Chapter 8

The music weaves its way into my brain, its tentacles creeping into my consciousness, before the physical soundwave reaches my ears. It washes over me like a gentle wave, cradling me, lifting me upwards into wakefulness. I take a deep breath, an oxygen-rich yawn to fill my lungs and a second sensation registers, a musky perfume wafting into my nose, teasing the fine hairs, stirring up crystal-clear memories. Memories that didn't exist before I fell asleep are now invading my consciousness and I don't like them. I don't like them one bit.

I'm well aware that sounds, smells and other sensations can unlock long-forgotten memories and traumatic experiences. It can be a single trigger or a combination of factors that brings the memory out from deep within the subconscious mind. In this case the initial key was a word, a name that I had hoped never to be called, let alone hear again. A name that I grew to hate even more than Fox. I know that's hard to believe but it's the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

When I heard it last night just as I succumbed to sleep, I thought it merely another indication that my captor had mistaken me for someone else. It didn't have any personal connotations beyond wishing my parents had been less inventive when naming their first-born.

Billy. A simple name, a child's name. A name reluctantly spoken by the parents of a boy who refused to answer to the more outlandish given name of Fox. A name never uttered by a braided-haired little sister no matter the bribes or treats offered. A name to be left behind as the boy enters puberty on his way to becoming a man, to becoming Bill or perhaps William or, in my case, Mulder.

I had dismissed my abductor and his assertions that we have been acquaintances of a very intimate nature as the delusional ramblings of a madman and my kidnapping as one of mistaken identity or just random victim selection.

How Krycek figures into all this I have no idea. Could he be the mastermind behind this and the creep with the wandering hands is just his way of fucking with my mind, of getting me off balance and confused? I wouldn't put it pass him, but something tells me that this isn't his style, isn't his modus operandi. I had theorized earlier when Krycek hesitated before blindfolding me that he was merely a cog in a larger machine; that someone else was issuing the orders and now I know who that person is. This knowledge does nothing to make me feel safer or hope that I might gain my freedom any time soon -- if at all.

Any of the three triggers of name, scent or sound could have just been a co-incidence. All three are common and well-known things. Items that I have encountered throughout my life and even since the end of my relationship with Derek and yet none of them has brought these memories to the surface.

I hear the music occasionally around the streets of DC playing from ice-cream trucks as they do their rounds of the suburbs. The magical strains of Mozart's Greensleeves urging children to pester their parents for pocket money and spare change so they can race down to the sidewalk and buy icy treats from the truck's drivers.

The floral scent is even more familiar, as the rose is one of Scully's favorite flowers. Her apartment is always filled with vases overflowing with the blooms and its perfume seems to seep into her clothes and hair and therefore into our basement office.

It took the combination of all three to break the barrier my mind erected. Or maybe it wasn't my mind at all, maybe it was some form of hypnosis that Derek devised for some unknown reason, setting it up so that only he could open the door behind which these memories lay buried so deep.

Warning bells should have gone off when I told him that I would be returning to the States after graduation. He just embraced me in his strong, loving arms. He stroked his slender fingers through my shoulder-length hair and assured

me we would only be apart temporarily. He whispered that he would send for me when our future home was ready to be inhabited. I tried to explain that if I was accepted by the FBI I wouldn't be coming back to England. He dismissed it as just a foolish fantasy and kept telling me what our future together would be like once the Abbey had been restored and we could take up residence. He rationalized my trip home as merely a vacation to visit my parents. He was very calm and rational about my leaving, too calm and rational, in fact.

It was the total opposite of how I had expected him to react given his obsessiveness about dominating me and controlling every aspect of my life while we were lovers, from how I dressed to what I ate when he took me out to the finest restaurants and exclusive parties. And yet I accepted his best wishes for a safe flight home and quick return as I had my mother's when I left the States years before. Where was my paranoia and mantra of "Trust No-One"?? Was I really that naive and innocent when it came to discerning people's true motives and intentions?? If so, why was the Bureau interested in recruiting me as a future profiler? Maybe the hypnosis and the "passwords" was his way of calling me to heel when he decided it was time for me to be his again. He could be very persuasive and I rarely questioned him or the decisions he made about how we spent our time. Being with him was like being in a trance or mesmerized. He told me when we first met that he would be in control and I submitted with minimal resistance.

Dr Werber acknowledged that I was a very suitable candidate for hypnosis, able to slip into deep meditative and very suggestible states with ease. Derek obviously used this to his advantage and without me being aware of what was happening. All I knew was that I was immensely happy when we were together and miserably lonely when we were apart, which wasn't very often, usually only when I was attending tutorials or studying for exams.

Phoebe introduced me to him, a fellow American living in England to research his family tree. He was obsessed with an eccentric great uncle or something, who lived in an abbey and kept a harem of boys a couple of centuries ago. He was positive he was the sole surviving heir to some massive fortune and had plans to restore his ancestor's home to all its former glory.

