On a bright, sunny, cool November morning, ex-Vice-President
Fox Mulder was escorted to the condemned building of the Camp. He was
locked in a small isolation cell, the only furniture being a steel
toilet and a roll of white paper. Walter locked the door, telling him
that he’d be back “real soon”. Mulder sighed, sat down on the floor
and hugged his knees to his chest. A shiver ran down his spine; it was
cold in the cell.
Horrific images swam through his mind. Pictures of whippings
and beatings and burnings, all on his naked skin. He knew what went on
in the Camp, having visited once before the destruction of the Cause.
Men and women alike, dressed in tan jumpsuits, walking the grounds with
eyes cast down. Long, blood stains running across the backs of the
suits. Black bruising around the eyes. Broken hands wrapped up with
dirty rags. He had laughed at their misery, scoffed at their tears.
But now he was going to experience the torture, the pain, at the hands
and mercies of those he hurt the most. Bleakly, he wondered if his
punishment was going to be shared with the rest of the World, via
camera and satellite.
Waited, waited, heard the faint tick tick tick of the clock
that ran in his head. Thirty days. Thirty days of unending pain.
Thirty days compared to the hundreds of days some of the men and women
of America spent in the Camp. Thirty days, instead of the three
hundred and sixty two that the Cause had spent. One month for twelve.
One month for one hundred. One day at a time. Today marked day number
one.
Fear and panic settled in his mind, uncoiling and wrapping
themselves throughout his brain, lowering to his stomach to swirl
around like spirals. He wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t plead with them, no
matter what Walter or Dana or any of the Cause decided to do with him.
Knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Wanted to keep what little speck
of pride he had left. There would be nothing left of him once they
were through, that he was certain of. But for now, for at least the
first day, he would take what they gave without word. Oh, he knew that
they would make him scream and cry for what he did to them. Scream and
cry and bleed. There would be blood, he was sure. He took in a deep
breath, told himself that he would live through this, he would survive,
nobody would kill him and when it was over, Alex would be there to wash
everything away. Anoint him with forgiveness and acceptance. They
would live together forever. The way it should be. The way it always
should have been.
After the eternity of thoughts ebbed, the cell door opened.
Walter stood, the sunlight entrapping his large form with an almost
delicate glow. He motioned with his hand, so Mulder rose and followed.
They walked to a large platform that was situated in the center
of the large, dirt field. It was where the prisoner’s were “taught”,
in front of the rest of the Camp. Mulder swayed on his feet for a
second, but quickly regained his balance. There was nothing to stop
this; might as well get it over with. To his chagrin, there was a
video camera set up in front of the platform. No doubt to show the
rest of America that Fox Mulder was getting what was coming to him.
Walter pushed Mulder onto the platform, and removed his shirt,
leaving him standing only in the pair of suit pants that he went to the
Camp in. A cool breeze drifted across his bare skin, pulling up goose
bumps. He shivered again, but not from the cold. The older man’s
voice ordered him to stand at attention facing the camera, arms at his
sides. Mulder obeyed, swallowed down hard, clenched his fists, and
waited for the pain to arrive.
The sound of the whip rang in his ears before he felt the first
lash. It was quick and sharp and stung like fire, bringing up warmth
that ran down his back. Teeth set together, only a grunt escaped with
the air that was pressed from his lungs. He was determined not to cry
out for at least the first ten, perhaps fifteen. The pain was new,
washing over his body like rainwater. And with the second lash, hated
tears sprang to his eyes. He swallowed, willing the water away from
his eyes. Soon, but not yet. The World had to know that the
ex-Vice-President of America was not a weak man.
By the tenth lash, he was grunting audibly with each new swipe
of pain, and every inch of his body trembled. Knees threatened to
buckle, so he locked them tightly straight. The tears were rimmed in
his eyes, just waiting for his will to break completely before they
slipped down. A scream lingered in his throat, along with the pleas he
refused to utter. The pain swam in his head, sparking colors in front
of his opened eyes. Hazel blobs focused on the camera, trying to see
inside, to see all the smiling, laughing faces that watched while the
beating continued. Fingernails that were forced into palms drew blood,
but the dull pain was nothing compared to the fire that ran across his
back. By the twelfth lash, he screamed.
Once the pain sent dark clouds to his eyes, he began to sob.
Tears flowed untouched down his puffed, red cheeks. His meticulous
count of the strokes was gone. All he did was close his eyes and feel.
