Title: The Shadowlands Author: dlynn Feedback: dlynn1550@my-deja.com Category: Scully angst, post episode Road Runners Distribution: Xemplary, yes. I'll send to Gossamer. Spoilers: Anything's fair game. Rating: NC-17 for language and adult subject matter. [Discussion of rape] Summary: Semantics Disclaimers: As always, I don't own them. Author's Notes: WARNING: This is not my normal type of story. I had difficulty writing it. You might have difficulty reading it. For personal reasons this story will not be found on my web page. http://home.mpinet.net/laster ~*~*~*~*~* "You can try for years to deny the things that are tearing at your soul, but they will not go away. They thrive in the shadowlands." -- Sheila Walsh ~*~*~*~*~* When all the world is tumbling into you, spiraling out of control like a child's top, the urge to slide deeply within and =just= sleep is difficult to resist. To find that space, that gloaming place where you can hide and never be sought, is too much temptation. Instead of pulling back the covers and leaping from bed with things you must do and people you must see, all you want to do is find a walk-in closet -- somewhere. And in that closet ... pile in blankets and pillows and stuff -- just stuff, nothing big or important -- but things. And hide in the shadowlands.... Yet you can't. You can't find or make a hole to crawl inside because you have responsibilities; you have big girl duties to attend to and running and hiding away for even a minute is not a viable option. But you are tired ... so very exhausted. Your body aches with hunger, but not for food ... but for sleep, for release, for love, for a soothing touch, for screaming out in pain and agony and letting it all loose ... letting it all go, getting angry, not hiding the pain and squelching it all down inside to fester and eat at your soul like some inhuman, voracious parasite. Yet you can't. Throwing chairs and screaming obscenities, shouting at God or fate or the world's cruelty and capriciousness, slamming your fists into walls and tables, and punching the face of anyone at all that gets in your way is not only unacceptable, but would be cause for concern ... cause for coddling and whispers ... and "oh my god ... she's finally lost it." So you do as you are told; you fight the good fight; you suck it up like a valient little soldier. Lines are drawn and re-drawn. Things you'd never thought you could do -- like getting through ten minutes of the day without thinking of him -- now fill your daytime hours. You throw yourself into your work and try and not think of the fact that he searched for his sister for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven fucking years ... of feeling guilt that ate him alive, that fueled his quest, and brought you together -- to only have him torn from you like the severing of a limb, leaving behind only the bloody, spurting stump. Can anyone possibly understand ... there are no words to give voice to your anguish? There are no complicated equations that could logically put a label upon what you are feeling. You have lost control; you have lost yourself; you are so fucking lost and alone and there is not a roadmap that will lead you home or lead you to him. Anger turned inwards is depression. And holding anger bottled up so tightly that the explosive nature of its release is more deadly to those around than any bomb is second nature -- all that you know, all that you live with, and all that you are allowed. Because to unbottle that fury ... to truly let the poison out, to open your mouth without censor, to grab the first person by the balls that gets in your way ... is not going to happen. You cannot let it happen. Years ago after your abduction, you were told to seek help - to deal with the feelings inside, to work out all that you felt or you would suffer great emotional repercussions. But who could you talk to, except him -- the one who wears the mantle of his guilt like a heavy winter coat. There were no others who could understand. Rage and impotence had taken residence next to relief and joy -- at being found, at being alive, at being =allowed= to breathe one more day. Forget the violation and medical rape of your body, forget that your memory has more holes than swiss cheese, forget that you never have any idea when you will wake up screaming and trembling and sweating so badly that you soak the sheets with your tears and perspiration. Forget that you might be called to another burning bridge. Forget the night ... when the demons come slithering across the walls, shadow dancing with monsters - human and alien. Breath is sucked out of your soul; your chest feels as though an anvil has been placed upon it and someone is swinging a large sledgehammer -- beat after uncompromising beat tears into your chest in direct opposition to the hammering within your heart. Fragments and disjointed illusions rule your sleeping hours, and you breathe through the pain and every morning you birth the courage to get through another day. Just one more day .... You can do it - for one more day. Layer after layer of rage builds. In your heart and soul a bricklayer builds a wall -- a wall so tall, so long, so deep that =nothing= can get through the fortress. The bricklayer holds fear in his hand, slaps mortar on the standing wall with his trowel and drags the excess off, dumping the glop back into the mix. He takes fear and snuggles it down onto the wall beside agony, pushing the bricks together as closely as possible -- a tight fit, impenetrable. Then he reaches for another -- confusion or doubt -- which ones really don't matter; they're all the same size and fit so nicely together into the wall. And it grows... this wall. When you wake up feeling as though hands -- unseen by you, but felt -- are tearing at your clothes, pulling them from you, leaving you exposed to probing eyes and instruments, you gulp the bile down and another brick is added. When an alien umbilical cord is forced into your mouth, pushed down your