The Withered Rose
It was a warm day in spring. A Saturday. In various parts of Washington DC, people were walking their dogs, having lunch in outdoor cafes, driving the kids to baseball practice. Groups of chatting friends sat in Starbucks while the traffic snailed along outside, cars occasionally beeping their horns in impatience. Somewhere in amidst the whir of daily life, Dana Scully tended her sister's grave.It had been too long since she last visited and she was ashamed to see the withered petals, the dry, brittle stalks that once were roses, now returning to the earth.
"Out, out, brief candle".
Scully knelt and gathered the dead flowers in her arms, holding them close to her chest for a moment. The life was gone from them. And so she laid them aside for now and busied herself with trimming the bunch of fresh tulips she had brought. Melissa had liked tulips. She had grown some in the garden what felt like a hundred years ago.
A lifetime ago.
It had upset her that morning to recall the memory as she drank her first coffee of the day, not because the memory itself was particularly painful but because she was only just remembering it. Two years on. Inwardly Scully chastised herself.
"We had lilies at the funeral. Why did we have lilies when Melissa liked tulips?" It was easier to ask questions like these.
The task complete, the flowers trimmed and quivering lightly in the spring breeze, Scully stood, unsure what to do next. She had drawn the deed out for as long as she could, arranging the flowers, first one way and then another. Nothing felt right. She thought of the words she had spoken to Mulder some months earlier.
"You know I thought... when we found him, this man that killed Melissa, that when we brought him to justice, I would feel some kind of closure. But the truth is no court.. no punishment is ever enough."
Luis Cardinal was dead now, his murder staged as suicide by persons unknown. Was that justice? Scully didn't think so. She had been so angry for so long about Melissa's death. About its meaninglessness. Now her anger had been overtaken by a hollowness - an aching void that she had thought Cardinal's arrest would fill. But it hadn't. Scully now realised with bittersweet clarity that it had been the anger that sustained her. She had been able to hang onto it. She needed it. But now…
She sat down by the graveside, so close to the earth that the floral scent threatened to overwhelm her and looked thoughtfully upon the inscription on the stone. Melissa Scully, beloved sister and daughter, (1962-1995) Missy had only been thirty-three years old when she died.
My age.
Reaching out, she traced a finger along the letters of her sister's name. The stone was cool and hard beneath her touch and she found it a cruel irony that Missy had been anything but. This grave is better suited to me, she thought grimly.
It was meant for me.
Despite the warmth of the day, Scully shivered.
The truth was, she had been thinking of Missy a lot lately. As she had sat alone in Mulder's office one morning not long ago, she had suddenly seen it though new eyes. It was very much her partner's office. His whole life was in that room. As was hers, she realised sadly. Scully watched as a butterfly landed lightly upon a withered petal before flitting away again.
Life is short.
She had gotten to thinking back to when they were kids - Melissa the elegant, feminine older sister and she the rough and tumble little tom-boy. With her effortless grace and string of handsome boyfriends, Scully had often felt clunky and plain by comparison. Yet somehow it had been difficult to be jealous. When Marcus Matthews had unceremoniously dumped her after prom, it was Missy who had stayed up with her night after night as she poured her heart out. When she was struggling with the decision to quit medicine, it was Missy who advised her to take the leap. God, she missed her. Losing her had been the hardest thing she'd ever endured because she hadn't just lost her sister, she'd lost her friend. Smiling to herself and half-surprised that she was still capable of smiling, Scully imagined what Melissa would say to her right now.
"You know Dana, the dead are never really gone. They just move on. And we have to let them go so we can be with them again, when the time comes. Death is just the next part of the journey."
Scully half rolled her eyes. Yes, that's exactly what Melissa would say. Embrace death. Accept your fate. In truth, Scully wasn't afraid to die. She just wasn't ready yet.
The doctors said that short of a miracle, she wouldn't live to see her next birthday. The placement of the tumour was just too difficult, meaning that even the most aggressive treatment was unlikely to yield any results. She was dying. And perhaps because of that, she felt closer to Melissa than ever. Maybe that was why she was here today. Maybe she was preparing herself. But to tell herself that this was the only reason would be a lie. Scully closed her eyes and took a deep breath, allowing herself to feel the breeze running lightly through her hair.
She could still see Bill standing there at her hospital bed, straight-backed and proud.
Just like dad.
He was trying hard, she could see that. He told her she looked good even though she was pale and hollowed out, weak from the treatment. They had hugged briefly. Awkwardly. He held back at first, making small talk, trying to keep the tone upbeat. Trying to normalise the abnormal. Anything for the sake of the family. Typical Bill.
"Oh! Did mom tell you? Got new orders. NAS Miramar, Dad's old stomping grounds." he said, injecting his tone with false cheer.
"That's great!" she replied. And she meant it. "Wow...Yeah, I was.. um.. I was out there not long ago. Lot of old memories."
"Yeah…Lot of ghosts now. Dad… Melissa. His voice was inflected with pain. Bitterness. Gathering himself, he added with strained heartiness; Mom's getting worried there's going to be no-one to carry on the Scully name. Guess the pressure's on, huh?
He didn't fool her.
"I didn't choose this Bill", she said slowly, raising her head from the pillow slightly to meet his gaze more directly.
His expression darkened.
"No. But you chose to join the FBI. Mom and dad sending you to med school? You were gonna be the one who saved lives." Boy, it was all coming out now. How long had he been holding this back?
"When dad died, I asked mom. She said he'd forgiven my choice."
It was very important that he understood that. She searched his face. She knew what was coming and she wasn't sure she could bear to hear it.
"Yeah? Well maybe not after what happened to Melissa."
"Oh God. I didn't choose what happened to Melissa either."
"Well", he choked out, "in a way you did."
"In a way you did". So he blamed her. Bill blamed her for Melissa's death. Those five little words haunted her, repeated themselves in her mind a thousand times a day like a needle caught in a groove. Quitting medicine, joining the FBI, getting paired up with Mulder. All the events, the million and one things that had to happen in order for Melissa to be in the wrong place at the wrong time that fateful night. She had set that chain of events in motion. God, she was starting to sound like Clyde Bruckman. Scully didn't believe in fate anyway.
She thought back to the night….the night it had happened. She had feared for her life. She'd been scared. And who had she called? Melissa had been on her way over to offer comfort and support as she had done all through childhood. All through high school. Through everything. And yet, Scully had the reputation of being the strong one. Melissa had dropped everything to come to her little sister's aid. And she had died for it.
For me.
Scully remembered the last words Bill had spoken to her.
"I don't think it's up to me to forgive you Dana."
No it wasn't. Only she could do that.
Feeling suddenly weary, Scully fought the sudden urge to lay down amongst the flowers, to surrender to whatever power it was that so wanted her to shake off her mortal coil. She had promised Mulder that she wasn't going to let this thing beat her, that she still had things to prove to herself and to her family. And she still meant those words. But there were times when she felt it would be easier to just lay down arms, raise the white flag and accept that she too was destined to die at thirty-three. In the distance, she could hear children laughing. In a tree nearby, a sparrow sang tunelessly. She didn't lie down. She wouldn't. Instead, she gathered the dead roses in her arms once more and held them tightly, watching as the crimson petals fell to the earth like tears.
THE END.