TITLE: When You Died
AUTHOR: Mickey
CATEGORY: implied MSR, character death, angst
RATING: R, for content
SPOILERS: Through the beginning of Deadalive
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them. Isn't that a stunning conclusion?

SUMMARY: Scully contemplates life after Mulder's return

NOTES: This is a rather dark piece, especially for me. This is probably the darkest thing I've written to date. A portion of this comes from a very personal experience, so I hope that I haven't made it too hard for people like me to read. Anyway, enough of that.

I took a few liberties with the song I used ("When You Died"), but I only changed one word. In any event, if someone decided to sue me, I think I have bigger problems than the fact that I changed a single lyric in a Violent Femmes song.


I (was) thinking about killing myself
I quit believing these lies I tell myself
When you died

I must have wanted the truth
I will always love you my friend
Now that you died

But just for a day or two
I'd like to be with you
Just for a day or two
I'd like to have you alive

- Excerpted From "When You Died"  by The Violent Femmes

**

You'd hate me if you knew I had these thoughts. You'd tell me I was crazy if you knew just how close I was to ending it all, here and now.

I bought a blade, you know. Double edged, at the drug store down the street two days after I attended you funeral. I took it to the bathroom with me the tonight, still in its packaging. And I would have done it too, you know I have the gumption. I could feel the sweet kiss of the metal against my skin, all I had to do was press down.

And the baby kicked. Suddenly, for no particular reason, I remembered Emily. Angelic, little Emily dying in that hospital. Me, letting her die, even when I knew you could prolong her life, maybe even cure her. But I sat idly back and watched her die. And even though legally it may have constituted murder, if I killed myself, I would be, in the basest sense, murdering this child of ours.

So I placed the razor blade on the rim of the tub, thinking I'd come back to it in a few months. I got out, dried myself in a daze.

I don't remember how I got here. I don't remember getting my keys or starting the car. I'm not sure if I locked my apartment, or if the door is at this very moment, wide open. I don't remember how I ended up here, sitting in my bathrobe on your couch, undoubtedly staining the leather with my hair. All I know is that I'm sitting here now, missing you like nothing else I've ever felt.

Felt. As if what I'm feeling right now will ever be past tense. I can see a thousand nights of this emotion ahead of me. I can see this despair, this anger, riding me for the rest of my life.

How can I be a good mother to this child if I can't even get over your death? How can I be a good mother if I was more than ready to kill it just for a moment of respite; for my own selfish needs? I'm as bad as the mothers of the crack babies you see on the television. How can I take this child to church with me, knowing that, every time I look at it, I made a trade with God. A sick, twisted trade. One where I gave up the only man who ever respected me as a person, the only man I ever truly loved, for a child that I feel nothing for. How can I be a good mother if I don't even love this baby? If I blame it for your death?

Even as I halted my hand because I didn't want to murder this child, the child that I thought I could never have, I would kill it in a heartbeat if I thought it would bring you back from the dead. What kind of individual does that make me? Does it make me any better than the killers we've caught? Does it make me any better than the people rotting away in prison cells? You were my only reality for so long that I can't distinguish the truth any more. I need you around to guide me. Now I can feel the proverbial carpet being jerked from beneath my feet. I've lost my constant, my touchstone has been worn to dust. What can I do without you?

You would tell me that I have to be strong, that I'm the strongest person you know. I can hear you in my head telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself and return to the land of the living. You would hold me, kiss my forehead, and tell me that I would be a wonderful mother, even without you. You'd tell me you'd always be near.

And, damn it all, I will be the best mother that I can be. For you. I will smile at PTA meetings, I will take the baby to the park on lazy Sundays after church. I will bake cookies for our six year old to take to school for Valentine's Day. I will be the picture of a perfect, if divorced, mother. But no one can make me change my heart. No one can make me enjoy these things. I will pretend to, for the baby's sake, but when you died, my heart died with you. And since I'm being serious, you have to know that if it weren't for this baby, that blade would have cut a lot more than skin deep. There would have been more blood than a band-aid could ever hope to suck up.

But I will be a good mother to this baby, whatever happens. All I can promise you is that no one else will ever take your place in my life. No one else will ever warm my bed at night. No one else will ever gain my complete faith and trust. I've become a cynic, so much like you, and plan on staying that way.

For now though, I will board up my emotions, I will present a happy front to the outside world. You were my constant, my touchstone, but now just being my reason for living will have to suffice.




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