Picking Up the Pieces Chapter 7
Rated R for Rape Scenes
Mulder canceled his check out and returned to the same room that both he and Scully had previously occupied. He dropped his suitcase just inside the door. If he had had to deal with any stress over the past two days, it paled in comparison to what he felt at this point. Slowly, he sank onto the bed and rested his head in his hands. Mulder pulled at his hair. Why had he expected this to go smoothly? As a psychologist, he knew better. The chances of Scully leaving her life behind with no looking back were next to nothing. Still, the rationale did little to alleviate his guilt. Why couldn't he save her this time?
Mulder shed his clothes on the way to a shower. He had to do something. Mulder stood under the pulsating stream of water, letting it knead the knots out of his shoulders. Suddenly, he slammed his fist against the bathtub wall, a choked sob erupting from his lips. He rested his forehead on his fist, letting the tears flow.
He was at a loss for his next action. Even with all his psychology studies and his years spent with Scully, he was not sure what to do. Hell, it was not so much that he wasn't sure, he had no idea. So badly had he wanted to pull Scully into his arms and drag her all the way back to D.C., kicking and screaming as it may. Of course, this was a decision that she needed to make on her own. The only thing Mulder could do is to wait for her, and be ready to help her in any and every way at the slightest command. Sit and wait.
Sit….
Wait….
Sit.
Wait!
There was something he could do after all. If he brushed up on his law (as if he knew anything about law besides working around it) so that he could be armed against whatever this bastard threw at Scully. Mulder knew, statistically speaking, that even once the battered wife gathers up the courage to leave her abusive husband, the battle was not over. Abusive husbands are usually dangerously possessive.
To let this course of action flow as smoothly as possible, he would have to secure all of Scully's funds and freeze her accounts. Then he would have to find a good lawyer for Scully, not that Mulder had any doubts that the courts would sympathize with Scully. He just wanted to be sure to draw up a strong case against Jack. Then he figured he should talk to some of Jack's neighbors to see what they know. Well, he better leave the witnesses to the lawyer.
How did the Lone Gunmen know about Scully's situation? Scully had seemed rather surprised to see him. Mulder picked up his cell phone and dialed the familiar number.
"Lone Gunmen's office."
"Hey, Langly, let me talk to Byers."
"Hey, Mulder. He took Sam to the park. Do you want to call him on his cell phone?"
"No, I just have a question about Scully."
"Scully?"
"Yeah, how did you guys know that she needed help?"
"Oh, uh, hold on."
Mulder rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands as he waited for Langly to pick up the phone again.
"Frohike."
"What happened to Langly?"
Frohike ignored the question, "We've been checking up on Scully for a couple years now."
"Why?"
"Just to make sure she was doing okay, mostly. We always kind of expected you to ask about her," he was silent for a moment. "Then we started noticing a pattern in her medical records that indicated…abuse."
"You guys tracked her medical records?!" Mulder asked, not sure if he was offended by the invasion of Scully's privacy or ecstatic with the Lone Gunmen's ingenuity. "Can you send them to me?"
"It'll take a couple hours. Probably not until later tonight. Fax machine crapped out on us."
"Um, okay. And do you have the name of a lawy-"
"James M. Lanphere, Attorney at Law. Two steps ahead of you."
"Always."
"We checked him out, he's clear. Located near Hampton, actually. His number's in the phone book."
"Great, thanks. I have to go, but could you tell Sam I said hello. I'll try to call tonight."
Mulder worked all day tying up as many loose ends as he could without actually having Scully on board.
Dana left with Jack, almost positive that this was the right thing to do. Yes, her marriage was going through a rough patch, but they've both been stressed lately. She couldn't just up and leave him when things got rough. That is what she did with Mulder. But sometimes too much is too much.
Jack played the role of the repentant lover very well. His charm was that of a cheesy Don Juan well past his prime. In fact, that was who he was.
He took her to her favorite restaurant, the small Italian one a block from their apartment. After ordering for them both, he sat back to enjoy his red wine. Beer would not befit a desperado. That would do for after dinner.
