Title: Things to Do in the FBI When You're Dead
Summary: Spender reflects on life and death.
The muzzle flash. A brief, curiously silent, nova in miniature. The pain, ripping me from the shattered remains of my head. My 'loving' father lowers the gun, still staring straight into my nonexistent eyes. Behind the shock that holds my notbody perfectly still, a vague bit of humor surfaces. He can kill me, but he can't knock me down. There's an urge to giggle, but I don't dare. If it doesn't make a sound, I have a feeling that I will go insane. I don't want to spend the afterlife insane.
The gun lowers with a chilling leisure. He places it carefully on the desk, and spends a moment to pick up the picture. He studies it for a moment, then slides it inside his jacket; that same emptiness filling his face. He turns and leaves, casually stepping over one of my sprawled feet. I'm no longer son, tool, or adversary...merely one hundred and sixty pounds of cooling meat. In a moment, he's gone, vanished from my world with the same abrupt destructiveness that he entered it. Par for the course for the ultimate deadbeat dad.
Why aren't I more upset? Everything is silent and calm, so peaceful; Heaven must be a Valium I.V. I turn...or whatever, to look at my body. That temple of flesh that I'd paid diligent obedience to for over three decades is now crumpled, useless, and seeping on the floor of the X-Files office. I remember one of the few Mulder case-files that I read, about blood sacrifices to consecrate or cleanse a dwelling. Well, lookee here, folks, Jeff SpenderSacrificial Lamb. I'm not really surprised. Disappointed perhaps, but not surprised. I study myself curiously. Oh, wow, I was luckier than I thought; the bullet hit me in the neck... I sense an open casket in my future. I wonder if I'll get to hang around for the funeral?
Speaking of which, why am I still here? Aren't there supposed to be ... harps or something? A decent flame, at least. What happened to the tunnel of light?
Did I miss some celestial subway? Oh fuck, looks like Jeffy screwed up again.
Well, Mulder will be thrilled, at least. His own personal ghost in the X-Files office. For eternity. Oh, god...this *is* Hell.
I blink, or I think I do, or...fuck it. Next thing I s... that I'm aware of, is being not alone. People blur around me, there's a great deal of shouting, none of which I hear. Chalk another pro on the dead side; I always thought people talked too much anyway. Scully's there, which would make me smile if I had a mouth. Her hands are as red as her hair. She's strangling me...wait, I'm already dead, what the fuck? Oh...the gunshot, right. Give up, Scully, I'm gone. Well, I'm here, but...
There's so much blood. It sparkles. I didn't know that blood did that. Near my neck, it positively *glows*, liquid neon. I drift closer, the blood fills my vision. Scully's doing something to my chest now, ruining my shirt with her bloody hands. The fluid expands, filling my notvision. It's like drowning in wine, and for the first time, sensation returns. Warmth, then a sound, labored and faltering: thump. Thump-thump.
I'm drawn back into the shell, fighting for all I'm worth. First comes the sound, rushing over me in a wave of babbling, then the sensation of movement (when did we start moving?), finally pain, oh, god, oh, god, oh, god...
I flee from it, down into the spiraling blackness of unconsciousness. Oh, hell, I realize. I'm alive.
Well, that's it. Feedback is joyfully received at Pyrephox18@aol.com "For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand miles I'd travel.
- Mad Tom of Bedlam
"Things to Do in the FBI When You're Dead" by Pyrephox18 This story was downloaded from the Gossamer Project on 10 October 2017.