R e v e r i e
by Politic X
  (prologue) the nightmare  

by Politic X

Feedback will be treasured

Warning #1: I'd rate this story an NC-17 just for the explicit and gruesome autopsy scenes
Warning #2: SLASH: Scully/Reyes
Warning #3: This is recycled material based on Paphian Dreams, a Mulder / Scully story I wrote
several years ago.  I decided a few months ago that substituting Mulder's name with Monica's
would be a good exercise.  Of course, it wasn't that simple. 

Disclaimer: Fox and 1013 own the characters

Archive: Sure, as long as my name is attached 

Summary: Scully's nightmares seem to be linked to a case.  

I am very fortunate to have two of the most brilliant people I've ever known as my beta readers,
but I'm more than fortunate - I'm blessed - to have them as my dear friends.  So, thank you Mikee 
and Ae for the fairly small thing of editing my story and thank you for the fairly enormous 
thing of keeping the death bitch at bay.

This story is for Anne Elizabeth.

'40,000 men and women every day  
(like Romeo and Juliet) 
redefine happiness.
We can be like they are.' 



My time has come.

The woods are thick, wet and black, and the ground is sinking below me.  It rolls like the sea, threatening to submerge me in its undercurrents.  The air is heavy on my shoulders and my legs are leaden; waves of grass and dirt pull my body down.  I am drowning. 

An eerie melody washes over me.  (seasons don't fear the reaper nor do the wind the sun or the rain)  Earth is cascading over my ankles, my knees, my thighs.  I cast a frightened eye heavenward while succumbing to the pull of the ground.     

I'm not a psychologist, but I recognize the symptoms of catatonia even while I'm experiencing them.  Rigidity is settling into my muscles just as mania is seeping into my skull.  I think I could give in to somnolence if it weren't for the urgency of the music.

I wrench myself upwards and try to do the things I do when I'm afraid, mental exercises to help me detach myself from the situation, dissect the scenario.  I stop for a moment and try to log onto some external compass.  But it's too dark and I'm disoriented and the music is unbearable and the ground is unsteady and I must run.

I'm in a forest, lost.  I'm running.  I don't know how I got here or why; I only know that I must find a way out.  There's no clearly marked path, just slippery beds of pine needles and moss.  My thoughts jumble as the ground beneath me gives and I fall with a painless thud.

Hang on, I think.  My pulse is rapid; my breaths are shallow.  Get your bearings.  (seasons don't fear the reaper nor do the wind the sun or the rain)  I breathe deeply only to find my mouth filling with dirt.  I choke, sputter and spit.

Even my own vomit can't disguise the oppressing smell of cedars.  I retch again.  Then I push against the ground with all of my strength.  I push myself up and I push myself forward.  And notice the knife in my right hand. 

It's a hunting knife, sharp.  I hold it tightly as if it can protect me from this otherworld which is tugging at my spirit, stripping me of any control I might possess, and I begin moving again.

I run slowly at first, trying to find footing on the forest floor, and it's pulling me, a magnet.  It's alive.  And singing. 

Fear snaps its teeth at my self-possession and finally rips away the carefully contained persona known as Dana Katherine Scully.  There's no trace of my usual composure now.  Not since I was a child have I so felt my spirit bursting the seams of my body.  Composure will only slow me down.

I hurl myself forward, throwing myself like an object into the wind.  Faster, harder, I run with abandon; wildly, tearfully, a child running from a monster.  My head jerks back over my shoulder.  I expect to see a demon there, chasing me.  Although I see nothing but trees, it doesn't stop me from screaming.

My breathing becomes ragged and I run harder.  My thoughts are no longer mine; the music fills my ears and head and I can't block it out.  I begin reciting prayers, every prayer I've ever known: the rosary, the Lord's Prayer, the prayers I said as a child.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.  Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.

Bent branches scrape across my arms, wickedly black and leering.  I use my weapon like a machete, whipping an X back and forth in front of me, desperate to escape these woods.

