You're not really sure where she's taking you.

You're not really sure where you are.

You don't know anything, anything, anything at all. All you remember is sitting out in the hall, putting your hands in your lap, peeling back the cuff of your suit and just staring down at the crisscross lines on your wrists, thin and white and raised, the last one is still red and fresh and angry. She'd caught you this morning, but the words had come out wrong and she'd pulled out the needle and--

How long ago was that?

You can't think back that far.

You shift in the seat, can't remember very much.

That day, in the hall, right before that day, she'd been angry about something.

Something--

something?

Ah, yes:

You told her.

You still can't get over that.

How had you told her?

What had you said to her?

Your hands are shaking so badly that they're not even distinct entities before your eyes, but these pale streaks of flesh moving with hyperkinetic energy, and it's taking all the control you've got left to sit in this car and keep the seatbelt over your chest, but then, you can't move your hands. You try and lift your right hand. You try and try until a cold sweat pops across your forehead, but still, it sits on the arm until she takes the car around the turn. Your hand flops to the right, and for a second, in the bright spring afternoon light, you catch sight of your bare wrist.

Your left hand stretches out for something, something, aches for something, but touches only velour. until your hand doesn't respond to you anymore, until it spasms and then just lies there immobile like a dead fish.

"Well, here we are."

She hasn't said anything during the entire trip, but she does help you get out of the car very carefully, props you up on your feet.

"Can you walk by yourself?"

You nod, even though the sky is extremely bright and you're having trouble keeping your feet underneath you. The touch of her hands is irritating for some reason.

So, you concentrate on moving so she doesn't touch you. She has your suitcase. You consider taking it back, but then you stumble into the curb, and nearly go face down onto the asphalt. You stagger down onto your knees, sway a moment before you can grab you balance back. She puts a hand on your elbow to steady you, but you jerk out of her hands, even though you can't remember why you hate her so.

"He's out of it this morning." Another voice, warm and strong, pulls you back onto your feet. You concentrate on keeping upright. You don't know what he looks like.

"He had an episode last night and was uncooperative this morning."

"Ah. You're Agent Scully, I presume?"

"Yes." They shake hands. He is the director.

You're standing in front of a house. There are gingerbread eaves, and it's in brilliantly green lawn. A border of flowers, steps up to a porch. There is a sign with gilt lettering, but your eyes can't focus at that distance, and she guides you through the sliding doors.

It's cold in here. Even though the windows are large and there's carpeting on the floor, it's very friendly-looking, but *cold*. You can feel it leaching through the walls, from the curtains.

You have a room on the second floor.

It's painted yellow. There is one window, with curtains, and a bed with sheets. There is no lock on the door, and there isn't a door on the bathroom.

She sets your suitcase on the bureau, she's starting to unpack when you see that there's a mirror on the edge of the wall, and you can see your face leap at you for a second, all wild and frightened, and all of a sudden the drug haze lifts long enough for you to spit in her face and call her all the names you've yearned to say, she doesn't need to call the orderlies, because by the time they come, you've already staggered backwards and curled yourself up in a ball, and you're crying, crying those names between hiccups and Alex, sobs and Alex, the memory of Alex.

.

end

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