DISCLAIMER: The X-Files universe and all characters within that universe belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, and no infringement on my part was intended. The original text is ©1999.

Author's Note: This isn't my usual run of things. To paraphrase one beta, "Disturbing material within. This ain't about sports-fucking, folks." Special thanks to my various betas, Amanda and CJ, and especially to Geb, for whom I owe thanks beyond measure.

      It's a pain that starts in your middle, and stays and stays like a lump of swirling fever that won't ever leave and weighs you down and reminds you every moment of every day of your too long life that it was your fault.
      I have a confession to make. She didn't die.
      Samantha didn't die.
      But it's still my fault.

      Quickly now, don't think. Turn to someone, anyone, and say a sentence, a phrase. Don't explain, don't think. Do it now. And if you think of nothing, say, "I had a sister. She was abducted when I was twelve," and turn away quickly, and don't speak, don't explain, even when they ask, they beg.
      I assure you, you can explain it later.

      What hypnotism does, for those uninitiated, is take what dreams and nightmares lie just below the surface of your mind and lets them loose for strange doctors to muse upon and the bathroom mirror to reflect back at you with each night-rimmed eye and drooping cheek. Very therapeutic if you want to know what monsters hide beneath the skin, not very if you want to know history.
      Now ask what "post-hypnotic regression" is, and then, in lieu of answer from me, read the above paragraph again and determine the truth from that.

      A long, long time ago I knew a young girl. Her name was Samantha, and she had hair the color of dark caramel and a mouth like hard cherry candy. Her skin was pale like cream and just as smooth, and her hands were small. She was eight and I was twelve and I've never remembered any of this, ever. For years I saw only her eyes, bright candy shine, and that mouth screaming. She had a beautiful voice, and all I remembered was her floating out the window and the light, too white to walk through, swallowing her whole.
      And my parents asked what happened, and I couldn't tell them, could I, no, I'd been bad, I couldn't tell them so I told them something else.
      "They took her."

      I have a partner, had a partner, she was small, petite, with small hands and hair like fire. And with one word, one sentence, one guilt-filled lie I ruined her life in one night with rain pounding on the windows.

      My partner was my sin, my soul.
      And look, my guilt has made me lie again. I meant to write "Samantha."

      She's not dead.
      Which "she," you may ask. I've made references to two.
      Neither are dead.
      But neither are quite alive.

      Once upon a time, there was a young man and a young woman. They loved with a love that was more than love, but the laws in their land forbid any contact at all between them.
      One day, long day, when there were no others to stop them, the woman said, "Come," and the man obeyed her wish. And they were happy, oh God, so happy.
      But the law had forbid it, and so the woman, realizing her shame, fled. Fled too fast for the man to catch her, and he wept.
      And the seraphs from heaven came and asked, "What has happened here?"
      And the man had no answer.
      And in that moment the man transformed into a child, a child with no concept of love or life, and screamed, "They took her."
      And the seraphs smiled.

      When I sit still, utterly, completely, still, I feel her in my arms. A slight itching beneath the skin, and heat along the triceps, and an urge, an ungodly urge to twist my wrists like so, and feel her hands, somewhere, oh God, somewhere . . .
      And when I dream, I see her beneath me, and her breasts were so small, so tight against her skin, she was such an early bloomer, my mother said, look, she'll have to get a training bra soon, and my father would look at her and not see me looking too, but I was the one she let see, I was the only one and she was tight, so tight, and she was bleeding but she whispered that it didn't hurt, or did I imagine that whisper? And then the seraphs come, and they take her away, and I wake.
      My partner always knew that I was crying for Samantha when I called in the twilight before dawn, but she never knew the real reason why.

      My partner is, was, will always be, the one who sent me here. Therefore I think, perhaps, she felt for a moment the kind of guilt I live with. Just one moment, and I couldn't tell you when that moment might have been. But I believe she must have, or else my lost faith would kill her.

(I stand before the jury of my peers, and ask for silence. They hush, I tug my tie gently, as I would a girl's thin brown braid, and the room echoes as I talk.)

      Upon the Nature of Guilt: A Brief Narrative, by F. Mulder.
      Guilt.
      Guilt clogs up the throat and makes it so you can't breathe without gagging. After a while, not breathing enough and feeling enough and dreaming enough, you're suddenly free of the lies and can see, see clearly and know the truth.
      One day it happened to me, and that's when I remembered. Not the lies. Only the love.
      My sin, my soul.
      And that's the day I lost my partner and my life.
      That is the nature of guilt. Good night.

(I finish and the room is too quiet. All sound escapes through the cracks in the floor.)

      She sang beautifully. High and sweet. And her mouth was like candy.

      My partner's not dead. She's just . . . away. Like Samantha. They're together, and I know exactly where.
      But . . . my guilt is my own. I feel it; I've felt it every day, every moment since the moment, since the second that she left. Which she, you ask, I can hear you, which she, there are two.
      And I reply, both, and I smile like seraphs. My guilt is my own and I need it, they need it, don't you see, they need it they feed, they feed on my blood and my heart and my soul and my sin and most of all most of all they feed on my guilt.

      I made monsters of them both, you see, and they feed on my guilt for the making.

      "They took her."
      Which one, you are asking, which one. There are two if you recall.
      I reply, don't you remember, I told you, no one took them, it was a lie, guilt, I lied to save my skin and the guilt's been with me ever since.
      Where are they, you ask, and I say, I can't tell, they'd die without my faith, my love.
      A hint, a clue, you beg me, and I can hear their death screams, their souls burning bright within me when I whimper and cry and die and tell you, tell you, tell you . . .

      Case No. 2387
      November 4th, 2021

      Subjects 9B and 9C have been terminated. Both showed signs of degradation beyond expectation. Earlier hypothesis proposed concerning subject 9A appears to have been correct. Autopsy report will be needed to confirm.
      Also: request that subject 9A be removed. The subject is -- disturbing -- the research team.