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Return To Me
I am walking. I find myself walking often at the moment, aimlessly walking, studying the faces around me as I cling on to the hope that one of them might be *his*. I've studied thousands of faces over the last few weeks, searching unconsciously for him even when I am concerned with more mundane real-life activities. I search the streets for him when I'm driving to work, every dark head amongst the crowds causing me to blink back the image of him, to take a second glance. But I am always disappointed. In the beginning, every disappointment brought fresh tears that burned and pricked my eyelids. Every disappointment tore away another tiny piece of my heart. Every disappointment made a small part of me wither and die. But now, weeks have passed and I have rebuilt my walls. Every brick strengthened, every crack filled. My facade firmly back in place. Dana Scully - impenetrable, unfeeling. I think even Skinner was surprised on how rapidly I recovered from the grim news that Mulder was gone. He tried in vain to persuade me to take some time. Begging me almost to allow myself time to *process*. Mulder's disappearance, the baby, my health - all these things provoked a worried frown to crease his head every time he looked at me. He didn't say so in as many words. I just knew. But despite this, I returned to work. To sift aimlessly through the basement office I had once shared with Mulder. No file was ignored, no piece of paper left unturned, but I found nothing. At least I found nothing aside from more heartache as I stubbornly kept his desk dust free, allowing no one to touch it but me. Everything is exactly as he left it - right down to a small pile of broken seed husks that he had neglected to throw in to the trash. It's ready for him to walk through the door and re-claim his rightful place. I don't care how long it takes. The only thing I have removed from the office is the framed picture of us that used to sit on the shelf above his desk. I can't even remember when it was taken, let alone who took it, it just appeared there one day. I had never even really studied it before Mulder was gone. It was just one of those things I was aware existed in the peripherals of my vision. Now though, I could describe it in minute detail to anyone who might be interested. I have traced every line, every detail of that photograph and it's become a part of me. It's the only picture I have of him. Well, besides the ones I have locked in my heart that is. I torture myself with that photograph in much the same way I tortured myself with Emily. I find myself drifting towards it at odd times of the day and night, holding it against me as the tears once more begin to flow. Oh yeah - I still cry, God knows I still cry. But my crying is done in private. The time for public displays of mourning are long since gone. I can't fall apart. Not now. Not until we find him. He has been gone for six weeks now. Exactly half the time I was gone all those years ago. My Mother told me quietly one day that he never gave up hope that I would return. Even when the people who loved me the most had begun to come to terms with the fact that I might be lost to them. Her words gave me the strength I needed to carry on. To carry on looking even when I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for. I have stopped going home. It wasn't a conscious decision on my part - more a need that I couldn't ignore. I *needed* to be close to him. So one night, just a little less than a week after he was taken, I packed a bag, climbed in the car and drove myself over to his apartment. I used my key to let myself in, breathed in the lingering scent of him, trailing my fingertips along the walls as I drifted from room to room. Eventually, I collapsed on to the bed - the very bed in which we had finally succumbed to each other - and wept until I thought my heart would break in two. It didn't of course. I woke up the next morning, surrounded by the scent of him and carried on. But I have not been home since that day except to pick up clothing, toiletries and other daily necessities. And every night, I go walking under the stars. Long after the city has settled down to sleep for the night, I walk. I feel closest to him when I can feel the soft summer breezes on my face. I hear him speaking to me through the whispering leaves, feel his hand on my back, guiding my gently as I attempt the impossible. The memory of his touch soothes me, allows me to believe that one day we will find him. It's the only time I really feel at peace with myself. Safe in the knowledge, that one day, he will return to me. End |
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