The Scully within Dana had emerged from her hiding place with the arrival of Mulder. The scrap of paper with his cell number burned in her left pocket, a reminder of everything that had transpired over the past decade of her life. How much she had changed. How much she had allowed others to change her.
When he had ordered her meal for her, she had curled her fingers around that scrap of paper, her lifesaver.
When he had stormed out of the restaurant without her, leaving her to walk home by herself, because she had dazed out for a moment, only a moment, and did not answer her question, a voice asked, "Are you ready yet?"
When he called her a bitch later that night as she tried to clear away some of the beer bottles as he sat in front of the television, a voice asked "Are you ready now?"
When she was awakened from a restless slumber on the couch by a roaring drunk husband who tried to piss on the end table, the voice asked "Are you ready now?"
It was a sick farce of the childhood "Are we there yet?" roadtrip game.
She helped Jack to the bathroom and into bed before lying on the family room couch. She pulled her blanket around her and tried to block out the smell of beer and urine that permeated her home.
Jack did not show up for work again the next day, and his boss called to tell him that he was fired. That was the seventh job he had lost in the past year. A new record for him.
Dana stood in the middle of the apartment, a symbol of the mess her life had become. She took out the piece of paper, only to replace it quickly as Jack hollered for another beer.
She showed up to work late, again. Jack needed another six pack. But what did she care? It was not as if her job was worth anything. She had lost her job at the local hospital, due to her sporadic absences and perpetual tardiness. Working too close with other people was too dangerous, anyway. It might reveal her secret. Anyway, Jack was really protective. Well, not so much protective as possessive. You see, it was okay for him to hurt her, just not anyone else. As little contact as possible. That was the safest.
Her job was menial, at the least. She sat in a darkened office, transferring numbers from paper to the computer. A government job, the safest bet. It was not as easy to lose this job. For half the day, she sat in a darkened office, typing on the keyboard. Nothing that needed any training, much less a B.S. or M.D.
She got home late to compensate for her morning tardiness. Jack was not home, yet, when she arrived. No sense cooking for one, she wasn't really hungry anyway. Jack would not be home until after midnight. He would be in another one of his moods. It was so sad that Dana could identify the pattern, yet was helpless to escape. She left. He would beg her back, donning the desperado hat. Punish her. Yell, usually hit. His drunkest moments were in those time periods right after he had begged her back.
She was almost ready for him. The same old, same old. It was almost one in the morning. She unscrewed the light bulbs. When he was this drunk, if he had no light source, he could not find her. He came home early tonight, though, just as she was unscrewing the light bulb in the front room. Busted.
With her arms stretched high above her head, Dana was vulnerable. He punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She gasped like a fish out of water as he shoved her back, onto the coffee table.
A rage coursed through her as the pain shot up her spine. The adrenaline tingled in her. She had never retaliated before. Even with all of her FBI training and independence, she had just sat back and received the blows. Whether she had just had enough or because she knew Mulder was waiting for her, she fought. Nothing taught in an FBI handbook, mind you, but effective nonetheless. Kicking and clawing as he straddled her, her eyesight blinded in fear, rage.
He slapped her across the face, hard, leaving a red mark across her cheek. She ran her fingernails across his chest, trying to break free. He ripped at her jeans, with one hand as the other pressed against her throat. It went black.
When she came to, she was disoriented. Looking at the clock on the VCR, it was a little past four in the morning. Judging from the snoring, Jack was passed out in the bed. Slowly, she sat up, her head spinning with such ferocity that she almost lied back down in defeat. She saw blood. Her arms were beginning to show bruising around the wrists. Her face felt hot. Trying hard not to cry, she pulled up her jeans and wrapped her jacket around her body. Making sure the phone number was still in her pants pocket, she left the apartment. At the payphone on the corner, she made a collect call to Mulder's cell phone.
A deep gravelly voice answered, "Mulder."
"I'm ready."