The last time I saw him was at Heathrow when I was flying back to the States. He had offered to drive me to the airport and spent the whole trip trying to convince me to stay in England. He even offered to set me up in my own psych practice once his inheritance was finalized. He couldn't return to America because of a clause in the will stating that any potential heirs had to reside in England for five years and he needed the money to fulfill his wish of recreating his uncle's estate down to the tiniest detail. He said he was doing it all for me and our future together.

I knew we had no future together, especially after what happened the previous week. Sure he apologized profusely for what he did and swore that he wouldn't ever do it again, but my trust in him was shattered and I was glad to be going home to the other side of the world to get away from him. Nothing he could have said or done would have made up for the brutal whipping he gave me because not only did I get my hair cut, but I dared to have it done without asking his permission. I had let it grow during my time at Oxford but had become sick of sweeping my long bangs back out of my eyes and the back fell a couple of inches below my shoulders. I had also heard from my father that the FBI was showing interest in my potential as a behavioral profiler, so I knew I would have to get it cut before I met with the Bureau recruiters.

Derek was furious with the more conservative style and no amount of explanation or pleas for understanding would deter him from dishing out the punishment he felt fitted my horrendous crime. It didn't bother him that he had a room full of guests dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns. He attacked me as soon as I walked in the door, grabbing my wrist so hard I was sure the bones would snap and slapping me across the face. After an apology for the disturbance to his guests, he dragged me upstairs to the master bedroom and threw me on the canopied four-poster bed that dominated the large room. Still in shock from his very public over-reaction, I lay dazed and confused as he locked the door and stalked toward me, a look of pure rage on his face. I never gave up trying to explain why I had my hair cut, even as he flipped me on my stomach and secured my wrists and ankles into the sheep-skin lined leather cuffs that were attached to the frame around the bed with thick chain and large, sturdy bolts.

I suffered the first few lashes in stubborn silence before the agonizing pain won out and I began to scream. He hadn't bothered to strip me and soon my NY Knicks t-shirt was in shreds and being soaked with my blood. He stopped momentarily to gag me so his guests wouldn't be disturbed by my cries for help and then continued whipping me until I passed out.

When I awoke it was to the same music and scents that I'm hearing and smelling right now and he was untying my bindings and helping me sit upright. I had tried to break away but his grip was too strong. He was telling me it was all over and that I had to get ready to join our guests downstairs in the lavish ball-room.

I was in no state to go anywhere. All I wanted to do was lie down and die. But, as usual, I had no say and could offer no resistance as he pulled me to my feet and led me towards the bathroom where he bathed me gently and medicated my wounds. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and wondered who the zombie was that stared back at me with vacant, sunken eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

I obediently held out my arm so that Derek could inject a favorite little potion of his, a combination of speed and aphrodisiac that soon had me buzzing, horny as could be and almost instantly rock-hard. He dressed me in an expensive tailored tux and escorted me down the sweeping staircase and into the ballroom of waiting people. He paraded me around the room, introducing me as Billy to Earls and Dukes and Counts. The tux didn't stay on me long, quickly stripped off and left in a heap by a large spa in one corner. I was soon entertaining our guests and Derek was being praised for his mastery of the whip and half-heartedly berated for not disciplining me in full view of the assembled dignitaries as part of the evening's festivities.

I wonder if the MIBs at Ellen's Air Base are still in the mind-wiping business. I'd pay every last cent I have to have these unwanted memories erased totally and permanently from my mind. Something tells me that Derek won't do me the favor of blocking them again like he did on the drive from Oxford to Heathrow all those years ago.

I still haven't opened my eyes. I know the hood and blindfold have been removed and for that I'm grateful. It also seems that Derek has heeded the Doc's advice and my arms are now restrained at my sides with soft velcro straps. I know what I'll see so why bother?

A single white rose, a half open bud, will be lying next to my cheek on the soft, down-filled pillow; a pale blue comforter covers the queen size bed on which I'm laying, goosefeather of the finest quality, contrasting with the royal blue of the pillow-cases and heavy velvet drapes that block out the morning sun. Highly polished floorboards covered in places with expensive hand woven Persian rugs. Antique lamps and a marble and granite hearth provide light and warmth. Dresser, wardrobe and roll-top desk from the reign of Queen Anne, complete the furnishings, if my recollections are accurate. It makes sense that if Derek can't take me to his restored home yet (hopefully if at all) then he would re-create the place where we spent so much of our time together---his bedroom in his home in Bath, another of his ancestor's former residences.

Alex must have injected the second antidote last night after I knocked myself out trying to defend myself. If it weren't for the straps I'm sure I would have full mobility as I can't detect any of the heavy numbness that was evident during my journey here, wherever here is. I realize I'm shivering and discover why when I finally open my eyes. A fan is rotating directly above me and I'm practically naked, only wearing the Speedo Ale.. *Krycek* took so much pleasure dressing me in. The tiny piece of material feels even smaller for some reason but it only takes a few seconds to remember Krycek parting my butt cheeks and forcing the swimsuit between them to make a G-string.

