A Bad Dustin Hoffman Killer Virus Movie [X-Files]

A Bad Dustin Hoffman Killer Virus Movie
by Jennifer-Oksana
rating/classification: PG-13 V, (implied) MSRA
spoilers: Within
summary: In dreams, in dreams…
disclaimer: 1013 owns Agent Dana Scully. No copyright infringement
intended.

If there were pills that made you stop dreaming, I would take them. I
would take so many that I would die like Marilyn Monroe, too many pills,
two boys too many too much living too little silence inside my very own
head–

My mother never told me pregnancy brought so many dark dreams.

Maybe it’s the fetus itself. It lives in the dark. It survives on blood.
And everything around it is uglier than being a prenatal vampire trying
to take human form–

The dreams have to stop. I can’t think anymore with the images spilling
from that liquid underworld of horror into my half-lit light, haunted
with its own ghosts and monsters. I can’t see another broken figure,
impaled on his own petard, smiling with love and eaten up with dying.

Mulder couldn’t have known he was dying.

Please, God, let that be true. It’s hard enough knowing that Special
Agent Best of the Best of the Best John Doggett wants me to say what he
suspects, to tell him that I’m not just his ignorant partner, I’m his
ignorant lover, duped and left behind to be crucified.

At least nobody knows that I’m not only dumb enough to be duped, I’m
idiotic enough to be thirty-seven years old and “in a fix” as Mom used
to put it. I need my Mom. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her, but I
need someone to hear my secrets and not need any help for them. Because
Skinner is sweet but the idea of me pregnant is freaking him out. God,
she’s going to be hell on me once I cry it all out, but at least the
secrets won’t be festering here, hidden for my own protection.

I wish I could fall asleep. For someone who spends all her time dreaming
of the dead, the apocalypse, the baby, and her very own personal hell,
I’ve seen the sun rise too many times this week.

Maybe I’m the vampire. Maybe I’m sucking every bit of desperation I can
into my soul and turning it into a grim, icy determination to live, to
tell every tormentor in my life that they can throw everything they’ve
got at me and I will survive like Gloria Gaynor– no. I’ll survive like
Tina Turner and I’ll thrive and one day–

God, my head hurts. I wish my mom would call. She’s probably not in town
right now. She likes to travel, which is a good thing considering all
the times we moved when I was a kid, but right now I would give a
significant amount of money and perhaps my dignity to have her right
here right now.

I stare at the page of the book I was trying to read to make me tired.
You’d think that Images of Sainthood in Medieval Europe would send
anyone into the arms of oblivion, but that only works when you can make
out the letters on the page. For me, they’re all a blur and even when I
can understand a word, it doesn’t connect to the word before and the
word after.

Nothing nothing nothing iconography nothing Saint Lucy’s eyes nothing
and my God I would even wish for a dream now, because I can’t stay awake
anymore in this grey world where there is no dawn and no sunset and
nothing that connects except this emptiness.

I wish my mom were here.

That’s not entirely true. I wish Mulder were here with all my heart and
soul, but if he’s otherwise occupied, I could use some maternal comfort.

What am I going to tell them?

You know when they said I couldn’t have kids? Um, they might have
exaggerated a little– so start budgeting for two grandkids!

Wow, Mulder, I guess we should have used that condom after all–

Oh dear God, I’m not sixteen years old anymore. Why can’t I think of my
situation in adult terms? I’m a competent, intelligent person who enjoys
small children and gets along with them fairly well. I wanted a baby. I
have a good job that will financially provide for myself and my child
even in the unpleasant circumstance where Mulder doesn’t come home. My
mother will be absolutely thrilled. She’ll cry all over me with
happiness.

So why can’t I think sanely about this? Why do I feel like a little girl
wearing fancy suits and a Lady Macbeth mask?

I throw the book across the room and walk over to the mirror. I keep
staring in the mirror, as if somewhere across the looking glass, my real
life will re-emerge and Mulder will tap me on the shoulder and ask me
what I’m looking for.

My face is a stranger’s face. It changed overnight from a friend to a
conniving strategist in the space of a few days. The woman I’m
pretending to be stares stonily back while the real me cowers in fear of
Daddy finding out how bad I am–

God, haven’t I flogged my Catholic guilt from here to eternity already?

I am big enough to handle this. I can handle this.

If I stare in the mirror long enough, the Ice Queen looking back at me
will whisper how to get out of this fix. She’ll tell me the truth, won’t
she?

And if I fall asleep looking at myself, what do I dream? Will something
slip through the glass, something with my face but not my soul? Will she
smile at me with lips red enough to be blood or ruby and then will she
lean over, warm and spicy smelling, to kiss me goodnight?

The light diffusing through the blinds is pale and sullen with all the
hope of spring and summer gone forever. The light is slipping past all
my defenses to keep it away. It’s whispering that I should take a
shower, wipe my eyes and put on the mask sitting on my dressing table.

So do I listen to the light or do I listen to the mirror? Or do I sit
here and wait to drown in my own nightmares of blood and fevered
unknowing?

I’m so tired. If only there was a way to sleep without dreaming, I’d
take a day off– just a day– I’d try to sleep some heavenly peace, knit
up the ravelled– unravelled– get some sweet oblivion is what I mean
but I can’t think a straight line anymore.

Instead it’s walking dolls who kiss me good night, drowning in deep
water, blood water, there’s so much blood and if I could take a pill to
sleep without dreaming, I’d overdose.

I see my reflection, and for a second I think it really might be my own
face. All the strength and iciness seem to crash and shatter like a bad
layer of pancake makeup and instead there’s this shivering person with
watering eyes and a face so transparent from weariness you can almost
see her bones. I even think she might have the same headache pounding in
her temples.

She traces her face slowly, the sad eyes, the dark circles eating up the
skin, the faded lips, and I think that she and I have a lot more in
common when we’re not pretending to be strong.

The light is getting warmer and I wish I could crawl into bed and fall
asleep but I’m still not tired. I stand up and wander toward the shower,
wondering what comes next in the ongoing saga of my life.

God, I wish my mom would call.

I wish I could sleep.

I wish not to dream.

END

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