Title: A Small Matter of Immortality
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)
Rating: PG
Classification: V
Distribution: Just ask.
Spoilers: DeadAlive
Keywords:
Summary: One hundred years after Clyde Bruckman's death, there's
a private little wake being held for him by the one person who
will likely never forget him.
Disclaimer: They ain't mine. If they were, I'd be rich and
famous.
Author's Note: I wrote this... a long time ago. I just found it
on my hard drive today. Originally, it was supposed to be a
post-Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose story to end all post-CBFR
stories. And then, when I got into it, I realized that the
possibilities are so endless that this is one type of story that
will live forever, and keep changing as the series goes on.
---
"Immortality is the condition of a dead man who doesn't believe
he is dead."
--Henry Louis Mencken
September 21, 2095
I really shouldn't drink, I tell myself. It's not healthy. But
what's the worst that could happen? I might die? But today is an
anniversary, I tell myself. I'm entitled. And still, my
conscious mind will not acknowledge the circumstances and
rebuttals. It's the same dialogue I have had with myself every
ten years.
For the past hundred years.
Any reasonable person who heard my real age would probably have
the same reaction as I'd had a hundred years ago to Clyde
Bruckman's final words to me. "So, how do I die?" I bent over
the table before walking out the door. I was ready for a vague
and ambiguous speech at best, or descriptions of bullets and
shootouts at worst. But instead came two simple, frightening
words. "You don't."
I laughed then. I guess I used to be a reasonable person. Then
things went strange. I could go the dramatic storyteller's way
and tell you that I had never been the same since the moment he
uttered those words, that the chill that ran down my back
foreshadowed what the next hundred years would feel like.
But that's not true. Nothing was further from the truth, really.
Sure, I did hold a private wake for Mr. Bruckman. Nothing to do
with visions of the future or predictions of death. Just
expressing my sympathy. I really did feel for that man.
But eventually, a few glasses later, I was just tipsy enough to
consider extreme possibilities. Even then, drunk and dead tired,
I waved off the possibility. I usually refer to myself in that
timeperiod as "a bit close-minded."
My theory has always been that to understand immortality you
have to experience death. But that's not how it was for me,
really. I was an FBI agent. I saw death almost every day. I was
almost indifferent to it. When I lost my baby, that piece of me,
I didn't feel it. And even when Charley died, I didn't feel it.
Not even that little pinch of survivor's guilt that I got to
know so well much later.
No, I think the first time I felt it was when Mulder died. His
abduction, months before, got me thinking about a lot of things.
And the memories that flooded in were mostly about me making a
good mother and what am I going to do if I don't find Mulder and
how am I supposed to work with a skeptic like Agent Doggett, and
maybe once I thought about the likelihood that I'll outlive him.
But I didn't let that thought linger.
And then I found him. And he was dead. And my heart felt that
pinch and my body felt that shiver, and I screamed and I cried.
And months later, when I had him again, when I had him in my
arms, my tears mingling with his, I couldn't help thinking what
it would be like to go through that again. What it would be like
to really lose him.
And I had no idea.
Strangely enough, I can't remember the date. I'm not growing
senile in my old age, even though that's what you'd expect from
someone who's one hundred and thirty one years old. It just
never mattered all that much to me. Not that his death was
inconsequential. Just the opposite. And at first I used to spend
that one day a year feeling miserable and reminding myself how
much I should miss him and that moving on was wrong. Then three
hundred and sixty four days of emptiness.
But over the years I found the one day meaningless. I hadn't set
foot past the gates of the Arlington National Cemetery since his
funeral. Once a year my credit card was charged for the delivery
of flowers. Grief over the death of one's best friend isn't
something a day can be assigned to. And over the years, I just
forgot.
....not what happened. I could never forget that. It was too
haunting. He had a serene expression on his face when they
wheeled him into an OR. At least, that's how it looked through
the blood and the neckbrace. They didn't even get to try to
remove the bullet. And, out in the hall, I saw him - his ghost,
his disembodied soul - standing there at the door. And I knew. I
knew before they came to tell me.
And the days after that... sometimes, when pain is too intense,
emotions just turn off. I stood at his funeral, thinking of
autopsy results. It wasn't until later, when Bruckman's words
came back to haunt me. It was then, three days after that awful
night, that I cried over Mulder for the first time.
That was June of 2003. And I thought things couldn't get any
worse. When Mom died, I realized I was right. Two years after
Mom, Skinner. And after that, Bill. Then, one morning, I woke up
and realized that I was alone in the world.
I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror that day. Not at
the brokenhearted woman dressed as well as a retired
fifty-something-year-old FBI agent could afford. What was left
under all that. And I found clear skin and eyes that still
sparkled, though not with the same brightness that they did
around Mulder. I eyed my nude reflection for almost half an
hour. I looked young.
That was the day I decided to die. And I did. Not physically, I
would never. I don't know if I even could. But three months
later, Dana Scully died under mysterious circumstances. Her body
was never found. No one was there to bury her, and only a
mysterious entity with access to government files saw to her
papers - her will was carried out, her death certificate signed.
