#memory bits

Feb 22, 2021. Sunny.

Telling B that, in junior high, I took fashion advice from Scully.

B: Oh my god you didn’t wear pantsuits to school, did you?

Me: Of course not.

B: Oh good, I was worried that you’d get bullied if you wore pantsuits to school.

Me: Nah, I had two sweaters like Scully’s in Arcadia.

B: ......are you sure you didn’t get bullied because of that?

Feb 19, 2021. sunny sky! but cold.

At 16, for two afternoons, I chatted with random people on AOL.

In my profile, I said that I was a shipper. And I chatted with a guy who was 22 and the first question he asked was, “What do you ship?”

I don’t think he was expecting “Mulder and Scully” as the answer.

The shadows were too deep. They couldn’t see, only hear the sharp, strained sobs from the figure beside them, feel hands buried in their fur, feel how they shook even with Anoor’s body and neck wrapped around them.

The shadows shifted. Their body hurt more than ever, more than the ever-present jabs of heat in their neck. Lightning tingling through their backlegs with every movement, their tail like shattered ice, cold and grinding. There were arms around their head, a voice in their ear full of tears. A weak purr in their throat that only made the boy choke back a sob and hold them tighter.

Then there was a light, and the boy was torn from them with a cry, hands holding him down, even more hands on Anoor as they tried to stand. Collars and binds tied them down, pricking white-hot dots of pain into their legs and neck. They could only watch, too weak to fight.

Could only watch as angry, mocking words turned to punches and kicks, could only watch as the boy’s siblings turned on him and beat him down in front of Anoor. Could only watch as his head cracked against the floor with a sickening sound that made time stand still.

Only them could they move, the hands on them no longer holding them down, crawling to the still body with a keening sound. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

Even when they nudged his hand and licked his cheek did he not move, eyes staring empty, tears staining his face. He was gone.

Gone, gone, gone, dead, killed, he was gone and Anoor felt something break inside of them, a snap so loud the figures in the room should have heard it. Instead they saw the shadows rolling in around the edges of their vision, an unearthly scream leaving their lungs before the darkness overtook everything again, playing the scene again and again and again and again until there was nothing but the pain and the fear and the intense ache in their chest.

Anoor woke, hours later, breath shallow and eyes scrunched shut, curled in on themself, phantom pains (real pains?) stabbing through their body. Slowly they pried an eye open, taking in the dark room they slept in, recognition slow to ease their mind.

The pulled out of bed, shaking blankets off their body as they padded to the window, tapping the glass with a sharp claw. A nightmare. One more to add to the collection. Just a dream.

Their chest tightened at the thought, a feeling like shards of glass grating against each other. No, it- it wasn’t-

A sharp stab of pain in their left eye made the monster snarl and bring a hand to their face, eyes screwed shut until the pain ebbed away, leaving only a cold feeling behind.

Not a dream, not even a nightmare. A memory.

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