R e v e r i e
by Politic X
15: epilogue (the dream)


Cedar trees bend toward me as the ground rolls under my feet.  A wave of nausea jars me to my senses and I'm running even though I'm not afraid.  Motion sick, yes, but I won't fall here. 

Waves of grassy dirt splash at my ankles; still I don't waver.  I'm strong, straight, unyielding.  I run faster toward the field, wanting to see the soft blue sky.  Music swells in my ears.  (we can be like they are don't fear the reaper)

The knife twitches in my fist and I feel my arm rise up, as if to swat at the tree limbs that tangle my path.  I know what the knife is for; I remember the blood.  "Leave me alone!" I yell out angrily. 

I open my palm and try to shake the knife away, but it's glued to me.  I hold it before me like a snake I've grabbed by the throat, keeping my eye on it as I run.  It will hold no power over me.  I am Dana Katherine Scully, M.D., FBI, and I won't fear the reaper.

"I will fear no evil," I chant as I run.  The words are strong against the bitter chords of the music; a prayer.

I want to smell the tender lilac and run my bare feet through the cool grass.  I want to leap to the moment that I can quit running.  I want to feel the firmness of solid ground beneath my feet.  I want to stand.  All of these things I pray for with five words:  I am Dana Katherine Scully.

The knife veers toward my left shoulder.  I struggle with it, pushing it toward the open air.  "I am Dana Katherine Scully," I say over and over.  "And I don't fear the reaper."  And I don't.  I am strong.

I see light ahead.

Dandelions wink up at me, tickling my legs.  I'm at once absorbed in them, finding pleasure in their quiet familiarity.  My pulse slows.  My arms aren't strips of flesh, fluttering in the wind; they're whole.  I kick my shoes off and curl my toes in the dirt.  The ground is firm.

I hear her footsteps though she's far away.  Monica's walking the road.  I wave to her.  She pauses for a long moment, staring at me.  I know that she'll continue her journey without me for now, but I realize that we'll catch up with each other later.  I'm not being abandoned.

I smile at the distant vision of her and turn a circle in the field, facing the forest.  Strains of the music reach my ears: we can be like they are.  "No," I say softly.  I can't be like they are. 

The knife is still in my hand.  I look at the forest, seeing it for what it is: a dark dream.  I bend and begin carving the ground.  I will fear no evil.  I am Dana Katherine Scully, M.D., FBI.  Doctor, agent, mother.  Woman in love.    

        I AM.

"Yes, you are," a voice says.

I look up to see Monica standing beside me, staring at the ground.  Her eyes are clear but filled with emotion.  "Let's go, Dana," she says.

I reach my hand out to her and the knife is gone; what's there, instead, is a simple cross on a silver chain.

"What's that?" she asks.

I stare at the metal, flicking it against the light, and I remember what it signifies.  "Faith."  I reach up to place it around her neck; she bends slightly to accommodate me.  "Hope," I say. 

"Love?" she asks, touching the necklace in reverence.  


She stands straight.  She's the sun, glowing, warming me, staring at me with such intensity that I can hardly feel the coolness of the shadow I cast to the forest.  "Then do you think you're finished?" she asks in a quiet voice.

"Finished with what?" 


I nod and look toward the distant road.  "I think so." 

"Good."  She gazes at the road, too, and points.  "My house is about half a mile from here."

"Come on, then," I say and lock my hand into hers.  I pull her along, fairly floating over the ground.  I remember her home, though I've never seen it.  It's a cottage, she once told me, small, plain. 

"The paint's peeling," she says, as we move toward the road.  "And it needs some yard work.  And it's got a leaky roof."

I squeeze her hand.  "And hardwood floors," I murmur.

The ground shifts beneath our feet, swirling and dropping, but we're not sinking.  We stand, but we move.  We race through the field like human streams; we travel smoothly on the road like the blood that courses through our veins.  We're not running but rushing, flowing, moving together like liquid. 

And this is flying, I think.  This is flying.  


 Posted 10/31/03