Feedback to: Classification: V, R (implied?), A Spoilers: Memento Mori Ratings: G (one bad word) Summary: Scully decides to stop any treatment. Character dies. Authors Note: This is my second piece, but I haven't learned to write in English yet. So if this stuff isn't full of mistakes I've only to thanks Patty, who tried to do something against them. I know this isn't more of an attempt to write something in my second language, but any kind of feedback would be welcomed warmly and greatly appreciated. Let me know what you think! Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringements are intended. *************** LOOKING INTO THE ABYSS (1/1) By Olivia Severini severini@atmosf.ifa.rm.cnr.it September 8, 1997 *************** The piece of paper was crumbled. Mulder kept it in his wallet because he needed to know that it was always with him. That she was always with him. It was during rainy days like this, that he missed her the most, so he read her words again. ***** Mulder; I would like you to understand my choice to stop any treatment. Today we debated a lot about this question, but the wall of anger we had built these past months stopped us from reaching each other. Now I'm here, staring out the windows at the setting sun, searching for a way to pull down that fucking wall. I only hope it isn't too late. I want to live. Unfortunately I'd had the clear perception of how desperately I love life, only now that my time is nearly expired. Everything began with the autopsy of that man who was found dead, a fork stuck in his jugular. You believed in the implication of a satanic sect or something and asked me to examine his body. What I found was a tumor. A brain tumor. He had gone mad and killed himself. Perhaps to stop the pain. Each inch of his brain tissue was swarming with cancerous cells. I tried to be cold and detached like my usual self, but I failed in controlling my stomach. I guess it simply wasn't in the mood to once again stand the blood spattering over my overalls, the nauseating smell of internal organs and, above all, the cause of that man's death. I kept on telling myself that it was just the usual work, that I had nothing to do with the body lying on that table, but it wasn't enough to stop the panic that I felt rising inside me like a tide. The tide of panic brought sudden waves of nausea that obliged me to rush toward the bathroom, where I threw up the morning's breakfast. But it wasn't normal for an incident like that to affect me so deeply. Washing my hands, I raised my eyes to the mirror over the sink and met an awful stranger. Myself. You know; I never thought of my self as a beauty. My chin is too protruding, my lips have a natural downward bend that makes me appear forever worried and my physique is certainly not that of a top model. When I was a teenager I hated my Irish Catholic Girl looks, then, growing up, I learned to accept myself, setting aside the dream of looking like Kim Basinger. But the woman in the mirror was no longer the Irish Catholic Girl I had known, the Scully you worked with for more than four years. Her eyes had lost every brightness and the dark light of death had left its shadow in the circles under them. Her hair was no longer darting with copper hues, but now hung opaque on a pale and dull looking face. That woman on the threshold of death wasn't myself. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. I've still a lot of things to do, a lot of dreams to fulfill and I've always thought that I would have the time for them. With the awareness of my illness, a part of me began to think that there would still be a chance, a hope to pursue; but all this shattered against that mirror. Because perhaps I'll haven't the time to pursue any of my dreams. All that I could do was try to shelter myself from the poisoned splinters of that truth; so I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breath and left the bathroom. When I went back to the autopsy room, you were there, waiting for me with your concerned look and just at that moment I realized that you had been there all the time. That you had seen me. Suddenly the cold light of the neon lamps became too strong and the room began to turn around me. I closed my eyes again, but this time darkness was even worse than blinding light and for an infinite moment I found myself proceeding gropingly toward the edge of despair. Then something grabbed me back and the world recovered its light. You had brought me back, but I had already seen into the abyss. Now I know that it's there, waiting for me, waiting for the day in which you will not be able to defend me from its black tentacles. I pressed myself in your grasp for a moment, and I think this gave me the strength to open my eyes again and to look at the enemy's face. I was able to end that autopsy only because I knew you were there. It's strange, Mulder; sometimes I compare my life to a picture painted only with soft colours, unable to give strong emotions, appreciable merely for its order and its composure. I've never been able to show strong passions, I've always been a little Ice Queen and all this gives me an unbearable sense of emptiness that seems to swallow all my life. But then I think about my work with the X-Files, about my work with you; and I find that everything I gave for this cause had been rewarded. I have no regrets for all that could have been, Mulder; I want you to know this. I know that you are angry with me, that you don't share my decision to interrupt chemotherapy, but believe me, I don't want to turn my shoulders away to life. That man lying on that table made me understand that I have to enjoy each single moment that remains of my life. Perhaps therapy can make me gain time; but I don't want this if I have to spend it in the throes of death in a hospital room. I want to be there with you till the end; and I want you to see me again as the old Scully you knew. I need you to be there again, ready to grab my shoulder when I stagger again on the edge of the abyss and this is the hardest thing to admit to you. Somewhere I read that the most important things are the hardest to say because words make them foolish and little. This is damned true, Mulder; so true that I wonder if I'll never find the courage to give you this message. But I guess you were always there, even when I hated you for ditching me, it was only your way of caring. ***** The rain had increased. The windows of the cafe in which he was sitting were tarnished and the world outside was mingled in a flickering shade of blue. Mulder's mind went back again to the brief moment in which he had held her tight after the bathroom incident; the last one of their few and precious physical contacts. She had followed her way till the end; remaining always clear minded, remaining always his Scully. Despite the fact that she had given him the message only a few days before dying, he had always been near her and in this she'd been right. The last night, he'd held her hand and even though he had nothing to lose, he'd been unable to tell her how much she meant to him. Now he could only pray that she knew. >From the table behind his, someone laughed, breaking the veil of his memories. Life went on, there was a present to life and he knew that he still had one thing to do for her. He had to find the truth. THE END