And I was free.
A month or so later a Diana Green appeared out of nowhere in
sunny California. She just happened to be there when the
colonization was about to begin and helped fight it off with
information that she'd recovered from places unknown. Then,
after saving the world, she, too, died.
In her place, Phoebe White was born in Nova Scotia, Canada. She
lived out loud, probably more than I should have allowed myself.
But still, I couldn't resist living like a teenager again. I
certainly managed to look the part when I tried. It's all a
matter of clothes and attitude, really. And the red hair gave
the final touch. She was the one who celebrated the thirtieth
anniversary of Clyde Bruckman's death, and the liquor store
clerk wasn't convinced that my years outnumbered the nineteen
required for buying the bottle of whisky.
Phoebe White lived to be forty two. After her came Kristen
Berenbaum, the biology teacher. I never thought I'd teach again.
But it was a spur of the moment decision and I went with it.
When I couldn't take the dullness anymore, she died in an
automobile accident, and I moved to Mexico.
I lived there for a while, nameless and content. That, too,
bored me eventually, and I trekked down all the way to
Argentina, stopping to learn from every witch doctor and miracle
man on the way. I was in no rush.
Ten years ago I moved to Paris to devote myself to the one thing
I had left - God. It's amazing how much more spiritual and
fulfilling faith is without the threat of eternal damnation. It
brought me peace and solace.
But I knew even that wouldn't last forever. My attention span is
too short to spend eternity. And it's only been a hundred years.
How would I spend a hundred more? There are times that I long to
go back to being Dana Scully, even for a day. She's the only one
that still burns and aches within me, begging to be let out.
And she's the only one who must stay buried forever.
The french doors behind me open, and a voice that bears a slight
resemblance to the monotone I miss hearing so much mumbles,
"Marita." I take my time turning around. I never did get used to
that name. "What are you doing out here this late?"
"Nothing," I lie. He wouldn't notice. I've gotten good at it;
good enough to pass a polygraph.
He looks at me and leans against the glass door. His bare skin
leaves damp sweat marks on the glass. It's hot here in Egypt and
even in nothing but his underwear he's sweating. "Really?" he
wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "To me it looks
like you're having a drink. Without me." He smiles, then lets
out a sound that's a hideous mix of a yawn, a sigh, and a "huh".
"Marita Ephisian is drinking. I never thought I'd see the day."
"It's a special day," I say. "An anniversary of sorts."
"Of what?"
"Oh, nothing that would matter to you."
He chuckles. "In that case, pour me a glass and come inside."
So I do.
---
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)
Rating: PG
Classification: V
Distribution: Just ask.
Spoilers: DeadAlive
Keywords:
Summary: One hundred years after Clyde Bruckman's death, there's
a private little wake being held for him by the one person who
will likely never forget him.
Disclaimer: They ain't mine. If they were, I'd be rich and
famous.
Author's Note: I wrote this... a long time ago. I just found it
on my hard drive today. Originally, it was supposed to be a
post-Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose story to end all post-CBFR
stories. And then, when I got into it, I realized that the
possibilities are so endless that this is one type of story that
will live forever, and keep changing as the series goes on.
---
"Immortality is the condition of a dead man who doesn't believe
he is dead."
--Henry Louis Mencken
September 21, 2095
I really shouldn't drink, I tell myself. It's not healthy. But
what's the worst that could happen? I might die? But today is an
anniversary, I tell myself. I'm entitled. And still, my
conscious mind will not acknowledge the circumstances and
rebuttals. It's the same dialogue I have had with myself every
ten years.
For the past hundred years.
Any reasonable person who heard my real age would probably have
the same reaction as I'd had a hundred years ago to Clyde
Bruckman's final words to me. "So, how do I die?" I bent over
the table before walking out the door. I was ready for a vague
and ambiguous speech at best, or descriptions of bullets and
shootouts at worst. But instead came two simple, frightening
words. "You don't."
I laughed then. I guess I used to be a reasonable person. Then
things went strange. I could go the dramatic storyteller's way
and tell you that I had never been the same since the moment he
uttered those words, that the chill that ran down my back
foreshadowed what the next hundred years would feel like.
But that's not true. Nothing was further from the truth, really.
Sure, I did hold a private wake for Mr. Bruckman. Nothing to do
with visions of the future or predictions of death. Just
expressing my sympathy. I really did feel for that man.
But eventually, a few glasses later, I was just tipsy enough to
consider extreme possibilities. Even then, drunk and dead tired,
I waved off the possibility. I usually refer to myself in that
timeperiod as "a bit close-minded."
My theory has always been that to understand immortality you
have to experience death. But that's not how it was for me,
really. I was an FBI agent. I saw death almost every day. I was
almost indifferent to it. When I lost my baby, that piece of me,
I didn't feel it. And even when Charley died, I didn't feel it.
Not even that little pinch of survivor's guilt that I got to
know so well much later.
No, I think the first time I felt it was when Mulder died. His
abduction, months before, got me thinking about a lot of things.
