Colorblind By Humbuggie san@sv-tales.com www.sv-tales.com © 2003 Edited by Truthwebothknow1. Thanks, Lisa! I am colorblind Coffee black and egg white Pull me out from inside I am ready. I am ready. I am ready I am … Taffy stuck, tongue tied Stuttered shook and uptight Pull me out from inside I am ready. I am ready. I am ready I am... Fine I am covered in skin No one gets to come in Pull me out from inside -- The Counting Crows Story: Scully is badly hurt during a stakeout turned disaster. Mulder retreats within himself, trying to cope with the drama as he frantically looks for her attacker. Type: MSR, MT, Lots of Angst, ST, and Skinner-friendship Note: In previous stories like “The Game” I have introduced Terence Davis, Mulder’s former AD at the VCU. To learn more about this man, read The Game at www.sv-tales.com. There are also mentions of Tom Fielding, one of Mulder’s former VCU-colleagues, but he does not play a part in this story. Spoilers: minor spoilers for Beyond The Sea, One Breath and the Scully has cancer-storyline. There are several major spoilers for Pusher and a few for Kitsenugari. Color blind Part one One second ago, she was running next to me with the gun in her hand. She is a good shot, like me, but I know she will not pull the trigger without having been given ample reason. And since our suspect is not exactly killer material, she would not shoot without being provoked. She would never think that he would actually have a .32 on him. Her little feet were moving fast before: I could hear the clicks whenever her high heels hit the pavement. How can she run in those things? I have wondered about it many times before, and am thinking about it as we rush towards Thomas Delaney, the subject of our investigation. He leads us deeper into the compound, into the shadows that soon hold us, and trap us. A second later, we are on the ground. I don’t know how it happened. I could feel something push me hard, throwing me off my feet. It’s Scully who leaps into me, dropping me to the concrete and then falling on top of me. She saves my life, but I only realize that much later. All I know at that exact moment, is that we drop like logs. All I remember about it later, is that the shadows somehow did not feel right. They were strange, like beacons of danger warning us to get the hell out of there. But I ignored the signals. The moment Tommy Delaney started running, I ran too. It is in my instinct to do so. The side of my head strikes the ground hard, in full force and her weight is on top of me, smothering me. I can feel the skin on the side of my face burst as it touches the concrete hard and I am completely dazed by the sudden flashes of pain that surge through me, numbing me. And she no longer lies on top of me; she rolled off me somehow. It becomes silent for a few moments; I don’t know how long. Then I look up, confused, not knowing anything but the pain in my head. It’s bad. An excruciating pain forces its way into my skull and sends pinpoints of hard, aggressive pain through me. Every move makes me nauseated. I can hardly do anything but roll on my side, fighting against the rising of bile in my throat. I close both my eyes as the surface sways, and order it to stop. I know that I have a concussion. I am as certain of it as I am of my life’s quest. Something is wrong. I can feel it. There is no Scully leaning over me, asking me if I am okay. There is nothing but complete silence that surrounds us. And there’s the strange sound of something tapping against concrete; like drops of water trickling from a broken pipe. The shadows have changed. I realize we’re completely alone inside this abandoned compound. No one is coming to help us. In fact, nothing much happens while we are both on the ground. I know that I will have to be the one seeking help. I finally open my eyes, try to get a grip and look up. There could not have been more than a few moments passing us by, yet it feels like an eternity. The sound of the dripping water annoys me. I roll on my side and groan her name. ‘Scully?’ At first I can hardly see her, as flashes of pain cut through my eyes like razor blades. I am stung by the pain’s harshness. But when I open my eyes for the second time, I see what I always fear seeing. My partner is lying on the ground, partially on her side, and is staring at me. My heart stops. I think she’s dead. There is blood underneath her, dripping from one single small bullet hole that ruins her clothing. She is wearing a soft grey today and I almost wished it were black, so that the blood would not stand out that much. But the jacket and trousers are a light tan of grey, and ruined just like the black turtleneck shirt that makes her look so classy. She always has style, even lying on the ground; even when her hair is no longer swinging perfectly on her shoulders. I am colorblind. I cannot see the color red, but I know what it is like. I know its scent, its feel and its destruction. In my dreams, when I can actually see the colors the way the Earth has meant them for us to see, I can distinguish red on green perfectly. I know the true coloring of Scully’s hair, and the color of her blood. Blood is a thick fluid that covers one’s hands when trying to save a life. Hospitals are filled with them. Blood represents death. It can also represent life. Right now, it represents Scully’s death. It despairs me. I forget that the shadows might still be endangering us, and that I should be on the lookout for the boy that shot her. Nothing matters anymore, but the woman lying on the ground. I am up, swaying on my knees and kneeling by her side. I am leaning partially over her, trying not to throw up all over her. It feels like I could just faint any second, but I realize that I cannot afford that right now. My partner’s life depends on my consciousness and ability to stay focused. But I can’t … I can’t breath. I can’t move. I’m just sitting there and I can’t... Do …anything. Our lives as we have known them, are over. She’s dead. She left me. And I just cannot do anything. I want to die too. Until Scully suddenly moves. Her eyes are open, and then they close. I realize she’s alive! My god, she has a bullet in her chest and she’s awake and partially alert. She coughs up blood. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain. But she’s extremely cold. All color has drained from her skin. Her face is pale with dark eyelashes covering those blue eyes when she blinks. Her lips are blueish too. And her breathing is short and shallow. ‘Scully.’ I speak her name and know she hears me. ‘Hang on,’ I groan. ‘Hang on.’ I turn away my head and fight against the bile within me. But I fail to succeed. I move away from her, crawling on hands and feet until I find a spot behind some cardboard boxes where I lose what is left of lunch. My body heaves and I just cannot stop the vomiting. It’s horrible. I can’t even rinse my mouth. I grab a handkerchief from my pocket, wipe my mouth and stretch my back. She needs you, pounds through my head. She needs you. I grasp my mobile phone and dial 911, using every effort I can summon up from within me. My voice is as hoarse as it is, every time I need to call for help. How many times before she will never wake up again? ‘This is Special Agent Fox Mulder. I have an agent down with a gunshot wound to the chest. She’s dying. Get someone here, now!’ ‘Where are you sir?’ I give the street name and explain where they can find us. The woman on the other line asks me if I’m hurt too. ‘No,’ I say, but I can tell she does not believe me. Even on the phone I sound sick and hurt. ‘Stay on the line,’ she urges me, but I hang up. I don’t recall how many times I have called for help in the past, but it has never seemed as serious as now. I have never seen Scully get shot in the upper chest before. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to act. ‘Pressure,’ I say out loud as I throw down the phone. ‘Put pressure on the wound.’ I panic. I pull open her jacket and try to locate the wound. There’s blood all over her. I know I have to lift her sweater to trace the bullet and don’t want to. What if I hurt her? Or push that bullet further into her somehow? What if my actions will kill her? But I do it anyway. Carefully I push her on her back, and her eyes stare unseeingly back at me: I hate the look in them. She’s completely out of it. I remember how I felt when I was shot. One of the times I was shot, that is. You escape your body, hoping that it’s all just a bad dream. The situation is unreal and you wish for some sort of strange resolution: something to tell you the pain exists in your imagination, and at the same time, you can’t move your body, and you start to feel horrified that no one might come to save you. You start watching your life flash before your eyes. You recall the good and bad times and regret all the things you have not done. I rip apart the sweater and her chest rises up and down as the cold air touches her skin. I don’t look at her beautiful silk