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Title: Madness Takes Its Toll
Author: Mrs. Fish
Fandom: X-Files
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Doggett angst; language; references to the September
11th attack on the World Trade Center, as well as the attack on the Marine
barracks in Beirut in 1983.
Status: Completed
Date: September 24, 2001
E-mail address for feedback: mrs_fish@hotmail.com
Bookcover: https://www.squidge.org/~mrs_fish/xfiles/bookcovers/madness.jpg
Summary: Doggett's reaction to the World Trade Center attack.
Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Ten Thirteen Productions, Fox, Chris Carter or others is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story.
Notes: The beginning of this story is taken from Memorial Day, also writen by me. However, it's been revised and expanded upon for use here.
This story took a strange twist that wasn't originally planned. Maybe it had to do with me watching A Texas Funeral as I neared the end of it. Or maybe it was meant to go that way all along.
And, finally, while this version of the story is gen in nature, I have another version with a different ending that leans towards the slashy side. It'll be posted to my website soon.
Even in the dark of the barracks, the heat is oppressive. The sleeveless t-shirt I'm wearing -- plastered to my back with sweat -- lends credence to that. I'm lying on my cot, just staring up at the ceiling, deciding if I should get up now or wait a bit longer. A decision that, more than likely, saved my life.
All around me I hear the sounds of people starting their day -- alarms going off, water running, quiet words being spoken. I know I'm gonna have to start my own shift soon, so I raise my right arm to check the time. The digital display clicks to 06:22 -- and I find myself cast into the seventh circle of hell.
I've heard explosions before, but nothing I say can explain just how loud this one was. I don't even have time to react to it. One minute I'm in bed, the next I'm thrown to the floor and engulfed in an enormous cloud of plaster dust, ash and sand. I fight for breath in between spasms of coughing. There's a tightness in my chest, and I feel like I'm drowning on dry land. I somehow manage to get part of my shirt around my nose and mouth, and use it to filter out the thick choking particles swirling around me.
And then there's the pain... Jesus, God! I'm sure my leg has been cut off. I find out later it hasn't been. But alone in the dark, my imagination runs wild.
Eventually things stop shaking, and an eerie kind of silence surrounds me, if you want to call it that. The settling debris is like a thousand hissing snakes. I'm blinded by the darkness and the dust, and I can't even draw enough breath to call out for help.
I'm scared... More frightened than I've ever been in my whole life. So I do the only thing I can in this situation -- pray. And it's funny. 'Cause I don't really pray for myself. Although I do ask God for a swift death if it is my time.
I think about my mama most -- back home in Atlanta, sitting on the front porch swing after supper. We had some good talks there, like the night before I joined the Corps. She wasn't too keen on the idea -- me being her only son -- but I could tell she was proud of my choice, too.
See, the Doggett men have never been ones to shirk duty or responsibility. My daddy fought in Europe during WWII along with an uncle. And although he was the only one to come home alive, daddy certainly wasn't unaffected by the action he saw. I think he carried more scars on the inside than out, but that wasn't something he ever talked about -- not even to mama.
So after I graduated from high school, I decided to join the Marines. I was the man of the family since daddy passed, and figured I'd make more money in the Corps than flipping burgers or waiting tables. I'd keep some for myself, then send the rest home for mama and my sisters.
I couldn't figure out why mama cried so hard after I told her my plan. It made perfect sense to me. But then again, I never did understand women very well.
The next morning, mama made me a big breakfast, and all my sisters were especially nice to me. When I came home from the recruitment office....
Christ, Almighty! All this dust is scrambling my brain. How long have I been laying here reminiscing?
All that Marine training suddenly kicks in and I know I have to get the hell out -- or die trying.
There isn't much room to maneuver, but I can move my arms without too much pain. So I reach out carefully in both directions and feel around until I find a good sized chunk of concrete. Then I start tapping it against the metal bar that's across my legs:
... --- ... .-.-.-
I keep it up until the muscles in my arm burn from the strain. And even then I don't stop, just switch hands. I repeat the message over and over and over, and pray someone on the surface hears me, even if it's one of the MP dogs they keep on the base.
The minutes stretch into an eternity, but I force myself to continue. Daddy always said I was a stubborn cuss... and maybe he was right, because I refuse to die here today. If I quit, the people who did this will win. And there ain't no way in hell that's gonna happen as long as I'm drawing breath.
I finally have to stop, too weak to even lift my hand to check the time. God, it can't end like this! I take a deep breath and scream at the top of my lungs, then do it again.
And then I hear it... tapping right above me. Somehow I get enough energy to repeat my SOS a few more times. I hear scraping and voices and suddenly there's light and fresh air and I start to cry with relief. Thank you, lord!