Tree limbs claw at my hair, rip my blouse.  I feel the cutting wind where my sleeves have been torn and I glance down at them, afraid to slow my pace.  My shirt is shredded and blood-stained.

Comprehension strikes me at once; I stumble and almost fall.  The limbs aren't ripping my blouse; they're ripping my arms, my skin, tearing them like paper.

I stop still. 

With hysterical certainty, I suddenly understand that it isn't the tree limbs that have harmed me.  The knife is bloody.  I've been lashing out at the branches, but striking myself instead.  

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee!  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death!  "Have mercy on me!"  I sob.

The knife enters my shoulder and I watch in horror as blood pours out of my body.  There's no pain, only a surge of blackness that I wave away like a swarm of flies.  Skin flaps about my bones.

I'm lightheaded, but suddenly quite lucid.  Music swirls around me, stirring up leaves and pine needles in a whirlwind.  (don't fear the reaper we'll be able to fly)

Fly, yes.

I run; I run from the sinking ground, the tearing limbs and the noise.  Wind whistles through my ribboned arms, chilling me to my bare bones.  I run until I see light, until I reach the edge of the woods. 

The field is hushed, the ground solid.  I'm too afraid to look back at the forest, but I can feel the coldness of it on my spine.  My hair stands on end as I listen to the blood dripping from my body to the ground.  I watch it for some time, transfixed by my own mortality.

There's nothing left from my shoulders to my wrists but pink flesh drooping away from the white bones beneath.  This is something I can't comprehend; my hands are fully functional - I flex my fingers - yet the muscles and the sinew, the cartilage and the veins of my arms have all fallen away.  I drop in a heap to the ground, searching for the remains of my body. 

My blood!  It pools before me, muddying the earth.  I lift a finger to touch my left arm.  It's cold and rubbery and moves in different directions beneath my touch.  I think I'm going to vomit again but crawl away instead, chanting the rosary.

I'm alone with my nightmares on this grassy plain; I have to get out of here.  I force myself to stand.

There's a paved road cutting through this field and a woman is walking it.  She's far away from me and moving farther; still I know who she is.  She's tall and beautiful.  She walks with purpose, centered, confident, calm. 

I must reach her.

I concentrate all of my energy on this woman.  I run toward her, straining with hope.  I stretch myself wide, struggling to leap across the plain, feeling that I could fly if it weren't for all the blood.  Her name is a mantra on my lips.  Monica.  Monica.

I run, but she's faster.

Panic grips me.  Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, I pray the Lord, I pray the Lord....

Mania generates its own kind of clarity: I could reach her if it weren't for the blood weighing me down.  Reverberations of the dissonant music haunt me as the knife moves over my legs.  When the breeze comes, I run on it.

My blouse, black with blood, matches my long dark skirt.  They flutter about me in ribbons with the flesh of my arms and legs.  I feel like a ghost, a wisp of smoke from ashes.  Relief floods hot through me when I finally catch up with the person whose providence is to save me.

I come close enough to feel the aura of peace and contentment that enshroud her.  I come close enough to see the tranquility on her face.  I wonder fleetingly if I'm so repulsive that she'll turn and run.  I'm sure she will once she smells my sour sweat and blood.  I gasp for air and grasp at her arms.  But she merely smiles at me and walks away.

My voice becomes a loud screeching wail of her name, but she doesn't look back.  Chills race through my body and that terrifying discord whistles in my ears.  (come on baby don't fear the reaper)

I can't feel the knife entering my chest, but I can feel the terror and the sadness slipping away from me.  Organs and muscles dissolve under my fingers as blood rushes over my breasts.  I've spent too many years waiting for love to save me, I realize, and now I relinquish all hope to this somber field.  The power to let go has been mine all along.

Even as I'm carried away from life, I seek Monica.  She's still walking toward her destiny, but now she pauses to glance up at the sky.  Thirty-eight years of life fall away from me like prayers, showering her in red rain.  "Take my hand," I whisper down to her.  "We'll be able to fly." 

Her time has come.


 Posted 10/31/03