruining the yellow rug beneath you. And then you cry. For what you've done. For who you've become. But most of all, you cry for not being there in time to save her. You had a chance, but you blew it. You let a psycho who talks about himself in the third person take her away from you and lead her into hell. Asshole. Lifting your head up from the edge of the toilet, you lower your own limp body onto the rug and let yourself slip back into the darkness. Again. ~~~~ dirty ~~~~ The water isn't hot enough. You've turned the handle to the hottest setting. You've stood just inches underneath the pulsating spray, letting the water hit you in the face over and over again. And still, it isn't hot enough. Then again, it probably never will be, not after what you've done. To the brown haired nameless woman you heard finally leaving your apartment around 4:00 this morning. To yourself. To her... Taking the bar of soap off its holder for the third time, you scrub your body raw, then watch your dead skin get sucked down the drain. Too bad the drain isn't big enough to take all of you. Then again, if actually given the chance, you'd probably screw that up too, getting stuck in the pipe and clogging up the sewage system of your entire apartment building. What the hell were you thinking last night anyway? Did you really think that being with another woman would make you feel better? Just the thought of your body pressed up against hers, your hands all over her, the acrid smell of her breath as she yelled out a name that wasn't even yours makes your skin crawl. It doesn't matter that she only got as far as pulling your pants down past your hips. It doesn't matter that you refused her when she tried to kiss you. And it doesn't matter that you didn't push your way inside her. You still feel cheap. You still feel dirty. And all you can think about is getting clean. Angrily grabbing for the soap, you scrub a fourth time, trying to get rid of the dirt, the shame, the guilt. Always the guilt... Will the water ever be hot enough? ~~~~ void ~~~~ The next night when you stand on the mountain and look at the stars, you don't see the possibilities. All you feel is a void. A void in your gut so deep you can barely breathe. You miss her, and because you miss her, you've done some foolish things to yourself, some unspeakable things you know she'd be ashamed of. What will you tell her when she returns? How will you ever be able to look her in the eye again? Tilting your head back, you close your eyes, and howl at the moon, your howl, the pitiful cry of a wounded animal. And of a man in love. You never wanted it to happen, you certainly never expected to love her, and yet you do. You do. You love her and you need her and you want her to come back, to please just come back and make your life right again. But what if she doesn't? What if you never see her again? What if you never get the chance to tell her what she means to you? No, you can't think like that. You can't give up on the possibility that she's out there somewhere. And you can't stop trying to find her. Ever. Pressing your hand to your chest, you trace the thin outline of her necklace beneath your shirt and make a promise to her. And to yourself. "I won't give up on you, Scully," you whisper, your words hovering in the cloudless night sky. And then you take the long walk back to your car, looking up at the stars one last time as you go. ~~~~ empty ~~~~ You're back in front of your apartment now, your key in the lock ready to turn, and suddenly your hand is tembling. When you go inside, it will be empty. Just as your heart is. Usually when you were at home for the night, the two of you would call each other on the phone and talk, not about life-threatening things, but about unusual things. The things that most people would find boring, but that you found fascinating. Little known medical facts. Obscure details about cases from long ago. Hard science vs. paranormal science. And sometimes, but not very often, the personal things would find their way into the conversation too. But now at night when you go home, the phone doesn't ring and you don't hear her voice and you don't know how much longer you can go on like this. And you don't know if you even want to. When you left Skyland Mountain earlier, you made a promise to her that you wouldn't give up on her, but now that you're standing here in the hallway, your hand shaking so badly you can barely hold onto the key, you're not so sure. Where do you go from here? Where else can you look? How else can you stop your heart from feeling so goddamn empty? You know that going to a bar and picking up a stranger wasn't the answer, but what is? Placing your left hand on top of your right hand to steady it, you turn the knob and step inside. It's dark and cold and quiet in the hallway, and you quickly hurry to the living room and turn on the TV, drowning out the silence. Then you collapse on the couch, grab the remote, and watch through half-closed eyes the images flashing across the screen. The money report on CNN. A meteorologist blathering on and on about cold fronts on the Weather Channel. An infomercial for some exercise equipment. An old movie in black and white on AMC, though you have no idea which one. Kicking off your shoes, you slide your body down the length of the couch and toss the remote onto the coffee table, then watch some more. In front of you are black and white people doing black and white things, their words and movements gradually blending into a series of gray shadows, then finally turning into black as your eyes drift shut and your heart slows. "I'm trying, Scully," you whisper in the dark, but all you hear in response is the uneven pounding in your chest. And all you feel is empty. ~~~~ light ~~~~ Another week. No leads. No new reports. Nothing but one dead end after another. But you can't give up, and you won't. She needs you, and you need her. Gripping the steering wheel, you turn onto the last road, drive a little farther, then stop. As usual, no one else is up here at this late hour, and you're glad. You need to be alone, to look up at the stars alone, to talk to her alone. To feel her presence. You try all the time to feel her, to get a sense of where she might be and what might be happening to her, but you never can. And so you've come here tonight to try again, to the place where she last was. The place where you first held her broken necklace in your hand. The place that you've been coming to every night for the last month. Getting out of the car, you take the long walk up to the top of the hill, then look up at the stars just as you do every time you're here. They're brighter than usual tonight, and you wonder if maybe it's a sign. Is she up there somewhere looking down at you right now? And if she is, is she wondering about you too? Is she wondering if you're still looking for her, or does she think you've given up on her by now? You wrap your coat more tightly around your body, then sit down on the ground and tilt your head back, watching each breath you take float up into the cold night air. You could never give up on her. Even though you've done some desperate things, even though at times you've felt like the world is caving in around you, you won't give up trying to find her. You can't. She's waiting. Lying on your back now, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Somewhere she's waiting. You listen to the night sounds, feel the brisk wind sweep across your face, feel the hard ground pressing into your back. And then you feel her. "I feel you, Scully," you say quietly, opening your eyes and looking straight up at the stars. "I can feel you!" you say again, but this time you shout it as her presence sweeps over you again in a huge rush of cold air. You quickly sit up then and you feel dizzy and numb, but it's a good kind of dizzy and numb and for the first time since you started coming here, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time. Hope. Later that night, as you lie on the couch fast forwarding through another one of your grainy videotapes, you wonder if what you felt up on the mountain before was real or if you imagined it. Is it really possible that after all these months, she's out there somewhere still alive? And if so, what kind of condition will she be in when she returns? Just then, the phone rings, its shrill sound cutting through the muffled voices on the television. Not wanting to talk to anyone right now, you wait as the machine picks it up, then suddenly decide that you should answer it. And you listen. And you breathe. And you listen again, letting the words you hear quietly seep into all the dark places. And then you let yourself do something you thought you might never do again. You smile. ~end~ *I have never seen Mulder as despondent as he was when Scully was abducted in season two. When she was taken, a part of him was taken, and he did many things that were desperate and foolish, namely getting involved with Kristen in "3". In this piece, I wanted to show some more of that desperation and recklessness. Whether or not he would've actually done something like this during all those months that Scully was missing, I don't know, but I found it both challenging and satisfying to write this particular scenario for him.:) Let me know how I did with it... susanf34@comcast.net possibilities http://possibilities.bravehost.com/ Parts 1-4 originally posted 2001-2002. Parts 5-6 posted February 2004.