New: "The White Room" author: Annette Gisby email: annette.gisby@which.net Rated: R/maybe NC-17, Violence, Rape, major Scully angst Summary: What happens if the nightmares are real? Warning: This story contains scenes which are both violent and rather disturbing, so please don't read if you are under age or you find that sort of thing distasteful. You have been warned! Disclaimer: Don't own Mulder & Scully etc. Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox hold the rights, no infringement intended. THE WHITE ROOM Her eyes remained closed for a few moments after waking. Maybe if she could delay that first moment of wakefulness, she would discover that it was all a horrible nightmare. But as her eyes flickered open, she knew that it was no nightmare. It was all too real. She was still lying flat on her back, on some sort of hospital bed. Her wrists and ankles were held by leather restraints. Another restraint around her waist effectively pinned her to the bed. The only thing she could move was her head, and that only slightly. It was so cold. They'd stripped her last night and made her put on a flimsy hospital gown. But this was no hospital. She felt even more vulnerable in wearing the gown, than if she'd been completely naked. A lone tear trickled down one cheek. The one that had been damaged during her kidnap. So far, there had been no proof of anything other than human involvement. But maybe that was worse. She glanced at the ceiling. It was white, a whiteness so bright it hurt her eyes. She closed them again, wishing she were somewhere else. It was their first wedding anniversary, she should have been somewhere else. With him. This wasn't supposed to be happening. When she opened her eyes again, she felt curiously lighter. The restraints had been removed. Funny, she didn't remeber anyone being in the room. She sat up on the bed, rubbing at her chafed wrists. Already large red welts were beginning to form and the wounds stung. She lookded around the room, or tried to. Everything was white. The walls. The floor. The ceiling. It was disconcerting, not being able to see where the floor ended and the walls began. There were no windows or doors. None that she could see anyway. Gingerly, she hopped down from the bed. Her back ached from lying in the one position for so long. Her legs felt rubbery, as if they hadn't been used for a very long time. How long had she been lying there? There was no way of telling in this windowless, white room. She got down on her hands and knees and began crawling on all fours. There must be a door somwhere. How else could her captors get in and out? It was also easier to find the edge of the room from down there, than trying to make out features in all that white. She didn't know how long she spent crawling, before finding a bump in the smoothness. A bump that felt suspiciously like a doorframe. Standing up, she gave a push and was surprised to find the door opened easily. Her relief was shortlived. The door opened onto another white room. But in this one something glinted with reflected light. Taps. A washbasin. A shower. A toilet. The normal function of the room seemed out of place in this eerie white prison. She didn't know what she expected when she pushed open the door, but a bathroom wasn't it. There wasn't a mirror, but she looked at the space above the basin anyway. As though she thought the wall might dissolve and show her what she wanted to know. What had they done to her face? It felt swollen and sore. She was afraid to touch it. Her left hand reached for the gold cross around her throat. It wasn't there. Neither was her wedding ring. She looked blankly at the white line encircling her finger where her ring used to be. She would never have taken that ring off. Never. Her hand felt bare and exposed without it. Only a year. That was all they had as man and wife. It wasn't enough. She cried for him, she cried for both of them. He would be frantic with worry. He would blame himself. Even though she told him she could look after herself. It was madness arguing with herself. Was she going insane? Isn't that what happened sometimes when prisoners were put in solitary confinement? No contact. No outside stimulation. She wished she had someone to talk to. Anyone at all. Later she would wish she'd stayed alone. She was curled up in a corner sobbing, when they came for her. Her chest and throat were aching with the effort. But she couldn't stop crying. It was as though a dam had burst. Rough calloused hands grabbed her around the throat and then dragged her to her feet. And oh, God! His hands! His hands were grey. She could hardly breathe, his hands were choking her. Grey, four fingered hands. She flailed her arms about, like a swimmer out of their depth, and kicked out behind her. He foot connected with something squishy, as though there was no bone there. (Hold her) There was a voice, but it was in her head. And suddenly there were other arms, other hands holding her, preventing her from moving. There were so many she lost count. She tried to twist her body out of their grasp, but only succeeded in making the one holding her crush her windpipe even tighter. Spots were dancing in front of her eyes and she was beginning to feel dizzy. She prayed to faint. But the relief of oblivion wouldn't come. He, or it? knew how much pressure to put on to make it hurt, but not enough to render her unconscious. They led her to a chair, which seemed to have materialised out of the wall. Her feet and upper body were tied to the chair with rough rope, as was her left arm. For a few moments, her right arm was left hanging by her side. She lifted it to strike the... the... creature in front of her. He looked almost human. Almost. Grey skin, black lidless eyes. And tall. He was very tall. As her hand was about to connect with his face, her arm was grabbed from behind and twisted behind her back. She heard a sickening click as it was wrenched from its socket. