My apologies if this is received twice. I tried posting it last night and I don't think it went through. ******************** TITLE: Swallowed Screams AUTHOR: SummerQ EMAIL ADDRESS: peace56@hotmail.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, yes anyplace else please let me know. SPOILERS: Anything having to do with the night Samantha was taken. RATING: PG-13 (*very* mild profanity, discussion of serious topic). CONTENT WARNING: None. CLASSIFICATION: Story and angst. Pre-XF SUMMARY: How could a mother just stand by and watch her daughter be taken? DISCLAIMER: I do not own anyone in the Mulder family, the X-Files, or any entity related thereof. This is not for profit. Any elements recognized as being from the X-Files belong to the Fox Network, Chris Carter, and 1013. Thanks go to Meredith for being a great editor. This story is for JJ. May you have strength and peace. You will be sorely missed. Feedback will be loved, cuddled, and generally cosseted at peace56@hotmail.com . Flames will be discarded. ********************* Swallowed Screams (1/1) by SummerQ The day Samantha will be taken, I make dinner. That in and of itself isn't so unusual. I love to cook and am never happier than when I am up to my elbows in flour, oil, or tomato sauce. We have enough money so that we could hire someone, but I don't. I never will, not even on special occasions. I won't tell the children why tonight is a special occasion, but we all know it is. Everything is perfect. Everyone is nice. After I have washed all of the pots and pans, I lock myself in the bathroom and vomit until my stomach is empty. I brush her hair tonight, and help her braid it so that it won't get tangled while she sleeps. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes...the rhythm soothes her into sleepiness and her eyes are half closed as she sits on her wicker vanity stool. I watch her face in the mirror, hungrily taking her in, trying to absorb her into myself. I want to take her and run away, to leave. I want to smash something. Some faces, some heads, some of their goddamned spaceships. Instead, I show her the ribbons I bought today. Red is her favorite color. I help her into what she's always called her "princess" nightgown. It is long and white, with lace on the front. Then I go to my room, leaving her with instructions to brush her teeth and wash her face. I stand in front of the dresser, and fasten one small emerald to my left ear. I am groping for the other when, in the mirror, I see Bill come up behind me and reach towards my shoulder. "Don't touch me." Our eyes catch and hold for a long moment before his hand drops and he turns away. The smell of whiskey lingers in the air. Liquid courage. The bastard. I was forced to make a choice. An impossible choice. One of my children, or five children picked at random from Samantha's school. I almost picked the latter. Guilt drove me to choose one of my babies. After all, Bill wasn't the only person they needed a hold over. I run a brush through my hair, and go back to Samantha's room. "Ready for bed?" She's sitting on the floor, struggling with the new camera that we bought just the other day. Fox is beside her, protesting that she's doing it wrong and trying to grab it from her. Before their squabble can break out into a full-fledged fight, I kneel beside them and show her how to load the film properly. She smiles at me. "You look pretty mom. Can I take your picture?" "Of course." She takes a picture of me. Then she takes a picture of me and Fox. Then I take a picture of her and Fox. Then we all sit against the side of her bed and I hold the camera at arm's length. "Say "cheese!" I say. "Say mushy-smelly-leather-skinned-that-only- adults-who-have-lost-all-their-taste-buds-would-like- brie-cheese." Fox sings out in one breath, with an angelic smile on his face. The flash goes off in time to catch Samantha's giggles and my look of amused semi-reproach. What rhetorical talents that boy has. My smile fades as I catch sight of their father in the doorway. I quickly stand up. "Ok kids, it's almost time for your father and I to go over to the Galbreds'. Bill, I'll meet you downstairs in about five minutes." He is reluctant to go, but does. He knows that he has forfeited his right to be there. A cold feeling is burning inside me, like the brief searing sensation you feel when you touch your tongue to a frozen pole. I have already touched my tongue to the metal; I am now waiting for the skin to be ripped away. I turn to the children. Though Fox has been insisting that he is too old to be hugged for almost a year now, I override his protests and settle us on the bed. The lights are off and there are no passing cars to obscure the silence. I breathe deeply, smelling Samantha's shampoo, the faint odor of Fox's sweat, my perfume. We have never been a religious family. I grew up with parents that were Jewish only at their convenience. The guilt was convenient. The rituals were not. My grandmother was the only one to take me to Temple once a year, to whisper proverbs to me, to remind me that we come from a long line of strong people. When I married Bill, I gave it up entirely and now only fragments remain in my mind. Fragments that will have to be enough. I have done this with my son before. On the day I learned of my grandmother's death, I sat in my rocking chair with Fox awkwardly tucked around my hugely pregnant stomach and murmured prayers as I remembered and grieved for my grandmother. If God was real He would not let this be happening. But my daughter will be scared and alone. I am determined that she will remember and be comforted by the thought of something other than the falsely consoling memories of her lying son-of-a-bitch father, and of her mother whose strength was not enough. It will be better for her to gain consolation through the illusion of faith than to be soothed by the protective lies of her parents. And so I sit with them in darkness and they squirm and poke each other, laughing at first. But I hold their hands and our breathing slows, and we find a rhythm and together we ask for peace... We go downstairs. Bill and I leave in a flurry of last minute instructions. I kiss the tops of their heads, and carefully refrain from warning Fox to take care of his sister. Bill has no such compunctions. Though the Galbreds live only two doors down, we drive. The car is heavy with recrimination and guilt. Neither of us speak. I cannot. Bill seems to sense the precariousness of my composure and mercifully is silent. Throughout the night, during the card games and the coffee, the talk of politics and of fashion, I balance. Walking a paper thin edge of sanity, laughter and swallowed screams. I have to excuse myself twice in order to go to the powder room. The first time, I throw up. After one heave my stomach is empty, but that's something my body refuses to register and acid burns my throat. No matter how many times I rinse my mouth, bile lingers. Prosaically, the thought comes that it tastes as if I had eaten a mixture of mint toothpaste and orange juice. It is with that thought firmly foremost in my mind that I am able to repair my makeup and go back to the living room. The second time I go to grip the sink with white knuckled hands and stare into the mirror. It is then that I hear the sirens in the far distance. I do not bite my lip, because they would see the marks. Instead, I deliberately pull the loose sleeve of my blouse up and put my mouth against my upper arm. The tiny hairs feel odd against my tongue, and my teeth find little purchase on flesh already damp with sweat. The moan slips from my throat and runs into my arm, through the labyrinth of my veins, catching hold of each individual blood cell, filling my chest, and my head. It circles around and around my body, looking for a way out There is no way out. This keening will be inside me forever. Each beat of my heart will pump it faster, each touch from my husband will churn it in my stomach, each glimpse of my son will magnify it. There is a knock on the door. "Those sirens are coming from the direction of our house, hon. We'd better see what's going on." I press my lips shut and pull down my sleeve. I pat my hair and turn towards the door. I know what's going on. Hatred. Hatred of self, hatred of him, hatred of the Council who decided this. God does not exist, and I hate Him for that too. I am ready to go, but I will not let go. ********************* I would love to hear comments. Please, help me put off doing my laundry a bit longer. peace56@hotmail.com -----------== Posted via Deja News, The Discussion Network ==---------- http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Discuss, or Start Your Own . 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