The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
 But I have promises to keep,
 And miles to go before I sleep,
 And miles to go before I sleep.

 From Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
 by Robert Frost
 
 

 There is a sort of hopelessness that comes with silence. It's as
 though everyone has something to say and none of it is good, so
 silence becomes the next best option. The air was heavy with it;
 unspoken words, sentiments left unexpressed, all of them circling
 around an identical thought.

 Just let him go.

 It's not that easy. There's more to ending a life than a simple
 pulling of a plug. That phrase only degrades the human body to
 some sort of defunct kitchen appliance. Pull out the plug and throw it
 away; it doesn't work anymore. In this case, however, the appliance
 in question hadn't worked for a very long time. The doctor in charge
 had come to believe that this was the only option left. He'd been
 optimistic, of course. Patients who had been through worse had often
 survived. Most of them were able to regain a normal life. All of them,
 regardless of how normal their lives became, all had that shadowy
 area in their past to work through, but they managed.

 The doctor and his colleagues had firmly believed that this man
 would have followed a path already well-traveled by those others.
 They hadn't wanted to believe that someone so young could give up
 on a life barely lived.

 His frown deepened as he looked back and forth between the people
 seated in his office. Usually he was an attractive man; however, he'd
 allowed the weight of one patient to hang on him, and the physical
 effects of the stress were making themselves evident. He'd been
 feeling the stress for the better part of ten years. Numerous times
 he had encouraged the family to seek out another specialist, but
 they had refused. There had been doctors before him, but
 apparently there would be none after him. And he, since he had what
 was by now a vested interest, did not turn them away.

 The silence was heavy, and he wanted to break it, but he couldn't ­
 he wouldn't tell anyone that it was time to end a human life. They
 knew it, and they were well aware of the fact that they knew it.

 "There hasn't been any improvement," he said slowly.

 The woman ­ she might have looked younger once ­ shook her
 head. "But you said if we talked to him, if we spent time with him..."

 He nodded. "I know. And on some level he's always been aware of
 who's in the room with him. His moments of lucidity have all but
 disappeared." The doctor rubbed a hand over his face. "There is no
 explanation for why he slid into a coma. There is no medical reason
 for it." And that fact drove him crazy. Never before had he had a
 patient who began to show marked improvement to such an extent
 before spiraling downwards, never to return. It sometimes occurred
 to a lesser extent; lucidity returned less often while stretches of
 catatonia lengthened, but never had he seen a patient show such
 promise before executing a complete one-eighty.

 "I can't," the woman was saying. "I can't give up on him. I don't
 want to abandon him when he needs me. You have to understand
 that." The man sitting next to her covered her hand with his own and
 she turned to look at him, pleading in her light eyes.

 The older man maintained eye contact with the woman. "What about
 brain activity?"

 "His condition has worsened to such an extent that if he were to
 regain consciousness..." This was the hard part. How did you tell two
 people who obviously loved their son that he was a vegetable?

 Mrs. Mulder's grip on her husband's hand tightened while Bill Mulder
 looked as though he'd aged thirty years in the short time they'd
 been speaking. He cleared his throat. "But there were times, like you
 said, when he was lucid. If he'd been that way before, why not
 again?"

 "Lucidity and consciousness are not necessarily the same thing, Mr.
 Mulder. Your son was able to cultivate an extensive fantasy life for
 an extended number of years. He re-wrote history and based his
 fantasy on that re-written history. He interacted daily with the people
 in his head, and they began to compete with the world he left
 behind. To him, this world is one in which his sister was murdered.
 He was able to repress that, and create a world where she had not
 been killed, but was merely missing. Both existences have a degree
 of unhappiness ­ he feels too guilty to be happy, really."

 In actuality, this was a world in which Fox and Samantha Mulder had
 been kidnapped on a bicycle ride to the beach during what was
 supposed to have been the halcyon days of childhood. It was a world
 where a 12 year old boy was forced to watch his sister be brutally
 tortured and sexually abused before her death. It was a world in
 which the child was forced to mutilate the body of his sister before he
 himself was raped, beaten and left for dead. Repression was par for
 the course.

 "Fox has come to imagine himself as someone very important. He's
 someone who is a threat to others, rather than a victim. He has
 charged himself with finding Samantha, possibly because he feels
 responsible for her death. In his mind, he has created himself to be
 a conglomeration of everything American society considers 'heroic'.
 He's a highly educated FBI agent in a position of authority. The guilt
 he feels over Samantha's death comes out by way of sacrifice. He
 imagines himself sacrificing a promising career in order to find out
 the truth about her absence. It is entirely possible, Mr. Mulder, that
 your career influenced your son's choice in this matter."

 He looked across the desk at the elderly couple. They'd been down
 this road before; this wasn't the first time they had considered
 euthanasia and it probably wouldn't be the last.

 Mrs. Mulder inhaled deeply and tilted her chin upwards. "If he were
 somehow able to regain consciousness, how do you see potential
 recovery playing out?"

