The apartment lay in silent desperation, mirroring its three
occupants. Drawers had been flung open, pictures ripped from the walls, and
dishes smashed to bitter pieces cracking beneath their feet. Scully hunched
in misery, her knees locked to her chest and red hair flung out in wild
tangles, sobbed her troubles to an unanswering God. Skinner stood with
great defiance against the door, arms crossed, refusing to abandon his
comrade – he wouldn't leave her like the rest had. He wanted to comfort
her, but he knew he wasn't the one she wanted. Reyes sat numbly in a chair,
watching the seconds pass on the clock, but not caring where the hours
went. The silence ate away at them, a void through which no sobs or
desperate screams could venture. Silence throbbed around Scully, and she
sobbed for the absent sounds, the soft cries of her baby, her William. She
cried for the absent breaths of the man who had stood beside her for seven
years to desert her in the end, she cried for the brusque New York accent
that had assaulted her ears the past year, and she cried for her absent
laughter she knew she wouldn't hear again. With a heart-wrenching sob, she
broke the silence, shattered the devastating peace and screamed, refusing
to be silent any longer. She would let the world see her sorrow, she would
let them feel her pain.