Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Files. Also this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely a coincidence.
New York City
Saturday, 10:23 a.m.
The Israeli Ambassador to the United Nations, David Levy, was in bed with his young wife in their Manhattan apartment. Sheets covered her except for a mop of dark hair strewn across her fat, luxurious white, satin pillow. The older man got up from the bed and the girl reached for him.
"Don't get up. It's still early," she pleaded. He walked to the bathroom.
"David, come back," she rolled over, onto her back and giggled. The sheets still covered all but her beckoning arms and face.
The man continued into the bathroom and shut the door.
Rachel sat up in bed. She constantly found herself frustrated with her husband. During times like this, he wasn't expressive enough and she felt like he was being rude and ignoring her. However it wasn't just his lack of communication that made her feel isolated from him; she was still young, restless, and playful, while he was serious and focused on his work. The couple appeared to live in two different worlds; her main concern was benefits and other social galas, shopping, and decorating, while he wanted to obtain peace with the Palestinians (as if that could ever be achieved).
She was not Israeli, but a New York Jew, a fifth generation Russian immigrant. After attending prep school, she studied at Princeton University, where she majored in history. While her hot shot lawyer father wanted her to go into law like himself, she was more concerned with the parties that college had to offer, as well as her sorority. After four years of guzzling Michelob Ultras and sleepovers with frat boys, her GPA and LSAT scores were less than satisfactory.
The summer after she graduated, she moved back to her old room in her parents' Manhattan apartment, and began volunteering at her synagogue to ease her boredom. One of the events she volunteered for was a speech advocating Israel by Levy at a local hotel conference room, funded by her temple. When she first met Levy, the diplomat could not stop looking at her. She liked his big, blue, intelligent eyes that gazed into hers, as if he could read her naïve thoughts. He was handsome and dignified.
After taking some time to chat with her after his speech, he asked her out to dinner. Six months later, she announced to her father that instead of becoming a lawyer, she planned to marry one; David Levy, J.D., had proposed.
On the morning that she waited for him in her bed, she wondered what was taking him so long in the restroom. It was odd. She didn't hear anything. Not even the sound of him breathing. She began to investigate by removing the sheet covering her on this humid summer morning and walking over to her closet where she hung her white robe. After fastening the robe belt around her waist, she walked carefully to the master bedroom's bathroom door. Upon opening the door, she let out a shriek that could be heard in the former home of her great-great grandparents all the way over in the Lower-East Side. Laying on the floor, was her husband's lifeless corpse, with Arabic words carved into his silver-haired chest. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see more Arabic words written on the medicine cabinet mirror in blood.