esophagus, and you wake up ... in frozen, cold, obscene limbo, there is no opportunity to evaluate what's been done to you -- what horrific atrocity has been committed upon your person this time. It's just another rape against your body and soul. Rape: such an ugly word -- a word obscene in its connotation, yet so lacking in its definition. So you've avoided using the word in context with your own life. No one's forced sexual intercourse against your will -- you've only been violated by being kidnapped, stripped naked repeatedly, legs put in stirrups, experiments performed, internally probed and prodded and a fucking alien umbilical cord shoved down your gullet like an alien penis. Semantics, right? Has the victimization and abuse been rape? Do you want to put that word into your vocabulary? Is it easier to live with the years of defilement and the fragmented memories, if you don't use that word? Is it easier to ignore the sensory feelings that make you nauseous and anxious and your skin crawl -- every time you are cold, every time you smell a particular smell or hear a noise that makes you cringe and draw up inside and wonder why does it bothers you so much? The hands you shake, the men you meet -- strangers, innocent men, who've done nothing more than remind you subconsciously of others in the shadows -- will they be easier to deal with, if you continue to not allow the word rape. You bend slightly at the waist and pull your overnight bag from the chair. As you turn to lay it upon the hospital bed, you feel the twinge ... the pull at your back where the skin tightens and squeezes the stitches. Without thought your hands wander back ... to touch the place again, but all you feel is the bandage covering the wound. Pressing lightly upon gauze and tape, your breath hitches and your knees quake until you must sit or fall down. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears to remain ... to not fall, to not begin the cascade that will come. His place - Mulder's spot. With a possessive and affectionate touch Mulder has branded that spot as his ... time and time again. Over the years - with his gentle respect and growing love -- he'd found a crack in the wall. He'd chipped away at the decaying mortar and had moved to stand beside you within the enclosure. You'd begun to create a haven behind the wall, instead of a fortress. But now ... your lower back will bear the scars of just one more fucking violation against you, and you don't know if Mulder's touch will ever be able to alleviate the anguish and the pain. You are tired of dealing in semantics. Time has come to call this last act against you what it is -- rape. You've been violated one more time; you've been held against your will, tied and trussed up spread eagle upon a bed like some sadistic parody of a bad porno flick; and another perversion has been inserted into your cut and violated body. You've writhed and screamed in agony. You're unborn child has been put at risk, and to call this anything but rape ... is to add another layer of denial to the wall. Another battle scar has taken residence. And you wonder when the final break with reality will come. What will set you off? What else could possibly be done to you that will trigger your emotional breakdown? You've survived the abductions, the cancer, Emily's death, Donnie Pfaster ... and, so far, Mulder's disappearance. You ache for him, but where are you to start ... where can you look, how can you find an alien ship and walk up to it ... and just bang on the door? So you wait ... you wait for his return; you compartmentalize the pain so that you can function and protect your child, and you allow the bricklayer to slap more bricks on the wall -- loneliness, despair, anguish. Even if he returns, will Mulder be able to bulldoze his way inside or are you forever encased away from everyone and everything? Is normalcy for you even a possibility anymore? Shakily you rise to your feet and look within the bathroom mirror. Your eyes are haunted, and your shoulder's are slumped in defeat. What kind of a vessel are you to nurture your child? You must pull things together, Scully. You must shove down the pain one more time. As you slip from the bathroom and take another look around the room, you hear Dogget come to the door. Time to face the music with him. Even as you answer him, even as you acknowledge your mistakes in ditching him ... you wonder how long it will be before you are compelled to run off on your own again. On the way out the door, he grabs your bag from the bed. And you fight the urge to say that you are a big girl ... that you can carry your own books home from school. But something inside you allows him that one small concession. But only that one ... Heading down the hallway, he places his hand at the small of your back. His palm hovers just above the bandage, not really physically touching you. It's a protective, gentlemanly gesture. He's only guiding you around a gurney in front of you. But you feel his presence, and you will not tolerate another intrusion there. You stop -- dead in your tracks and breathe through your nose, steadying your resolve and swallowing the bile that threatens to overwhelm -- until you can turn and face him. "Agent Dogget." "Agent Scully?" His eyebrows lift and his eyes register concern and confusion. "Do. Not. Touch. Me. There. -- ever." He searches your face for clues as to your defensive posture. And he nods his head in agreement, sure that your behavior is caused because of the pain you still feel from the wound in your lower back. He doesn't understand the pain or the wound. And you feel no need to enlighten him as you head back into the shadowlands. ~*~*~*~ The End ~*~*~*~ December 5, 2000 Yep, it's dark and not pleasant. I was disturbed, not only by the episode of Road Runners, but I was made nauseous by some of the comments I read here and there after the episode, about violation in general. The quote at the beginning is from a book titled "Honestly," written by Sheila Walsh.