And the memories that flooded in were mostly about me making a
good mother and what am I going to do if I don't find Mulder and
how am I supposed to work with a skeptic like Agent Doggett, and
maybe once I thought about the likelihood that I'll outlive him.
But I didn't let that thought linger.
And then I found him. And he was dead. And my heart felt that
pinch and my body felt that shiver, and I screamed and I cried.
And months later, when I had him again, when I had him in my
arms, my tears mingling with his, I couldn't help thinking what
it would be like to go through that again. What it would be like
to really lose him.
And I had no idea.
Strangely enough, I can't remember the date. I'm not growing
senile in my old age, even though that's what you'd expect from
someone who's one hundred and thirty one years old. It just
never mattered all that much to me. Not that his death was
inconsequential. Just the opposite. And at first I used to spend
that one day a year feeling miserable and reminding myself how
much I should miss him and that moving on was wrong. Then three
hundred and sixty four days of emptiness.
But over the years I found the one day meaningless. I hadn't set
foot past the gates of the Arlington National Cemetery since his
funeral. Once a year my credit card was charged for the delivery
of flowers. Grief over the death of one's best friend isn't
something a day can be assigned to. And over the years, I just
forgot.
....not what happened. I could never forget that. It was too
haunting. He had a serene expression on his face when they
wheeled him into an OR. At least, that's how it looked through
the blood and the neckbrace. They didn't even get to try to
remove the bullet. And, out in the hall, I saw him - his ghost,
his disembodied soul - standing there at the door. And I knew. I
knew before they came to tell me.
And the days after that... sometimes, when pain is too intense,
emotions just turn off. I stood at his funeral, thinking of
autopsy results. It wasn't until later, when Bruckman's words
came back to haunt me. It was then, three days after that awful
night, that I cried over Mulder for the first time.
That was June of 2003. And I thought things couldn't get any
worse. When Mom died, I realized I was right. Two years after
Mom, Skinner. And after that, Bill. Then, one morning, I woke up
and realized that I was alone in the world.
I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror that day. Not at
the brokenhearted woman dressed as well as a retired
fifty-something-year-old FBI agent could afford. What was left
under all that. And I found clear skin and eyes that still
sparkled, though not with the same brightness that they did
around Mulder. I eyed my nude reflection for almost half an
hour. I looked young.
That was the day I decided to die. And I did. Not physically, I
would never. I don't know if I even could. But three months
later, Dana Scully died under mysterious circumstances. Her body
was never found. No one was there to bury her, and only a
mysterious entity with access to government files saw to her
papers - her will was carried out, her death certificate signed.
And I was free.
A month or so later a Diana Green appeared out of nowhere in
sunny California. She just happened to be there when the
colonization was about to begin and helped fight it off with
information that she'd recovered from places unknown. Then,
after saving the world, she, too, died.
In her place, Phoebe White was born in Nova Scotia, Canada. She
lived out loud, probably more than I should have allowed myself.
But still, I couldn't resist living like a teenager again. I
certainly managed to look the part when I tried. It's all a
matter of clothes and attitude, really. And the red hair gave
the final touch. She was the one who celebrated the thirtieth
anniversary of Clyde Bruckman's death, and the liquor store
clerk wasn't convinced that my years outnumbered the nineteen
required for buying the bottle of whisky.
Phoebe White lived to be forty two. After her came Kristen
Berenbaum, the biology teacher. I never thought I'd teach again.
But it was a spur of the moment decision and I went with it.
When I couldn't take the dullness anymore, she died in an
automobile accident, and I moved to Mexico.
I lived there for a while, nameless and content. That, too,
bored me eventually, and I trekked down all the way to
Argentina, stopping to learn from every witch doctor and miracle
man on the way. I was in no rush.
Ten years ago I moved to Paris to devote myself to the one thing
I had left - God. It's amazing how much more spiritual and
fulfilling faith is without the threat of eternal damnation. It
brought me peace and solace.
But I knew even that wouldn't last forever. My attention span is
too short to spend eternity. And it's only been a hundred years.
How would I spend a hundred more? There are times that I long to
go back to being Dana Scully, even for a day. She's the only one
that still burns and aches within me, begging to be let out.
And she's the only one who must stay buried forever.
The french doors behind me open, and a voice that bears a slight
resemblance to the monotone I miss hearing so much mumbles,
"Marita." I take my time turning around. I never did get used to
that name. "What are you doing out here this late?"
"Nothing," I lie. He wouldn't notice. I've gotten good at it;
good enough to pass a polygraph.
He looks at me and leans against the glass door. His bare skin
leaves damp sweat marks on the glass. It's hot here in Egypt and
even in nothing but his underwear he's sweating. "Really?" he
wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "To me it looks
like you're having a drink. Without me." He smiles, then lets
out a sound that's a hideous mix of a yawn, a sigh, and a "huh".
"Marita Ephisian is drinking. I never thought I'd see the day."
"It's a special day," I say. "An anniversary of sorts."
"Of what?"
"Oh, nothing that would matter to you."
He chuckles. "In that case, pour me a glass and come inside."
So I do.
---