Dirty, vile shame coursed through his veins, along with the unending
knifeblade cuts. Shame for having done this to so many others. Shame
for not seeing that he was wrong, that the Cause was right. Shame for
his own weakness in the hands of America. Twinges of laughter cut
through the sounds of the whip cracking against his broken, bleeding
skin. It was the laughter that he heard in his head, the laughter of
the World as they watched his will slowly, carefully broken.
Thankfully, the whip stopped before the darkness could stake
its claim, but he couldn’t move. Walter took him by the forearm and
dragged him from the stage. Each new step jarred his body, sprouting
the flames of pain anew. His knees did give out, sending him crashing
to the ground. Walter had to pick him up and drag him back to the
cell.
“Get some rest, *Fox*. Tomorrow is gonna be another gorgeous
day.”
And he was left alone.
Without thinking, he drew up his legs, tearing his skin
further, sending the pain shooting up his arms and down his legs. He
screamed and screamed, not caring anymore who could hear him. It hurt,
he hurt, all over, and there was nothing he could do about it. Just
lie there and take it. Take everything. Voice broke into wailing
sobs, still not uttering any words. He didn’t trust himself to speak;
who knew what he would say? Forgive me? I’m sorry? No amount of
words would stop them, he knew that. He didn’t even let his mind
wander to what his back looked like. He knew. Jagged, torn, red flesh
seeping blood. His eyes had witnessed what somebody looked like after
a beating. Not a pretty sight. And that was what he knew he looked
like as well.
The dark clouds settled over his eyes when he could no longer
bear the pain, sending him off to a dreamless slumber where nothing
could touch him, and everything had been perfect from the beginning.
The whippings continued every day for the first week, until he
could no longer feel anything against his back, not pain, not even
skin. Walter realized that the whippings were becoming useless, so he
sent Mulder back to his room after only five lashes. Thankful, Mulder
sprawled out on the floor, letting the darkness overcome again. But
instead of being able to sleep, he felt a hand wrench at his hair,
pulling up his head.
“No time for sleeping, Fox.” Dana.
“Mmm? I can’t feel my back.”
A smile, pure evil, grew on her lips. “I know. That’s why I’m
here.” She grabbed his wrists. “Sit up, and grab onto these two metal
circles.”
Mulder’s fingers wrapped around two sturdy, metal rings that
protruded from the wall. Slowly, so careful not to disturb the wounds
too deeply, he sat, leaning his forehead against the cool wall. It
felt nice, the contours of the wall pressing against his skin. He
hadn’t felt the cold in days. The spirals that danced around his head
didn’t even clear to let him wonder what Dana was going to do. Her
voice rang in his ears.
“Now I want you to pay attention to me, Fox. I’m going to sew
up these wounds on your back, so that they won’t get infected or become
any worse. There will be no anesthetic, and I won’t stop until I am
finished. You won’t be able to handle it all at once, so every time
you pass out, I am going to stop, and continue once you regain
consciousness. Do you understand me?”
Mulder began to tremble. Swallowing convulsively, he said,
“Yes.”
“Good.” He could hear her threading the needle, its sound the
only thing echoing in the cell besides his ragged breathing. He winced
when her hand touched his shoulder. “Hold still. This is gonna hurt.”
Hell, who was she kidding. This was gonna kill. But he set
his teeth together, gripped the metal rings until his hands turned
white, and waited for the needle to pierce his flesh.
At first, the pain was bearable. Just a quick sting and the
pull of the thread through his skin. But as she moved down the first
lash on his shoulderblade, the pain became increasingly worse. Bright
flashes of fire against his skin. Every nerve in his back could feel
the needle, feel the thread being pulled. Piecing together the broken
bits of flesh. Sparkle of flames, knifeblade sharp. Over and
over and over and over. . .
The first thing that hit him when the darkness lifted was the
pain. He wanted to scream, but pulled his cheeks in and bit down hard
enough to draw blood. There was another warmth in the room, and it
took him a moment to remember that Dana was still there with him. A
paper cup magically appeared under his lips, cooling his parched throat
with lifesaving water. He drank it quick, trying not to let any of it
slip out of the corners of his mouth. His hands had still not given up
their death-grip on the metal rings.
The water was gone too quick. Thoughts of asking for more were
quickly squashed by Dana’s hand on his shoulder once again. Only
thoughts were now concentrated on how not to scream from the sharp
sting of the needle, the bright flash of agony, and the slow pull of
the thread. He tried to push himself away from the pain, but the pain
continued to bring him back. When it became too great for him to bear
in silence, he let his voice go. The screams were not as loud as he
thought they would be. They were more whimper than shriek, allowing
him to breathe in and out with wracking sobs. She had broken him so
well.
