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RATING: PG
KEYWORDS: VA
SPOILERS: post-Closure, but it works as a standalone
ARCHIVING: I'd be absolutely honored. Just let me know so I can
come visit.
SUMMARY: "'O, daughter, dear,' her mother said, 'this blanket round
you fold, 'Tis such a dreadful night abroad, you will catch your death
of cold.'" -- Young (or Fair) Charlotte by William Lorenzo Carter
FEEDBACK: Deeply cherished and always replied to.
DISCLAIMER: I don't think Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox have quite given
up ownership rights yet. So yeah, don't own 'em, wish I did. That about
sums it up. So don't sue!
Author notes at end
************
Blanket of Dreams
by Piper
************
There was a time in my life when I had a security blanket.
It didn't start out as mine -- it was Samantha's. She loved that thing
when she was little, and it rarely ever left her side. It wasn't really
a spectacular blanket. The light peach wool was fairly threadbare but
soft, belying its history of being passed down through the warm,
loving hands of generations. It had been a comfort to her from the
start. It kept her warm in the cool New England nights, and she
huddled with it when she was sick and miserable.
It was the only thing that kept me company in the lonely years after
she was taken.
Those first couple of nights following her disappearance, I avoided my
parents and they avoided me. They spent a lot of time at the police
station and organizing search parties, and I was left to stay at our
next door neighbor's house. When my parents brought me home at night,
they sent me to my room while they stayed downstairs and argued till
early in the morning. Afraid they blamed me for her disappearance, I
foolishly thought that if I just stayed out of their way, they would
forget that it was my fault.
Their loud voices reverberated through the house at night. I'd lie in
bed, covers pulled tightly over me, protecting my ears from the harsh
sound. When I finally did fall asleep
out of sheer exhaustion, I was haunted by crushing nightmares.
Samantha screaming my name was a common one.
Sometimes I dreamt that I would get up in the morning, late for school
because Mom forgot to wake me up. But when I went downstairs, the
entire house would be empty, all the furniture missing and my parents
would be gone forever, punishing me for losing my sister. Then I
would go into Samantha's old room, hoping that they at least left her
things for me. All that would be there was her blanket lying on the
cold, empty bed.
And sometimes, in the more terrible nightmares, They came back for
me too.
One night, courage be damned, I went into my parents' room to sleep
with them, where I thought I would be safe. My father was nowhere to
be found, and my mother lay alone on the bed. As I crept closer to
her, the moonlight illuminated her pale skin and the tear tracks on her
cheeks. I tried to shake her awake, but she didn't respond. When I
tried to slip my hand into hers, an empty medicine bottle greeted me
instead.
My eyes stung and I blinked to make out my mother's dark body under
the covers of the bed, making sure she was breathing. After
confirming the slight movement of her chest, I quietly slipped out of
the room.
After that, Samantha's blanket became my companion in the dark,
frightening nights. There was something comforting in its softness, in
the faint scent of my little sister that still lingered in its threads.
Sometimes I could even feel crumbs, remnants from forbidden late-
night cookies. I slept with it at night and put it back in her room in
the morning. I didn't dare try to go in my parents' bedroom again, and
I never mentioned the incident to my mother.
Then one day, my father didn't come home in the evening at his usual
time. I waited up for him, way past my bedtime. As she went to bed,
she looked at me with an expression of resignation. And deep down, I
knew what her eyes told me. Even if she didn't say the words. But
with the stubborn denial of a child plugging his fingers in his ears, I
refused to believe. Every evening, I waited for the sound of his car
pulling up in the driveway, his keys in the door. But he never came.
Waking earlier than usual one morning, something drew me
downstairs. I saw him in the front hallway. He was closing a large
suitcase, and before the lid shut, I caught a glimpse of a picture of
Samantha and me lying on top of his clothes. Our eyes met. I saw his
sorrow and the apology that he was making.
As I ran upstairs, I heard the sound of the door shutting behind him.
My mother didn't come home till later that morning, and after fixing
me lunch, she retreated to the garden. As the days went by, she grew
more and more distant, and I withdrew more and more into myself.
One day when I got home from school, I caught my mother in
Samantha's room, packing her things into boxes. I think that's when I
knew, really knew, that she wasn't coming back. That my sister was
really gone. And all I could do was just stand there and watch my
mother pack up eight years of her child's brilliant life into plain
cardboard boxes.
I don't know if my mother even noticed that I was there or not. She
was lost in her own world, her world of grief over Samantha, a world
that she excluded me from and did not allow me to share. When her
hands landed on Samantha's blanket, a sob escaped her throat.
Probably at the thought that the blanket's legacy was over. The female
line had ended. She laid the blanket on top of a box and pushed it all
aside, abandoning the lost dreams woven into its threads. Her eyes
met mine for a brief instant, and then the contact was gone. I grabbed
the blanket and left the room, never saying a word.
After that, I never returned the blanket to Samantha's room again. It
remained on my bed during the day and kept me warm at night. If my
mother ever noticed its presence in my room, she never commented on
it. I slept with that blanket until the day that I was ready to leave
for college. And even then, I packed it up and took it with me,
although I never slept with it again. It was the only tangible
belonging of my sister's that I had, and I kept it with me as a reminder
of my loss and to add fuel to my determination to find her. I would not
let that blanket get lost in the ruins of my broken family.
To this day, I had not found anything that replaced the comfort of
Samantha's blanket -- that got me through the lonely nights the same
way. The television is a talkative but cold companion, impersonal and
aloof. So I took away the need. I convinced myself that I didn't need
the comfort, that I was fine as a lonely, weary soul.
But tonight, my new blanket has proven me wrong.
Despite the difference in height, her warmth covers every inch of me,
enveloping me under it. Her hair tickles the bottom of my chin, her
head tucked securely underneath it. As my chest rises and falls with
every breath, she rises and falls with it. Her arms are wrapped
protectively at my sides, shielding me from the terrors of the world
even while she sleeps. And my arms are wrapped just as snugly
around her, unwilling to let her go.
Looking back, I now know that Samantha's blanket was just a stage of
my life. A necessary one to get me through those terrible years, but in
the end, just a phase.
Tonight, that blanket has been replaced by Dana Scully. She is not a
phase of my life, she *is* my life. And she provides the love and
fulfillment that I have always needed.
For the first time in my life, it's not about letting go, it's about
holding on.
**************
The End
Feedback is loved more than a soft, warm blanket on a cold night at
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Author's Notes: Much, much thanks to my awesome beta readers.
Bugs, for having faith in me and going over this thing countless times;
Shawne, for the late-night sessions; Alcott,
for the awesome comments; and Barb, for the never-ending
encouragement. Thanks, guys!
