Title: 37 Days
Author: Drovar
Email: drovar@mediaone.net
Rating: PG
Date: 2/14/99
Website: The Ferret Cage
URL: http://www.ferret-cage.com/
Summary: It's been 37 days . . . Post 'One Son'
Category: V, A
Disclaimers: CC, Fox & 1013 can keep all the rest, Spender belongs to me.
Notes: Not beta'd, a short something that came to me just now.

It's cold. I've let the fire burn down again . . .

I consider stoking the fire. But I didn't bring in any wood last night, and the cold outside makes the ache even worse.

I think I was delirious again last night. I remember blood; he wanted blood, there had to be blood.

I ache, and I'm cold.

There's no snow on the ground; not yet, even here, but it's so cold.

The blankets are damp with my sweat, clammy and dank. I stink, but there's no one here to notice, not since he dumped me here, alone.

Thankfully the night terrors, sweats, and dreams are becoming less severe as time goes by.

Time, I once thought I had none, now I have nothing else.

I gingerly burrow back beneath the blankets and drift off into my usual uneasy sleep.

I never used to dream. I'd wake up each morning a blank slate, swept clean by the night. Now I sometimes can't tell where the dreaming stops and the reality of my life begins.

I hear my mother calling for me in my dreams sometimes. She's so far away. I run for her, following her echoing voice, uncertain, unclear which way to go. Sometimes I catch a glimpse, a soft face in the distance, serene, at peace. Sometimes I envy her death.

But I'm still among the living, still trapped in machinations I don't understand by forces I'm unable to fight. I turn slowly onto my uninjured side, chasing the oblivion of sleep.

I wonder how Mulder ever managed it without going completely insane. I know things I never imagined could be true, things I've denied the reality of all my life. I've been a fool, easily manipulated, a child caught in a game where I hadn't a clue about the rules.

Now I know, now I understand, now when it's far too late.

I don't know what's going on in the world around me. I don't know what's happening at the bureau. There's no phone here, no radio, no television, not even electricity. I rise with the sun, and sleep when it sets.

I tried to walk out, but these woods seem to go on forever. I spent one night alone, in the dark, huddled beneath a fallen tree. That was my last excursion. There's food at least, and medicine. I won't starve or die of infection. Though I wonder how many painkillers it would take to join my mother.

I managed to scrape some old pencils and paper. Enough to keep this journal. But I have so little to write about other than my random thoughts. Sad little poems for my mother, and letters of sincere apology to the people I nearly betrayed in my ignorance.

I have no idea what he plans to do with me. I'm not certain I even care. But I do know this. I've lived a large part of my life as a fool. But I can now finally sign my name . . .

Jeffrey Frank Spender
An honest man