The pain moved from one shoulderblade to the other, then began
down his back. His entire form trembled terribly, each stab of the
needle making him wince forewords. The black clouds of bliss soon
covered his glassy eyes, sending him once again to that place of
nothingness.
Water came again when he awoke, followed by the warm hand on
his shoulder. This time, he could not supress the sobbing, nor his
tears as Dana sewed up the torn flesh. Every time the needle touched
his skin, it felt like hellfire was dancing at his feet, consuming his
skin in its bright yellow flames. Everything hurt, hurt, hurt, with no
comfort anywhere. The only comfort came from the brief moments he
passed out, but even after that, she was always there to continue the
torture. As much as he wanted to beg her, plead with her, please,
please stop, I can’t take it anymore, he didn’t. Not yet. Couldn’t
stop it anyway. She was having too much fun. Loving the way his body
shook. Relishing the shrill whimpers that escaped his lips, followed
by the long sobs of agony. Cherishing the way his muscles retracted
when she touched his skin. Getting off on his tears. He could picture
it so vivid, because he had felt the same way once. Now, however, all
he wanted to do was fall face first into that sweet, wonderful place of
no pain and no hurt and no anger. Just peace and wonderful, wonderful
sleep. . .
Water cooled his throat again. She asked him if he had to use
the toilet. He did, which she let. As soon as he sat back down and
grabbed the rings, her hand was on his shoulder, and the needle was
threading his skin. Thinking he could will her to stop, his mind began
chanting for her to fall asleep, or get tired, just stop. Have mercy
on him. See that his skin was devoid of color and sweat-soaked. See
that the tears were too numerous to count. Hear that his voice was
hoarse, unable to continue whimpering and sobbing. But no. The needle
moved as well as it did at the beginning, running across each wound,
then down to the next. Burning, stabbing, pulling agony. Wished it to
end. Hoped it would be over soon. Couldn’t take it any more. Fell
into the pit of darkness.
Pain consumed him like a thick fog when his eyes opened. He
sobbed, already starting to cry, and push himself as close as he could
to the wall. Before he could stop, words formed on his lips. “Please.
Please, don’t. I. . .can’t, no more. Please. I’m begging you.” Her
hand touched his shoulder, same as always. “Oh, God, please. Please,
don’t.” Every muscle in his body tensed and tingled and tremored.
“Please, please stop.”
The hand that was not holding his shoulder grabbed a handful of
damp hair. She pulled his head back so that his eyes met hers. “Do
you think that the guards here listened to the pleas of the prisoners?
Do you think they showed us any mercy?” She shook his head. “Do you?”
Angry.
“I’m sorry. I’m so so so sorry. Please.”
Her hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head as far as it
could go. “Answer the question.”
“No. No no no no. I’m sorry, please. I. . .can’t, please.”
“They showed us no mercy, so I will give you the same
courtesy.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. She
let his head slack, which he banged against the wall, the pain dazing
him, but not enough to make him forget about the pain of the needle and
thread. It consumed him. He wept, begging in his mind for the
darkness. Anything to stop the pain. Anything, anything, anything,
I’m so sorry, sosorry. The flow of tears did not stop. Nor did
the blackness come. The warm hand on his shoulder retreated.
“I’m tired, Fox. I’m going to sleep. I will be back here
tomorrow to finish up.”
“How. . .how much. . .?”
“I haven’t even reached half your back yet. You have a long
day ahead of you tomorrow. Try to sleep now.” And she was gone.
Mulder did not move. He cried and cried and tried to tell
himself that all of this was his fault. After a while the pain dulled,
making it slightly bearable. He wiped his face, closed his eyes, and
allowed the blackness to swallow him. Tomorrow would be another day of
the same. For now, he could only hope that he had dreams filled of
nothing but smiles and Alex. Alex, to hold onto him, and let him
survive.
The next day was filled with the same ritual. Pain, darkness.
Pain, darkness. Pain, darkness. Sobs and whimpers and tears and
Dana’s hand pulling the needle and thread. All day, into the night,
until the entire back was stitched, and the blood washed off with
alcohol which stung. When he awoke after passing out for the final
time, Dana told him that he would be graced with a day of rest. She
also told him that a day of rest was too good for him. He thanked her
and curled up into a ball. Tried to sleep and dream of three more
weeks passed.