 The doctor pursed his lips in thought. "It is my opinion that, if he is
 able to come out of this coma, the shock of reality opposed to the
 detailed fantasy that he has created would be particularly harmful.
 Recovery would be a long and arduous process. It would depend
 solely on whether he wanted to recover. As of right now, recovery is a
 threat to Fox. It is as though on some level he knows the pain
 existing on this plane. He has no control over this world. That alone
 could very well explain why he resists an awakening."

 "That's why he's created those... people, you mean," Bill Mulder
 murmured.

 The doctor nodded. "Exactly. They're... they're defense mechanisms.
 He's constantly trying to 'save' himself from what's waiting for him on
 this side. He considers consciousness a threat, and creates more
 threats to signify the threat of that consciousness. Similarly, he
 creates individuals ­ 'characters,' if you will, that he attaches himself
 to in order to make that fantasy world more appealing. By doing so,
 he also makes it more difficult to leave. This world cannot equate to
 what he's created."

 The older woman looked down at her hands, still linked with her
 husband's. "That 'Scully' person, you mean."

 "That's one example. We believe that he created 'Scully' as a
 stand-in for a maternal figure. She validates him while only
 appearing as a threat to his construction. He created someone to
 trust, who would believe in him and his fantasy. There are lesser
 players, of course, but they all play a part. Think of it like a house of
 cards. A man can create an intricate, if flimsy structure in so many
 years. The problem is that Scully, fictional though she is, has
 anchored Fox in his fantasy world, and any attempts to pull him out
 are considered a threat." The doctor paused. "He even considers me
 a threat. My efforts to help have been perceived as intent to harm
 both him and the people in his head. Looking back, we've been able
 to piece together much of what his subconscious mind has been
 trying to do."

 "*Trying* to do?" the patient's mother asked.

 "That's right." He leaned back in his chair and pressed his palms
 together. "Fox has transformed the threat that we pose into an
 amorphous omniscience ­ a different kind of 'threat.' Rather than
 the real world posing a threat to his sanity, he has created a
 shadowy evil that poses a threat to all of mankind—"

 "Which in turn validates the fantasy," the mother cut in.

 He nodded. "By remaining in this fantasy realm, he thinks he's
 saving the world. He couldn't save his sister, so he's trying to go
 above and beyond the call of duty."

 Bill Mulder was quiet for a long moment. The pain in his face was
 evident. It was hard enough to have lost one child, but to lose two
 was a travesty. "I still don't understand. I don't understand how
 reality is a threat. We're his *parents*. We *love* him. Doesn't he
 understand that?"

 "From what we've been able to piece together, Bill, he's trying to
 protect himself against that too—"

 Bill Mulder suddenly stood. "Who needs protection from their
 *parents*?" He walked the length of the room, seeming far older
 than his years. He had every reason for that ­ his daughter found
 brutally murdered, his son found curled in the fetal position, not five
 feet from her body. Fox had been through varying levels of
 catatonia, peppered with lucidity. Neither parent ever knew the joy of
 first dates, senior proms, or driving lessons. Neither of them would
 ever know grandchildren, or watching their children age into
 productive adults. They were both exhausted and outraged, and he
 understood that.

 "If he was able to sever ties and distance himself emotionally from
 the memory of his parents, it would make his world ever more
 comfortable. After such a traumatic experience, this is his way of
 protecting himself against... himself." It was for that reason that Fox
 Mulder "killed" his parents ­ they were too present in his mind, and
 with that presence came the reminder of where he failed, and why he
 was where he was. They were a reminder of the time before. Of the
 Real World. By getting rid of that presence, he was able to move
 more freely within his own world. The doctor alone knew how hard
 Fox Mulder had been fighting them. He alone knew the extent of the
 man's fictional existence.

 He also knew the role he played in that world. Though he tried to
 remain objective, being charged as a murderous threat when his
 life's work revolved around saving lives was, on some very primal
 level, insulting. He knew that Fox had tried many different ways to
 eliminate his presence, and the doctor was well aware of the
 patient's frustration at his inability to get rid of him.

 "It's just too much to consider, Dr. Ryce. I'm sure you can
 understand that. We can't just... we can't kill our own son. He's our
 *son*."

 Her husband's eyes were trained on his hands. "He hasn't been our
 son for almost thirty years."

 Dr. Alexander K. Ryce nodded. "I can continue to work with him ­
 there are a great deal of experimental treatments that are still open
 to us. But it's only just a matter of time before he stonewalls all of
 us completely. Before he gives up and backs out the only way
 someone can who is that desperate for distance and comfort."

 The older woman's shoulders sagged slightly. "You mean before he
 simply gives up the will to live."

 "No," Dr. Ryce said, his voice low, "before he decides to sacrifice his
 life for the world within his mind. This isn't a matter of 'giving up' for
 Fox. It is a matter of working for the greater good. A lie is only a lie
 for as long as you recognize that fact. Fox fully believes his lie.
 Somewhere in the process, a lie has become the truth, and he's
 willing to die for that truth."
 

                             fox's gal

                                                              exit