The X-Files: Echoes
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-anyway" 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 (MelTaylor@aol.com)
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 The dark-haired girl had been replaced by the auburn-haired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.
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-anyway" 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 (MelTaylor@aol.com)
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.
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