Overweighted Chapter Eleven By RocketMan ===== "Come to me now And lay your hands over me Even if it's a lie Say it will be all right And I will believe . . . Seems like every time I try to make it right It all comes down on me Please say honestly You won't give up on me And I shall believe . . ." -- Sheryl Crow, "I Shall Believe" ===== Sam is swimming in my dark ocean. His huge paws take great strokes and he pants, his tongue hanging out. He turns and bumps into me: I jerk out of the water, back to feeling, back to the shore. It's not okay. Something's wrong. I can't see. I can't hear. I don't know how to do this. Something's wrong with Mommy. I taste my panic like bitter salt dissolving in my mouth. It fizzes and slides uneasily down. I want to throw up. Something's wrong with Mommy. Sam's gone. I feel the rough scratchy weave of the couch, imaginging golds and greens and blues. I am tightly meshed into one corner, curled up and facing the back so that my cheek is pressed into its side. I lift a hand and fumble it over the back. Nothing. No fur or collar or muscle or heat. I can almost hear him whining at me, though. He's saying hurry, something's wrong. I take a deep breath and stand. Things spin around, twisting from me. I want to sit back down, find comfort and an anchor. There is nothing. I'm too panicked, too out of touch. I have to feel. I can't feel. They're all asleep, or unconscious . . . or dead. I can't feel. I have to feel. I lower myself to the floor. It stinks. Rotting fabric and wet dog and old smoke. That's one thing. And Daddy. I smell him here too. Fresh, clean, alive. Then blood. That would be Mommy. Bleeding and reeking of death. I don't want to smell this. The tiny carpet-fingers brush my skin, abrading my nose and cheeks like eager hands. They carry with them the promise of forever shag and molding bathrooms. I can smell. I have to feel. It's cold. Cold and damp and tinny. A storm outside. That's it. Sam's probably afraid of the storm and went to hide under the bed. But something's still very wrong. Too much death and blood. Okay. I need to feel. Deep breath and close eyes and grip the carpet. It's rough. Rough and prickly in some places, soft in others. Very worn and clumped. Carpet. A dark room with things in it. I inch forward and spread out my hands along the floor, then stand. Things go dizzy again, the world dropping away from me, but I am anchored to the feel and smell of motel room shag carpet. I know this ground in my dark room. I picture how it feels in my head. Soft expanse of squishy carpet and then the bed, then more carpet and the couch, off to the left the bathroom. Okay, so I can get to Mommy, and then Daddy from there. I creep forward. Another inch. I am where I think I am. I straighten and begin to walk, veering off to the right. I smack hard into the wall and come down. My face stings and my eyes sting and I can't figure out where the stupid wall is supposed to be, or where I am or where the bed is, or Daddy and why isn't he coming to help me? I want to sob. I panic and stand and careen into the bed and topple over it and hit my face smack into Mommy's leg and I hit her so hard, I can feel her shrink back in pain. I'm sorry. I'm sorry Mommy. I can't figure out where I am. On the bed. Find my way. I reach out hands and feel smooth, bunny soft blanket and stiff starched sheet. Then a foot. The edge of the bed looms up fast and I teeter there, then regain my balance. I run my fingers along the bed, deciding not to trust my own internal map, but to make a new one. Here is the bed, here are its edges. Something . . . else. It's not a sheet, but it's cool and thin and near Mommy's arm. I don't know what it is. I've never felt it before. No, it is the sheet, but something else. Like someone spilled water all over. It stays on my fingers, sticking and sliding. I quake and pull away. I fall off the bed and into Daddy's lap. He jerks and I think he probably yelled too, and then he grips my arms. I hold my wet fingers up to his face, streaking it across his cheek. He reacts violently, shoving me into the chair and tripping as he sits up, reaching for Mommy. Something's wrong with Mommy. ~~~~~ He was having a horrible dream. Scully exploding with bullets before his eyes, their sharp metal ripping right through her body as she said his name. He let out a sob as he woke, and found sightless eyes staring soulessly into his. Her baby fingers came up and touched his cheek. It was blood. He scooped her up and set her in the chair, then clambered to Scully. She was bleeding. Bleeding all over the bed and soaking the sheets in it. Her face was so white he panicked and reached over to begin CPR. But she was still breathing. He felt another sob crawl up his throat and he carefully removed the bandages covering her arm and peered at the sutures. They were a mess of black thread and red blood and yellowed skin. He pressed more cloths into the area and grabbed for his cell phone, quickly hitting speed dial number three to get the Lone Gunmen. Byers answered. "Who was that doctor?" Mulder tore out of his throat. "Mulder? Hold on." A long wait as various recording devices were unhooked and then Frohike picked up the extension. "Yo, Mulder. That was one of our most --" "He killed her!" "What?!" "She's bleeding and I can't make it stop. What the hell did he do to her?" "Mulder, he did what he could without going to the hospital. Man, if you want to save her, call 9-1-1, not us." "I can't . . ." he cried and buried his head into her side. He felt Helen's hands on his face, coming and wiping the tears streaming ceaselessly down. She planted her lips on his cheek and gave him a baby kiss, crawling into his lap. "Mulder, call," he heard Frohike say. Byers made a noise. "Look, if she's bleeding a lot, she needs a blood transfusion. This isn't something you can just --" "I know, I know. If I do, they're sure to find us." "Mulder, we're hanging up. It's your call." "You punk! You better not let her die!" Frohike yelled. The line went dead and Mulder stared at the pale form before him. She was dying. She was. All her life was now slipping from her in great gushing waves and he had it smeared on his hands. He also had Helen in his arms. His hand trembled and he began to push in the numbers. A shaky breath as he listened and then he started: "Yeah, I need your help." ~~~~~ end chapter eleven adios RM