Title: Farewell
Author: Patricia Emy
E-mail: patricia_emy@hotmail.com
Category: Post-episode vignette/Angst/Character's Death
Spoilers: Requiem
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. There is no intention to break
any copyright laws.
Summary: Mulder is gone, and Scully searches the strength to go on.
Author's note: For those who don't like stories in which one of the characters
dies, this is not a good read for you.
Well, you guys have been warned.
Oh yeah, feedbacks are welcome.
Last chance to quit...
Okay, you may continue at your own risk.
- x -
F a r e w e l l
Patricia Emy
One week has passed.
Then, months.
I sought refuge from the glances my colleagues threw me down the halls.
Worry. Mercy. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Or, maybe my own paranoia, making me
see what's not really there.
Every morning I faced this same routine as I arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover
building, going down to the basement, hiding myself from the world and from
everybody else.
I'd let myself drown in my silent pain, which tore me apart each time I walked
into that office and looked at that empty chair, the desk covered with case
folders and some scattered slides, just like the way he had left it just
before we departed to Oregon.
Where it all had begun. And, ironically, where it all came to an end. Like a
circle that closes itself, he found what he had been looking for all these
years, and left, without looking back.
A bitter smile formed in my lips as that thought ran through my mind.
Why is that you keep telling this to yourself, Dana?
He did that for you.
It'd be too painful to think about the choices he'd have been forced to make.
All the guilt he believed to carry inside for what happened to you. For that
reason, you chose to believe he'd taken the last step willingly.
And, like always, he had left you behind.
So typical of him. So... Mulder.
Why is so hard to accept he's gone?
Forever.
I look at my body, which changes each day. I carry inside of me a tiny miracle
that is beyond any sort of understanding, but it had given me the strength to
go on.
Would that be a fair price for what I had lost?
A choice that had been taken away from me so long ago and now it had been
denied to me one more time?
Although I've tried, I couldn't hate him. Hate him for thinking he could make
this decision alone. Hate him for leaving me. Hate as much as I hate myself
for not finding a way to stop him.
I scanned the office while the memories of each case, each moment we'd shared,
came together in a blur of images. I couldn't bring myself to let the tears
roll down my face. I believe I have no more to shed.
In my hands, an envelope addressed to Assistant Director Walter Skinner.
My resignation from the FBI.
I wrote this letter a few minutes after I had received a phone call last
night.
It was the Oregon police.
They were all dead, just like the ones at the Skyland Mountain.
He was among the bodies that were recovered.
It was over.
Two days later, I was on my way to the small coastal city of Quonochoutaug.
I parked the car and walked down the trail. The sun had not shown at the
horizon yet, but the first morning glow was cutting through the few clouds
that hovered upon the sea. A slight breeze was blowing towards the coast. From
the top of that cliff, at the side of the road, I could see the islands and
the fancy condos spread along the shore. I checked the watch and saw the time
was coming. Back to the car, I opened the passenger's door and retrieved the
urn.
I admired that landscape for a few minutes, feeling a weird sense of
peacefulness invading me.
As the first rays of sunrise touched my face, I scattered the ashes that,
carried by the wind, descended slowly towards their final destination.
An old poem came to my mind, its pain-stricken and bitter words reflected what
was going through my soul at that very moment. They seemed to echo in my ears,
while the rest of the ashes touched the waves, several feet below.
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos and, with muffled drums,
bring on the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message: he's dead.
Put crepe-bows round the white necks of the public doves,
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
my working week, my Sunday rest,
my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.
Pack up the moon, dismantle the sun.
Pull away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good." (*)
They say time helps to heal everything. That's what I try to cling to now. All
I have left are the memories and I won't lose them as well. I still have the
child that I carry in my womb, a part of you that will always be with me.
"Farewell", I whispered to the wind before leaving, waiting for the day our
paths will cross, once again.