It takes another 30 minutes or so to fully extract me from my concrete prison. Concerned faces are all around, trying to help and reassure me. Then I hear a woman's scream, a loud explosion...
And I bolt upright on the sofa, heart pounding a jackhammer tattoo in my chest. The TV's on, replaying the events of this morning... yesterday morning now. I swing my legs onto the floor and run a hand through my sweat dampened hair before grabbing the remote and turning off the set.
A moment later that same hand slams down hard against the coffee table, shattering the remote in the process.
"God dammit!"
I take the table and flip it over, then jump up and start grabbing things at random. Books, papers... it doesn't matter. I've got so much anger and hurt inside that I just want to throttle the bastards that did this. Instead I take it out on my living room.
My tirade ends when I trip over the ottoman and land hard on my ass. Too exhausted to do much else, I lie back and try to catch my breath. After a minute, I roll onto my side, curl into a fetal position and start crying my eyes out.
How many friends did I lose today, both in New York and DC? I don't even want to think about it, but my mind's reeling with sounds and images of the World Trade Center and Beirut all jumbled into one long, continuous horror film. I close my eyes and cover my ears to try and block it all out. It doesn't help.
I'm in trouble here. I don't know if it's shock or exhaustion or plain old post traumatic stress disorder from reliving my own experience, but I'm seriously losing it. Through sheer force of will I roll over, then start crawling towards the stairs. I make it as far as the first landing before the trembling starts.
The wood paneling is cool against my back as I draw my knees up and circle my arms around them. I start a slow, rocking motion -- eyes staring straight ahead -- to help counteract the shaking, or else take my mind off it.
I'm not really focusing on anything specific, but I start tracking a swirling kind of mist that's coalescing in front of me. I rub my eyes and blink a few times, because I'm sure I'm imagining things, but when I look again...
"Noooooo...." I bury my face against my knees. Jesus, God! Please, no more.
"Dad."
"Go away! You're not real." But the touch to my arm feels solid enough. So I slowly raise my head, and find myself staring into the cerulean eyes of my dead son.
"Luke?"
He nods and gives me a lopsided grin, then reaches out his hand. What have I got to lose? It's my hallucination.
I take Luke's hand and slowly get to my feet. He takes a couple steps forward, then opens the door to what was his room. And I guess, technically it still is, since I never got rid of his things. I just didn't have the heart to.
Luke turns on the light, then leads me over to his bed. He hasn't yet let go of my hand. I'd forgotten how small it felt wrapped in mine.
Suddenly it's hard to see again, and I have to blink back the tears in my eyes.
"Don't cry, dad. Everything's going to be okay. You'll see."
How can I not trust my own son when he sounds so sure of himself?
I nod my head and say "Sure it is, Luke."
He gives me another smile, turns down the blankets on his bed, then pushes me backwards.
"Lay down, dad."
"You sure?"
"Yep... Go on, you'll feel better soon."
So I lay down on my son's pillow, and he tucks the covers under my chin. Then Luke kneels next to the bed and kisses me on the forehead.
"Go to sleep now, dad. I'll stay with you until you do."
God, how many times did I say those same words to Luke after he woke from a nightmare or wasn't feeling well? I smile and squeeze his hand a bit tighter.
"I love you, Luke."
"I know, dad. Love you, too."
My eyes close almost on their own. I'm overcome by a sudden weariness that I can't fight. And maybe this time I don't want to.
Falls Church, Virginia
September 12, 2001
6:17 a.m.
The sun shining on my face wakes me. I sit up, but it takes me a few moments to get my bearings. Then I realize where I am, and the previous night comes back to me with crystal clarity.
"Luke?"
Of course there's no answer. Didn't really expect one, but I had to give it a shot just for my own peace of mind.
I get out of bed and head towards my own room, then start to get ready for work.
I hear voices coming from the living room as I get downstairs. The room's empty, but the TV's on and a tape's playing. I recognize it right away. It's the video I shot of Luke the last Christmas we had together.
Luke's just opened a present I got him -- a new Rawlings baseball glove. His old one had just about seen its last days. He looks up at the camera and his face just beams when he says, "I love you, dad."
And then the tape stops. Now I know it doesn't end there, and there's no reason for it to just stop like that. Unless...
I don't profess to believe in the paranormal. That's Agent Scully's department. But I've been on the X-Files long enough to know that sometimes there aren't rational explanations for things. And I believe this is one of those times.
Was Luke's spirit really here last night trying to comfort me? Perhaps I'll never know.
But I'd like to think so.
The end.