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. God, the pain! (This hurts you) It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway. "What do you want?" she cried at the one in front of her. (Want? I do not understand) "Why are you doing this?" Please let me faint. Please let me faint. She was breathless, trying to get enough air to help the pain. Where were the body's endorphins when you needed them? (You mean the reasoning) He sounded almost pleased. (There is no reasoning. You are just an experiment. One of many. You are not important) He reached out and cupped her chin, an awful parody of a lover. But there was nothing in his eyes except cold detachment. (Take her to the bed. It is time for the next phase.) "No! You can't do this!" But they ignored her and as they untied her, she could see there were about five of them. And five large phalluses jutted out in front of their bodies. She felt sick and dizzy and weak, but she fought. Even with a dislocated shoulder, she fought and clawed at them as they carried her to the bed. The hospital robe was removed and dumped at the side of the bed. The leather restraints were placed around her wrists, but her legs were left free. Left free so that he could part them as wide as they would go. She felt as though she might split in half. She wasn't expecting it to be so painful, but it was. So painful that the pain in her shoulder dimmed in comparison. She arched her hips off the bed, to try and dislodge him, but only succeeded in driving him in deeper. The cold detachment in his eyes chilled her. He had no idea how much he was hurting her. He didn't care. Two of the others untied her hands and forced her hands to touch them. Their expressions didn't change. Not even when they came, green slime all over her hands and inside her. The left her after that. Just disappeared. She ran to the bathroom and was violently sick. Soon there was nothing left to come up except sour spittle. She turned on the shower as hot as it would go. There was no soap, no wash cloth. So she used her hands, scrubbing and scrubbing until her skin felt raw and blistered from the heat. And still she didn't feel clean. She had their filth all over her, could still feel their slimy bodies. She used her nails. Used her nails to scrape away their filth until her skin was a mass of bleeding cuts and the water ran red... "NO!" Dana sat up in bed, the scream still on her lips. The nightmare was back. Her eyes went to her hand. Thank, God, her wedding ring was still there, a gold glint in the moonlight. "Mulder," she pushed the man lying next to her. It was three in the morning. Officailly their wedding aniversary. "What?" he opened one bleary eye. "Can't you sleep?" "No. I had the nightmare again." "The same one?" "Yes." "Come here," he held out his arms and stoked her hair. That always soothed her. But not tonight. Tonight she was restless. "Happy anniversary," she smiled up at him. "It is, isn't it? But you'll have to wait for your present. I'm not getting up yet." "Okay. I was going to take a bath." She went to the bathroom door and turned around again. "I was hoping you might like to join me?" she aked coyly. He didn't need a second invitation and jumped out of the bed. She glanced down at his boxer shorts and smiled. "What's this about not getting 'up'?" "Are you mocking my manly prowess?" "No. Do you want me to?" she burst into a fit of giggles, the nightmare rapidly dissolving to the realms of memory. Mulder ran the bath, filling it up so much that when they got in, most of the water splashed on the floor. "Haven't you heard of the Archimedes principle?" "No, sorry. Any scientist who doesn't have gorgeous blue eyes and fiery red hair, doesn't interest me." "What if I told you I was really blonde?" "Nope. Wouldn't work. I know what your real hair colour is," and he looked below the water line, his eyes resting at the juncture of her thighs. She felt herself flush with the heat of the water and the nearness of him. She didn't think she'd ever get enough of him. Suddenly his mouth was on hers, a long deep kiss and her legs seemed to part of their own accord to guide him where he belonged. Mulder was so gentle and tender, and yes, reverent. It was as though he was worshipping her with his body. And did he know how to worship! He was playing her like a finely tuned harp and he knew how to make her body sing in response. A kiss here, touch there, a moan, and she was soaring, soaring. Suddenly his face contorted, became something else. The grey creature from her dream. "Mulder! No! Stop! Please stop! You're hurting me!" (Mulder? I know no Mulder. You must be silent) A grey hand struck against her face and she tasted blood. Metallic, sickly. "NO! This is a dream! I can wake up!" (This is not a dream. We have created an inner world for you to go to. To this man you think of. We thought it would help.) He thrust against her one last time and she screamed. A wailing, inhuman sound. They'd given her a fantasy of Mulder while they raped her. How could that help? It only made the knowledge even more sickening. She was here as an experiment. They didn't want anything except this. To test her. To see her limits to pain, emotional and physical. It was them inflicting pain for no other reason than to see how it affected her. The ruthlessness of it, chilled her. They wouldn't stop until she was dead. She knew no-one would ever find her. She would never leave the white room. END