"Fucking pervert," I mutter as I try unsuccessfully to pull the material out of my ass. The straps are tight enough to restrict movement of my hands to only an inch or two, nowhere near enough to get any contact with the lycra so I'll have to put up with fashion from the House of Alex a little while longer.

Having tried and failed every attempt at loosening the straps, I lay back and close my eyes, relishing the silence, and what is sure to be my last few moments of privacy since the music has now stopped. No doubt there's a camera in the room, recording my every movement. As soon as he knows I'm awake he'll be up here again or he'll send Krycek to take me to him and I know I should delay that meeting as long as I can.

However, I'm torn between wanting to confront Derek and demand my freedom and fearing what he has planned for me; what forms of punishment he will deem appropriate to cover anything I might have done over the last decade that he would not approve of. I am certain that he will want to pick up exactly where we left off, with him in control of every aspect of my life and me having to ask his permission to do even the most basic tasks, like pissing and sleeping and of course cutting my hair. The last one is sure to provoke his ire as my hair is even shorter than just before I left Oxford and him.

I can't be submissive in this situation, I need to show him that I am not afraid, even though my stomach is doing somersaults, and my heart is beating too fast for my liking.

What if he uses the same hypnotic suggestions or mind-control on me now that so effectively subdued any rebellion from me in the past?

I'm guessing that is how he controls Krycek, not that he probably needed much incentive to kidnap and molest me. I could be a reward for him being a good little slave-boy. It wouldn't be the first time Derek handed me over for someone else's pleasure. He always was a very sharing guy.

Another piece of music fills the room, this one evoking memories of a different nature. It calms my mind as well as stirring my groin, heat building up in my cock and balls and I'm totally helpless to stop it.

I open my eyes again and take a long look around the room. Turning my head towards the door, I discover my assumptions about the room's décor was correct except for one small but terrifyingly significant detail--the flower on the pillow is a red rose in full bloom rather than a white half-open bud.

The sight of it is as shocking as if there was a still-beating heart sitting in its place and more unwanted memories and images flood my mind. Most mornings I would wake up with a single white rose at my cheek, sometimes he would still be inside me, claiming me, filling me, fucking me; other mornings I would be alone, him having already dressed and disappeared down stairs.

The other mornings, maybe a couple each week, he would leave roses of other colors as a signal of that night's festivities, usually in the form of his wife, sometimes other people. I didn't like her and her "games" but had no chance to object to her intrusion into our bed. She simply wanted to play with me, and what she wanted she usually got. Derek did set limits at the beginning but they were hardly ever adhered to and he soon gave up trying to contain her kinky desires. He never left me alone with her for which I'll always thank him. He blamed her for the flogging he gave me, saying that she thought I was becoming too independent and in need of proper discipline. I didn't care whether she had held a gun to his head, it didn't excuse how he treated me that night. He had promised to keep me away from her but it was all too late. I had already made up my mind to get as far away from him and his abusive wife as I could.

I stare at the blood-red rose for a moment or two, hoping and praying it doesn't mean what I think it means. A quick glance at the Waterford vase on the dresser, full of rose buds, all pure white. He didn't make a mistake. He put the correctly-coded item on my pillow. A full bloom representing his wife, the color signifying I have done something to displease him and that I need to be corrected. At least he is giving me a warning though it's a useless one. I can't escape and I doubt he will remove the restraints until he is certain I'm once again under his spell and hell will freeze over before I let that happen again if I've got any say in the matter. I guess this means he now agrees with her about me getting out of control and having to be brought back into line. I would much rather let Krycek fuck me than even be in the same house as her.

My eyes find the camera where I knew it would be and I stare straight into its single lens. With my hands restrained beside me I cannot wipe away the single tear that rolls down my cheek. I never could hide my emotions and feelings from him. If I tried he would smother me until I thought I would suffocate and probe me until I broke down, confessing whatever was making me upset. I kept no secrets from him. He knew about Samantha's disappearance and the emotional igloo that my house became afterwards. He knew of the night I spent in a burned-out house keeping looters away and my subsequent fear of fire. I confessed to him my hatred of insects. I revealed things about myself that not even my parents knew, that Scully and Walter don't know. I soon regretted allowing him access to my fears and nightmares for his wife used every single one of them in her sadistic games designed purely to terrify me and sexually satisfy her.

I feel like a bear with its paw caught in a steel-toothed trap waiting for the hunters to come and deliver the fatal shot, to release it from such a barbaric misery that it would chew off its own wounded limb to escape.

I'm beginning to wonder what a peg-leg or a hook in place of a hand would be like when the door to my prison opens. I take a deep breath in preparation for what lies ahead and wonder if I will survive to see Walter and Dana again.

END OF CHAPTER 8