- x -
E N D
(*) Funeral Blues, by W. H. Auden
Author: Patricia Emy
E-mail: patricia_emy@hotmail.com
Category: Post-episode vignette/Angst/Character's Death
Spoilers: Requiem
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox. There is no intention to break
any copyright laws.
Summary: Mulder is gone, and Scully searches the strength to go on.
Author's note: For those who don't like stories in which one of the characters
dies, this is not a good read for you.
Well, you guys have been warned.
Oh yeah, feedbacks are welcome.
Last chance to quit...
Okay, you may continue at your own risk.
- x -
F a r e w e l l
Patricia Emy
One week has passed.
Then, months.
I sought refuge from the glances my colleagues threw me down the halls.
Worry. Mercy. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Or, maybe my own paranoia, making me
see what's not really there.
Every morning I faced this same routine as I arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover
building, going down to the basement, hiding myself from the world and from
everybody else.
I'd let myself drown in my silent pain, which tore me apart each time I walked
into that office and looked at that empty chair, the desk covered with case
folders and some scattered slides, just like the way he had left it just
before we departed to Oregon.
Where it all had begun. And, ironically, where it all came to an end. Like a
circle that closes itself, he found what he had been looking for all these
years, and left, without looking back.
A bitter smile formed in my lips as that thought ran through my mind.
Why is that you keep telling this to yourself, Dana?
He did that for you.
It'd be too painful to think about the choices he'd have been forced to make.
All the guilt he believed to carry inside for what happened to you. For that
reason, you chose to believe he'd taken the last step willingly.
And, like always, he had left you behind.
So typical of him. So... Mulder.
Why is so hard to accept he's gone?
Forever.
I look at my body, which changes each day. I carry inside of me a tiny miracle
that is beyond any sort of understanding, but it had given me the strength to
go on.
Would that be a fair price for what I had lost?
A choice that had been taken away from me so long ago and now it had been
denied to me one more time?
Although I've tried, I couldn't hate him. Hate him for thinking he could make
this decision alone. Hate him for leaving me. Hate as much as I hate myself
for not finding a way to stop him.
I scanned the office while the memories of each case, each moment we'd shared,
came together in a blur of images. I couldn't bring myself to let the tears
roll down my face. I believe I have no more to shed.
In my hands, an envelope addressed to Assistant Director Walter Skinner.
My resignation from the FBI.
I wrote this letter a few minutes after I had received a phone call last
night.
It was the Oregon police.
They were all dead, just like the ones at the Skyland Mountain.
He was among the bodies that were recovered.
It was over.
Two days later, I was on my way to the small coastal city of Quonochoutaug.
I parked the car and walked down the trail. The sun had not shown at the
horizon yet, but the first morning glow was cutting through the few clouds
that hovered upon the sea. A slight breeze was blowing towards the coast. From
the top of that cliff, at the side of the road, I could see the islands and
the fancy condos spread along the shore. I checked the watch and saw the time
was coming. Back to the car, I opened the passenger's door and retrieved the
urn.
I admired that landscape for a few minutes, feeling a weird sense of
peacefulness invading me.
As the first rays of sunrise touched my face, I scattered the ashes that,
carried by the wind, descended slowly towards their final destination.
An old poem came to my mind, its pain-stricken and bitter words reflected what
was going through my soul at that very moment. They seemed to echo in my ears,
while the rest of the ashes touched the waves, several feet below.
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos and, with muffled drums,
bring on the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message: he's dead.
Put crepe-bows round the white necks of the public doves,
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
my working week, my Sunday rest,
my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.
Pack up the moon, dismantle the sun.
Pull away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good." (*)
They say time helps to heal everything. That's what I try to cling to now. All
I have left are the memories and I won't lose them as well. I still have the
child that I carry in my womb, a part of you that will always be with me.
"Farewell", I whispered to the wind before leaving, waiting for the day our
paths will cross, once again.
- x -
E N D
(*) Funeral Blues, by W. H. Auden