The one day of rest seemed too short. Not enough time to let
the pain settle. When Walter came into the cell, he was taken again,
to the platform. He thought that they planned another whipping, but
that wasn’t the case. Now it was just fire. Fire which he shrank
from. Fire that burned, singed his skin, across the new stitches,
across his shoulders, chest, arms, legs. Fire that he feared like
nothing else. Fire that did not make him beg. Just let him feel the
terror and pain and dirty tears that tracked down his cheeks. Every
day, for a week. When Dana came to him, cleaned the wounds and made
sure they did not get infected, there were only two weeks left. And
they let him heal for five days, keeping him fed, and cleaning the
scars. But although they did not burn him or whip him, he was
slapped across the face until his lip split, and a truncheon was always
exploding against his legs. They did not let the pain leave him.
Mulder sat against the wall, hardly able to move. The burns
had closed and nothing was infected. Even the marks on his back healed
nicely. But everything still hurt, burning his nerves with white agony
each time he tried to shift. Almost over. That’s what he told
himself. One more week and everything will be over.
Walter entered his cell in a fit of rage, face red, eyes wide
and burning. His voice was a deep growl. “Kneel and face the wall.”
Mulder did as he was told, his eyes already noting the long
whip that Walter held. The lashes came without any warning, fast and
furious, ripping open the stitches and the newly closed skin. He
screamed from the pain breathing anew, and tears flowed swiftly down
his cheeks. But it was over as quickly as it begun, leaving its mark
in a trail of jagged, bloody welts and gashes all over his skin.
Then Walter was gone, leaving him to listen to the sounds of his own
weeping.
Dana came that night, her face a mask of anger as well. “What
did you do? You got yourself into a real mess this time, Fox. You
must have made Walter real angry, because he knew not to open your back
again. Now I’m just going to have to take out all the stitches and
start again. You know what to do.”
And Mulder obeyed her as well, letting the pain wash over him
once again. Felt the stab of the needle and the slow slip of the
thread. This time, however, he noticed that she did not work so
gently, and carried more anger than she did the first round. Each time
he flinched away, she slapped him hard against the wounds, sending the
pain shooting through his chest and down his arms. And each time he
awoke from having blacked out, she took no time out to give him water.
This time, her hand was right there, and the needle was already
beginning its journey across his back. He was able to hold back the
pleas that desperately wanted to be voiced, knowing they would be
useless. Couldn’t even imagine what she would do if he did start to
beg. Didn’t want to. Just let his voice cry out and the tears flow,
often wondering how many he could shed before he stopped forever. He
should be used to the pain by now, but he wasn’t. Somehow, each time a
new torture was inflicted, he felt it as if nothing happened to his
body before that. This second round of sewing was just as bad, if not
worse, than the first.
When it was over, he was cleaned and rested. But Walter was
back like clockwork the morning after, this time with a black-handled
knife in his hands.
The blade of the knife was used on Mulder’s left sole. Long,
deep cuts were torn into the soft flesh of his underfoot. And Dana was
there right afterwards to sew up the skin. Fire, pain, tears, screams.
It seemed like it had been going on for most of his life. Only two
days left, Mulder. Only two days.
Mulder awoke from the dark of sleep to the shooting pain that
ran where it would. It was his last day, his final day, before being
allowed to go to Alex and live a happy, quiet life. His mind imagined
such wonderful horrors of what they would do to him on this day,
considering this was the last day they could hurt him unprotected.
Pictures of Alex entered his mind, calming his fears, making him
smile as much as he could. He hadn’t seen Alex since the month began.
It was starting to make butterflies invade his stomach. The excitement
of the month of torture being over had not hit him full-force, but when
it did, he would relish it, cherish it, and make it a part of him.
Just had to last through this day, and everything would be perfect.
Dana entered the cell quietly, holding a white bundle in her
hand, padding over to Mulder and stood, staring down. He looked up at
her and felt his gut churning within itself. Her usual ice-blue eyes
were deeper, and a dark redness encircled them. She had been crying.
Why had she been crying?
The panic hit him before her words did. “Fox, I have something
to tell you.”
“What?” His voice was shaky and hoarse.
“Alex. He’s. . .he’s dead.”
“What?” Up a notch. No, it couldn’t be. Not now, not after
all this.
“He died this morning. Peaceful, in his bed. No pain.” She
paused, trying to contain herself. Tears dripped freely from her eyes.
“Nobody expected it. I’m so sorry.”
Mulder began to shake. No, please, say you’re lying, tell me
it’s not true. You are just doing this to hurt me, please, he can’t be
dead. His eyes widened, and all the pain he had been feeling
manifested in one knot in his chest. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were. Alex is dead.” She paused, to wipe her cheeks
with her palms. “We will let you rest today. And since Alex is not
here to take you in, we feel it only proper that you remain here, in
this cell, until you’re natural death. If you attempt suicide, we will
save you, and ship you to Siberia.” Her words were not spoken with
malice, just truth. And it hit him harder than any whip or fire or
pain he had ever felt before.
