Title: What Dreams May Come
Author: RavishinglyRood
Category: X-Files
Genre: CSM
Authorlink: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/52199/

Summary: I have this idea for a fic, and I don't know if I should do it or not. So I'm asking you, the readers. 10- year-old William is seeing things. Things he shouldn't be seeing. And he can't figure out why he is so different.  

Author's Note: I have this idea for a story, but I don't know if I want to write it because I don't know if there would be enough interest in it.  It would be all about an eleven year old William and his search for his birth parents and answers to why he is so strange. Along the way he would meet familiar faces, and a familiar face or two might be co-stars from the afterlife. This is a short little "prologue" type piece that kind of gives you a very brief glimpse of this story would be like.  If there is enough interest, I might be prompted to write the whole thing. So tell me what you think. Do you think this would be a good idea for a full fan fic epic or not?

10/13/11—All About Me

I have to write this journal entry for my teacher. I am kind of nervous right now, because I don't know what to say. I'm not a very good writer. My name is William. I am ten years old, and I'll be eleven  in a few months. I like being in the fifth grade, and next year I will be in sixth. That is kind of scary. It's not as scary as some of the dreams I have though. I have really bad dreams. Sometimes, during the day, I get scared just thinking of my dreams. My mom says not to worry, because dreams can't hurt you, but it feels like my dreams can. They haven't hurt me that I know of, but it feels like they could. I don't know. It's hard to explain.  Anyway, I love my mom, dad, and my dog Moby. Moby is almost as old as I am.  Well, I think I've wrote enough. I don't really like writing, but Mrs. Wildon says we have to do this. I think I'm going to work on my reading and try not to think of my dreams.  Especially not the ones with the man holding a cigarette.

The woman looked up at the clock, and she couldn't believe how it had gotten so late so quickly.  It seemed like she had only sat down with the paper, and now a whole hour had flown by. It was late, she was tired from work, and her son would not want to get up in the morning if he wasn't in bed soon.

"William," she said, folding the paper up in her lap.

"Yeah?" the boy said, lifting his head up. He was lying in the floor watching a television show about policemen.

"It's time for bed. Go put your jammies on, and I'll come tuck you in."

"Mom, please!" he said indignantly.  "I'm almost eleven.  Don't tell me to put on my 'jammies'."

"You won't be eleven for seven more months," his mom replied. "And stop stalling."

William sighed, but he knew it was better not to argue with her.  He had just gotten ungrounded for playing with firecrackers at his friend's house, and he would rather not be in trouble again so soon.  He sulked off to his room, changed his clothes, and climbed into bed to await her goodnight kiss.  As much as he protested, he did rather enjoy the kiss.

His mom came in just as he was pulling the covers to his chin. She smiled at him, straightened the covers out, and sat down on the bed beside him. "Goodnight, William," she said gently.

"Goodnight," he replied.

Usually the woman bent over to give her son a kiss goodnight, but this night she didn't. Instead she rested her hand on his forehead.  Her hand was warm and soft, but William wondered why it was on is face. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm seeing if you have fever."


"Do you feel all right?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You were just quiet tonight. You've been quiet a lot lately. I was afraid something might be wrong, since we usually can't shut you up," she said.

"I'm fine, though. I promise."

"You'd tell me if there was something wrong, though, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course I would."

"All right," the woman said. She gave her son a kiss on the forehead and stood up to leave the room. Just after she turned off the light, her son spoke.

"Hey, Mom, does Dad have a sister?"

"Why no," she said, turning back to face her son. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason.  Do you have a sister?"

"Aunt Janet."

"I meant besides Aunt Janet."

"No," the woman said.

"Oh," William said, disappointed.  


William shook his head. "No reason. Just wondering."

"Come on, William. There has to be a reason why you asked."

"You wouldn't…did you have any kids before me?  I mean, I know I'm adopted, but did you and Dad have a daughter or something before you got me?"

"No, you're the only child we've ever had unless I have kids I don't know about.  Why are you asking these things, William?"

"I don't know if I should tell you," the boy said quietly.

"Honey," his mother said, kneeling next to the bed. She took his hand firmly in hers. "You can tell me anything."

"You sure?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well…" It was hard to say it aloud, but with her hand on his seemed to make pulling the words out easier. "Sometimes, ever since I was really little, there's this angel that comes visits me.  She's really nice, and she doesn't say much, but she looks like a little girl.  She looks like she's about my age or younger.  Well, I got curious the other day, and I asked her who she was. She said she was my dad's sister."

"Oh, really?" the woman said, feeling relieved. She had been worried someone was filling her son's head with lies about their family; instead he just had an overactive imagination. He always had an overactive imagination, which was both part of his charm and the trials of raising him.  It was also why so many of his recesses were spent inside.

"Yeah," William replied. "She says her name is Samantha."

The woman smiled, and she patted her son on the chest. "Well, William, honey, you just tell Samantha that she's mistaken. She's not related to either of us, no matter what she thinks.  She must have her stories mixed up. Angels do that, you know."

William laughed, mostly because his mom tickled his chest.

"Now go to sleep, okay, honey?"

"All right, Mom," he said, "but I got one more thing. Did you…did you know Grandpa?  You know, Dad's dad…did you know him while he was still alive?"

"Yes, I did. He died a few years after your father and I were married."

"Oh," William said.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason. It's just…when he was alive…did he smoke a lot?"

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