From: Valeanna1 Date: Fri, 24 Apr 1998 15:03:29 EDT Subject: 'Dream' (1/1) by J. C. Sun Title: Dream Author: J. C. Sun E-mail: valeanna1@aol.com Category: VRA Rating: PG-13 for sexual themes and general subversiveness Summary: Mulder dreams. Grovel-in-the-mud thanks go to Geb, Goddess of Interior Furnishing, and Joann for their insightful beta reading. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. .dream .jcsun I dream, now. Not violent, explosive snatches, not running running the lights, heart pounding mouth dry, thudding, the grit of cement, sweep of lights and running running must get over the fence because she's there because she's there she's there and omygodomygodomygod Curls now. Standing in the light afterwards, watching it depart with the slow acidic realization that she's gone. Gone. Now. Forever. Out of your reach. Bang of a gavel, the panel scowling down at you, telling you that it's over, over, over, remanded and removed, then her eyes, those slickly perfect eyes like pebbles under running water unreachable and cold behind mascara and eyeliner, memory of four years and her sister and the cancer and Emily, all, blaming you, burning, burning, burning. . . I dream now. Long, languorous lazy curlicues sculpted of iron, spiraling. Ebony, endless and slick with the bloody kiss of memory, sublime and perfect, sculpted from flawless marble, with a carved mahogany banister that is cool to the touch. A stairway, leading down forever, into velvet night. And this night, it is a mansion with white pillars, stairs rising to a deep veranda, a mansion of twisted thorn, rambling, pointed, barbed and tipped, black. There is the call of the shrike intermingling with lightning, blue white. Justice standing in the courtyard, scales in her rigid hand, moss about her feet, fountain long stilled, ivy creeping around her base. And then, I, stepping inside, onto the harlequin floor, with diamonds of black and diamonds of white falling together in cut precision. An eagle, made of brass, fallen upon the floor; the arrows it clutches are dented, dulled, broken. There is also a faded cloth, trampled, dirty, upon the floor. I run my fingers across its unraveling edge. Bending close, the faintest vestige of red and white stripes. It crumbles to the touch, dissipating into the finest of particles, and I am somehow saddened, disappointed, but, shake my head as I might, I can think of no reason why. My steps, they echo so loud upon the marble. My hands, they are so feeble batting at the cobwebs. My heart, it beats with such easy slowness. Down, down, my feet lead me, into another tight spiraling staircase. Down, down, down, to a tiny cramped hallway that is not unfamiliar. The clutter, the bang of the air conditioner, faintly, the echoes of the FBI's most unwanted lingering in this dusty byway. Three men, now. Scrubbing at the filth that coats the floor, a thick brown scum that recognizable as tobacco stains over crusted blood. Three men, scrubbing, bent double, hands working diligently, robotically scrubbing at dirt that will never go. And as I near, their faces, white and taut with terror--they swing up to me, burning strips of magnesium, twisting and writhing, rectangular slots for eyes, putty faces, slack mouths, gawping. My mouth falters. The bearded one, he unbuttons the top of his business suit, fingers falling clumsily, eyes transfixed upon me, pulling away his tie to show, not the bare flesh of his throat, but rather, a studded black band. A collar. He draws his line across the tag on his: Truth, in raised silver embossing. Truth. Truth. Truth. My mouth attempts to formulate a question. The blonde one, he raises his finger in the direction of the closest door. Truth. Special Agent. Teeth catch upon lip. I push the door open. Cool and colder and hard. The door swings open. My office. A boudoir. Crumbling red velvet, draped over the bed, no desk, mahogany paneling, ebony ceiling, parchment laid on table close and dark, strangling, lithograph of my family upon the wall. Stained Tiffany, throwing bloody light upon a mirror, giant and monstrous, which in turn, throws back my warped face, opening my mouth, a caught demon screamer for Munch. And Truth. A woman, lustrous hair upswept, a mouth, black cherry, painted with tasted blood. Long, lithe of body, resting scimitar lounging, raising ebony stem to ebony lips, her skin so pale and white, like oldest ivory. Such eyes, such dark eyes promising everlasting solace, ringed about with whorls of blue tattoo encompassing her temple in their extravagant whirls, Nydhogg, Sheesha, mere striplings entwined within. She tilts her head, a smooth flow of muscle and bone, hip and flesh, tendon and joint. Such sharp teeth. Beckons forward, crook of finger. I blink. "Sam." she says. I stumble towards her. I trip to my knees. Such cold, cold hands upon my neck, on my vertebrae, tracing spirals upon my naked back down the back of my haunches, wrapping around me, drawing lovely frightening patterns, scribing. She wears a red dress: red velvet dress with the print of bloody hands and soaring doves, stroking my side, brushing, moving, chafing crimson field click of heels, knees against marble. There is the snick the cuffs shut. I start, feeling metal around wrists. I twist, bucking upwards. "Scully." I still. Her hands, upon my shoulders, turning me around, tilting my head up, sliding onto her knees in one graceful flick, the rearrangement of bell skirts around the glimpse of a bone china ankle. And she bends close, so close, clawed hands catching at my jaw, porcelain face, the sharp acrid flavor of burning parchments, coppery spike of blood and, distantly, the beat of the dwarf's dance. Her mouth, dark thing, coming down on me in the beginning of Armageddon, and straddling my flesh. She holds Scully's crucifix. do you love her? she asks, running icy fingers down my chest, stroking the crucifix, attached chain tugging me onto my knees. you don't love her. she smiles, tugging, the clink of metal upon linoleum. you don't. She slides the leather band around my throat. I cannot speak. She smiles. She smiles. She smiles. She smiles and she bends forth and she kisses me, filling my mouth with blood, copper-sweet. And I wake. And I scream. I scream and I scream and I scream. .end Feedback is worshipped at valeanna1@aol.com