She threw the bundle at Mulder. “Here. Put this on.” He did.
“I’ll give you the decency of clothes at this time.” She turned and
walked from the cell, leaving Mulder to his thoughts.
The tears quickly came, and he did nothing to hinder their
flow. Alex Krycek, his new life, his new love, was dead. How could
this be? After all he had been through, just to stay with Alex
forever, cut short by the filthy hand of death. Thoughts rolled around
in his head, how Alex said that he loved him, how Mulder never got the
chance to say it back, how happy they would have been. Would have,
should have, could have. None of that had any meaning, because Alex
was dead. Gone, kicked the bucket, pushing up daisies, dead. There
was no pain now. Only the lonely, bitter ache in his chest and stomach
that reminded him over and over again that he had no more reasons for
living. And he couldn’t even commit suicide. He knew she would stop
him, fix him up and send him to Siberia, but Siberia wouldn’t let him
die either. He knew how Siberia worked. Torture, continuous and
unending, with no mercy at all and no death. Burying his head against
his knees, he began to moan and rock, slapping his back against the
wall as he moved. No pain. No physical pain. Just the loss. Pain of
the loss.
Alex was so good, so loving, so wonderful, and he had treated
the man like shit. Worse than shit. He had raped him and beat him and
took advantage of him when he knew Alex was vulnerable. Made Alex
betray the Cause, and couldn’t even beg forgiveness now. Couldn’t tell
Alex how sorry he was, how much he wished to take it back, how all the
pain he suffered was for him and him alone. How much he loved him,
wanted him, would let him use him until his hearts content, if only to
let Mulder stay by his side until the ending of time. Anything. He
would have done anything for Alex.
He cried and cried and cried without end. Couldn’t stop, even
if he had tried. Didn’t really want to. Didn’t see the need. But he
knew they couldn’t hurt him anymore. Knew that they had cut him so
deep with the news of Alex’s death, that no amounts of physical pain
could ever compare. It was over. His life was over. Soon, he would
be a lifeless nothing, unable to talk, unable to cry, unable to do
anything but follow their orders, take their pain, and chant in his
mind about how much he missed Alex.
Mulder heard the door open, knew what they wanted, but didn’t
lift his head to see who it was. Instead, he stood and faced the wall,
unable to feel the sharpsharp pain in his left foot. He steadied
himself, lifting up the right leg so that all his weight was on the
scarred left. Couldn’t feel it and didn’t care.
“See,” he began, voice thick with tears. “You can’t hurt me
anymore.”
Footsteps closer. A warm breath against his back.
Louder. “You have hurt me so much that I don’t feel the pain
anymore.”
A hand pressed down on the right ankle that was in the air.
Mulder lowered his leg. The same hand lifted the other leg. To get a
better look at the perfect stitching.
The hand dropped his foot and moved slowly to the collar of his
shirt. Softly tugged.
“Is that what you want?” Mulder asked. He shed the shirt. “Go
ahead. Rip out the stitches, give me another dose. I can’t feel it
anyway. You. . .you have taken away. . .” He swallowed down, his
voice breaking. The thoughts could not be said. They knew what they
did.
The hand slowly began to caress Mulder’s cheek. He knew that
touch. Turning around, he saw the face that confirmed the touch.
Alex.
Mulder felt his knees buckle, sending him against Alex’s warm
chest. “Oh, God, Alex, I thought. . .” He wrapped his arms tight
around the man he thought was gone, just to make sure this wasn’t a
dream. Wept audibly into his chest.
“Shh.” Alex’s soft fingers ran through Mulder’s damp hair.
“It’s all right now. I’m taking you home.”
Alex, his Alex was here, not dead, here, to take him home.
Home forever. With no pain and just warmth and love and acceptance.
He was so happy, he felt dizzy. A wave of dark skidded across his
eyes, but he refused to let it take control. Not now, not in Alex’s
arms being touched by Alex’s hands and soothed by Alex’s nonsense
words. Nothing could hurt him anymore, because his Alex was here to
take care of him.
“Alex?”
“Mmm?”
“Can I tell you something please?”
Green eyes were filled with a mixture of sadness and delight.
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry.”
"I know."
“And. . .I love you.”
Alex smiled, a sweet, sad smile. “I know that too.”
Mulder took Alex’s face into both hands, and kissed his lips
tenderly. His angel. Resurrected angel. Here, for him. To take him
home. To accept, forgive and to love.
FIN
10/23/98