bra. The bullet has entered her chest, above her left breast, beneath her shoulder. If it is embedded in her heart, there is nothing I can do. I touch her flesh with my fingertips. One thing I know for certain is that it hasn’t entered her heart or is endangering it. But that does not mean she’s not in immediate danger. I look around for something to cover her with and have nothing but my coat on me. She is not wearing hers; she left it in the car. My head spins horribly as I pull off the warm fabric. I’m still sitting on my knees and try to keep the moving to a minimal. Fat chance. I take off my leather jacket too and cautiously remove my sweater, ripping it in thick strips of cloth that can be used as bandages. I put one on the wound and start applying pressure, while my coat functions as blanket to cover her up as well as possible. She is starting to hurt. I can tell by the way her lips twitch and her eyelashes flicker. She wants to stay alert, fearful like I am, that she might die the second she closes her eyes. I know her chest must hurt, for there the bullet has entered her body. She coughs but it can barely be heard. And her lips still don’t return to their regular color. What the hell is keeping them so long!? I’m a lousy help. I’ve done a course of First Aid a long time ago, as required by FBI-standards. I know how to apply pressure, how to treat burn injuries and what to do in case of heart failure, and that’s about it. I vow to take another course. I never want to feel this helpless again. Scully coughs and then she stares at me. She looks me straight in the eyes. There is pain in those eyes. The shock is wearing down and she recognizes me. God, what’s keeping them? I need her to live. I need her so badly to pull through this. I can’t go on alone. I can’t watch her die in my arms while I sit back helplessly. She grasps my hand and she coughs again, and I keep on putting pressure on the wound because it is all I can do right now. She takes short, shallow breaths. I can tell she’s hurting. The second she closes her eyes, they are finally there, while I call out her name and shout to her that she needs to hold on. At the same time the warning rings through my mind: why didn’t we see that gun? Why were we running towards danger? And why did I ignore the shadows’ warning? Part two I see men and women approach us, as the garage doors to the compound slide open. There are police vehicles and one or two ambulances and FBI-vehicles. We are in the middle of DC, sitting in an abandoned warehouse and law enforcement is all around us. But they were not here when that innocently looking teenager pulled a gun on us. ‘Police! Let us see your hands!’ A voice rose from the darkness and I can hear several voices soon after. I raise my hands automatically, knowing they are just doing their job. I wait until a police officer reaches me. He pulls out my badge and takes away my gun. When they are sure I am, who I said I am, I am asked how I’m doing. Gentle hands offer to help me get up. I hardly see them and shrug them off. ‘Help her,’ I urge them. ‘She’s dying.’ ‘Let us get to her, sir,’ a paramedic says and I look up. I see several people standing around us, and I realize they can’t move because I am still grasping Scully’s hand, and holding onto the improvised bandages covering her chest. I try to move up, only to realize my legs refuse to move. My entire body seems to collapse. I have lost my will to respond. Two men help me up, holding me with their gathered strengths. Everything just sways. But I refuse to give in, and tell the man closest to me that, I am fine. I want them to let go of me. I cannot stand their care. More cars arrive. I see Skinner suddenly. He runs towards the scene where dozens of people seem to be gathered. Scully is in the centre of their attention. She is being helped onto a gurney and my coat is thrown on the ground, as well as the remains of the torn-up sweater. I stare at the crumpled heap with the bloodstains on them. I am still being held by one arm. A man prevents me from toppling over. I have to fight the urge to sink into darkness myself. I cannot do that. Scully lives and breathes on my strength now. ‘Mulder, what the hell happened?’ Skinner asks as he grasps my upper arm, and I look at my boss without being able to form an answer. I don’t know what to say. I feel despair sink in. If only this could have been a nightmare. If only I could wake up and realize it’s not true. Skinner grasps my arm and shakes me out of my stupor. ‘Mulder?’ I just shake my head. He moves from me, to Scully on the gurney and looks at her, asking the paramedics how she’s doing. They say it’s serious and move her to the ambulance that has driven inside the warehouse, using the old docking station that no longer has use now. This old place could have become Scully’s grave. The serenity of silence that so overwhelmed me when I entered this place running after the teenager has gone. The shadows have vanished, being replaced by sharp and aching lights that burn behind my eyelids. ‘We are taking Agent Mulder to hospital,’ one of the paramedics says. ‘It looks like he might have a concussion.’ I look up and say, ‘No. I’m going with her.’ ‘You can’t, sir,’ the paramedic argues. ‘You’re hurt too. You’re bleeding.’ ‘I’m fine. I’m going with her,’ I repeat stubbornly. Skinner interferes. ‘He’s going with her,’ he barks. ‘Make sure he’s as comfortable as possible. Watch him. Daniel, go with him and keep an eye on him. Get him to have treatment in hospital.’ The man holding onto me, releases me and I turn to follow the gurney that holds Scully. My helper comes after me and now I recognize him. He’s an FBI-agent working at the VCU, a friend of Tom Fielding’s. I’ve never worked with him before, even though he’s been on some of my former cases. He’s a couple of years younger than I am. In between the mess, I wonder why he’s here. How he got here. But then I see a lot of other agents too and I know that they probably responded to the general alarm call saying there are agents in trouble. ‘Come on, Mulder,’ he says, and I try to remember his name. ‘I’ll go with you.’ Skinner looks gratefully at the agent and I nod quietly. What’s he called again? I don’t know. It takes all of me to keep on my two feet and pretend that I don’t have that concussion, that’s eating away at my stamina. We walk to the ambulance and I slip inside, next to the doctor who is taking care of my partner. The agent is the third man, coming to sit next to me in the back of the ambulance. I remember his name now: Daniel Verlaine. Nice guy. The doors close and I focus on Scully. She looks so bad. I grasp her hand and rub my thumb over her wrist. She’s unconscious now, and looks as if she has already died. But she is still with us. Let her stay, I pray silently and my head throbs horribly. The doctor places a thick bandage against my head, applying pressure. I am startled by the surging pain that moves through my skull, and groan. Daniel looks at me, worried and I close my eyes for a second, fighting off that horrible dizziness that rushes through me. I can’t give up now. I want to be with her, hold her and protect her. I have this feeling that she might die if I let go of reality, and slip into the darkness. I just sit and stare. Wait and sit. We arrive at the hospital. Scully is taken out of the vehicle and into the ER, into a large room where I cannot enter. I am not allowed to do so. The room is painted in blue – a color I do know – and very clinical. The doors clap shut and I stare behind the glass. Rage overwhelms me. I am so angry with that kid for shooting my partner. I want to go on the streets, do a manhunt and kill him bare handedly. He shouldn’t have been carrying a gun! We should have seen it. He was not the type to start shooting. He was just a boy: a troubled teenager, with psychic abilities that we tried to talk to; a child with more problems than anyone his age should have had. He did not seem like a killer. How could we have misjudged him like that? He became a killer as soon as he was the hunted. He shot her and she pushed me out of the way. But why did he shoot? Why wouldn’t he talk to us like he did before? Was it a panic shot? Or a deliberate one? ‘Come with me,’ the paramedic/doctor says; after they are taking care of Scully. ‘We’ll take care of you.’ ‘No.’ I shrug him off. ‘You’re hurt, Agent Mulder. You’re about to drop by the looks of it,’ he protests. ‘Leave me alone,’ I snap. The aid stares frantically at me, not understanding my refusal. ‘I’ll stay with him,’ Daniel Verlaine says, placing his hand on my shoulder protectively. ‘If he’s not well, I’ll get you.’ Somehow, that touch makes me feel better. Instantly I shrug the feeling off too; nobody is going to get close to me now. As long as Scully is in danger, I will not allow a single human being to help me. The wait starts. I see them work on her and I stand outside those glass doors waiting. Watching. Hurting. Her clothes are gone. Her body is covered with sheets and blankets. She has an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. I can’t see her eyes. I can see that she’s breathing, because of the machines that show her vitals. The heart-monitor that telltales her situation, picks up the pace. I ball my hands and wait for someone to tell me the news: good or bad. It takes too long. I’ve lost track of time. A doctor comes out after a while and walks over to me. ‘Are you related to Miss Scully?’ he asks. ‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘Her husband?’ I nod and Daniel does not correct me. ‘Your wife needs emergency surgery, sir. She has – what is called – a pulmonary contusion. A bullet fragment is embedded in her chest and we need to remove it.’ ‘In English please?’ ‘In English: we need to get that bullet out of there quickly. The chest pains, the shortness of breath show that it has caused severe damage. She’s hypoxic too.’ ‘Is she going to die?’ I interrupt him. ‘Let’s hope not. We’ll do all we can for her. She has lost a lot of blood and is in shock, but we’ll see the full damage once we’re in there.’ I nod somberly and let him go. Daniel Verlaine leaves to fetch me a cup of coffee, and I am only alone for only a few seconds. I keep on having the same thoughts: something is bugging me at the edge of my memories. I saw something in that compound: something that hurt us both. I need to go after the kid that did this to us. As soon as Scully is all right, I am going to go after him and bring him down. How dare he pull a gun on us? How dare he shoot us? The doors behind me clap open and shut, I just know Skinner’s there. I can feel his presence as strongly as I can feel Scully’s. He is a part of my life as much as Scully is. I am angry as I recall, the last meeting we had together. Suddenly fury rushes through me, giving me a huge adrenaline boost. ‘Where was our backup?’ I snap. ‘You promised us backup and we were out there on our own. You caused this!’ ‘Mulder, calm down,’ Skinner says, shocked by my outburst. He’s nervous. ‘This is not doing anybody any good. Where’s Scully?’ ‘They’re prepping her for surgery. She’s dying.’ ‘You don’t know that.’ ‘I do know it. I can feel life drip from her body. I saw the blood pour between my hands. I still have it on me. Do you know what that’s like, sir? To watch someone you love die for nothing?’ ‘Yeah, I do know,’ Skinner speaks calmly, not in the least shocked by my anger. In fact, his calm makes me angrier. I want to do some damage. Grab someone and have a fight to the death. The only other time I felt this way, was when Scully was taken from me and returned, left in a coma. And that goddamn throbbing in my head just won’t stop. It hurts like a bitch. But I don’t care. If she dies, I go too. We are connected; she and I. Nothing would ever be the same without her. If she’s gone, what’s the use for me to hang around? The doors to the examination room clap open, just as Daniel returns with the coffee. I watch them move Scully to the elevators. She’s even paler than before. A white sheet covers her body; a thick, bloody bandage on her chest reveals the damage done. She’s out of it and I’m grateful for that: it’s better than feeling the pain. ‘Scully.’ I walk two steps towards the gurney, but the medical staff won’t stop. The doctors are swift and experienced. I need to let them be. So they move her into the elevator and all I can do is watch. Skinner places his hand on my shoulder. ‘She’s going to be alright,’ he promises me firmly. ‘I swear.’ I look into his eyes. He becomes a blur. I shake my head, feeling the rush pass. The adrenaline that kept me on my feet is gone. And I realize I’m going to pass out. I can feel it as certain as I have sensed Scully’s physical pain. I can’t hold on anymore. My legs are faltering, betraying me. I feel strong hands grasp me before I hit the ground, and I see Skinner hovering over me as I collapse. ‘We need help!’ someone says and I’m being lifted off the ground as people rush towards us. ‘We’re here, Mulder,’ Skinner says. ‘You’ll be fine. Listen to my voice. Don’t let yourself go. Try to stay awake.’ That is the last thing I remember of that day. To be continued … Sandra Vets Freelance Copywriter and author www.tales4rent.com [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] To post, mail to xfc-ATXC@yahoogroups.com To subscribe, mail xfc-ATXC-subscribe@yahoogroups.com To unsubscribe, mail xfc-ATXC-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/