#tw: cadaver tissue

[starseneyes]

I Carry You With Me

I knew going into my surgery that cadaver bone would be used to help support the shifts in my upper jaw. In fact, I surprised my surgeon’s office when we first discussed it.

"We’ll be doing a bone graft on the upper jaw." "Oh, where are you grafting it from?" "Oh, we won’t be using your bone." "Ah, dead tissue. Got it." "You really did do your research!"

13 days ago, I underwent the procedure. The plastic splint on my upper palate will come out in another five weeks or so. But the bone up there? That is now a part of me.

And now that it is in me, I realize I am carrying someone else with me for the rest of my life, someone who chose to donate pieces of themself to help others live. I will have a more fulfilled and healthier life because of them.

I will never know their name or their life story. Did they have children? How old were they when they died? Were they loved?

I don’t know if they chased their dreams, or if they were too afraid. Did they love to watch sunrises and sunsets, too? Or did we have absolutely nothing in common?

And now this selfless person who chose to be an organ and tissue donor has given me a better quality of life—one I would not have without them.

I will carry them with me the rest of my life. And I will hold gratitude in my heart for them, too.

And, yes, I am an organ donor! Maybe someday some part of me will help someone else. And that is a true gift.

[droctaviolovecraft]

TW: Body horror, violence

"I do not tolerate filthiness at my dining table!"

Class: Supreme Majesty 👑

Responsible Servant: Sir Öctavio Kalev

Status: Medieval, historical, auxiliary, humanoid

Quarters: His Majesty, "Franz Seymor von Habsburg," must be housed within a specially constructed containment chamber beneath Site-633, formerly known as the sealed sublevels of Buckingham Palace. Access to His Highness's throne room is restricted to personnel with Level 4 clearance or higher, and any interaction must be conducted under the pretense of formal judicial procedures to avoid agitation.

The containment chamber must be furnished according to 18th-century European aristocratic standards, with appropriate dining arrangements and decor to maintain His Majesty's perception of his status. Franz Seymor must be provided with a weekly supply of human cadavers, acquired under Institute protocols, for his "banquets." Any staff entering the chamber must adhere to strict etiquette guidelines, including dress, speech, and conduct. Non-compliance may result in immediate termination by His Highness.

The hall is equipped with a medieval steel gate reinforced with a triple-lock mechanism, and entry must be monitored by medieval guards at all times. Under no circumstances should Franz be allowed to leave his quarters. If Franz attempts to breach containment, Protocol Sergius-5 must be enacted, utilizing high-voltage barriers and sedative gas. In the event of complete containment failure, Site-633 must be locked down, and His Majesty's chamber flooded with a cryogenic compound to temporarily immobilize Franz Seymor.

Description: His Majesty is a beautifully deformed humanoid entity, approximately 11'1" tall and weighing around 1,984 lbs. He resembles European aristocracy, wearing a red robe adorned with gold details and a powdered wig with a distinctive purple bow. His unique physical traits include severe facial asymmetry: the left side of his face appears charred and raw, with exposed muscle tissue and a swollen, uncovered eyeball, while the right side, though less damaged, still displays pronounced abnormalities such as a flattened eyebrow, bulbous nose, and tumor-like growths on the cheek. Franz Seymor's mouth is filled with yellowed, irregular teeth and shows signs of a cleft palate.

His Majesty claims to be the "Promised King of the Habsburgs," asserting his supposed lineage to the Habsburg dynasty, although no historical records support this claim. He exhibits behavior consistent with 18th-century aristocratic demeanor, conducting himself with surprising politeness and refinement despite his exotic appearance. Franz Seymor has a penchant for romantic poetry, frequently quoting or composing verses in English, Spanish, Portuguese, and German, spoken with an archaic accent reminiscent of medieval European nobility.

Franz Seymor's cognitive abilities are highly advanced, showing knowledge of a wide range of subjects, including obscure historical events, advanced sciences, and MOTHRA Institutional protocols. He has demonstrated a disturbingly powerful ability to psychologically manipulate individuals to serve his interests, including Institute personnel. This ability appears to stem from an auxiliary cognitohazardous influence; affected individuals display extreme loyalty and willingness to obey His Highness's commands, even to the point of suicide or death, swearing allegiance, serving, and obeying.

Despite his seemingly gentle nature, Franz Seymor has shown extreme aggression when affronted, particularly in response to perceived breaches of etiquette. He has been observed to possess immense physical strength, capable of dismembering adult humans with his bare hands. His Highness has also demonstrated near-invulnerability to conventional weapons, withstanding high-caliber bullets and extreme temperatures with minimal damage. His regenerative capabilities, though not instantaneous, are sufficient to recover from most injuries over time.

Addendum 633-XK-1: Discovery

Franz Seymor was found on 09/12/2022, following the death of Queen Elizabeth II. A hidden sublevel beneath Buckingham Palace was uncovered during renovations, where the King was found residing in what appeared to be a simulated throne room. The room was decorated in an anachronistic style, with tapestries, chandeliers, and a long dining table set for multiple guests, although only Franz Seymor was present. The entity was seated on a golden throne, holding a chalice later confirmed to contain human blood.

Upon discovery, Franz Seymor greeted the Institution's recovery team warmly, addressing them as "loyal subjects" and inquiring about the nature of their visit. Despite his grotesque appearance, Franz showed no immediate hostility and engaged in conversation, revealing extensive knowledge of MOTHRA and its operations. When asked about his presence beneath Buckingham Palace, Seymor claimed he was "awaiting the throne" and that his time to reign had come, though the exact meaning of this statement remains unclear.

Addendum 633-XK-2: Incident Report 633-XK-A

On 03/10/2023, during a scheduled interaction, Dr. ███████, a researcher serving His Majesty, accidentally spilled a cup of tea on Franz Seymor's robe. The King immediately became enraged, grabbing Dr. ███████ and violently dismembering him before recontainment teams could respond. Following the incident, Franz delivered a lengthy monologue on the importance of respect and decorum, expressing disappointment with the "unworthy conduct" of the Institute's staff.

In light of this incident, all servants assigned to the King are required to undergo extensive etiquette training and psychological screening to ensure compliance with Franz Seymor's expectations.

Addendum 633-XK-3: Psychological Profile

Franz Seymor appears to exhibit signs of narcissistic personality disorder and delusional tendencies, consistent with his self-proclaimed status as a "king" and "ruler of Europe." He views himself as inherently superior to all humans and seems genuinely convinced of his divine right to rule. His Majesty's obsession with manners and protocol suggests an underlying need for control and validation, which may be exploited for containment purposes.

Further research is ongoing to determine the full extent of Franz Seymor's abilities and the origin of his anomalous properties. Given his potential threat, every effort is being made to prevent the King from gaining influence beyond his quarters.

Note: Personnel are reminded to address His Highness as "Your Royal Highness" during any direct communication.

Addendum 633-XK-10: Anomalous Cognition and Omniscience

Franz Seymor von Habsburg possesses an extraordinary ability to answer any question posed to him, regardless of the subject or complexity. This ability seems to go beyond mere knowledge; His Highness provides information on matters that would be inaccessible or unknown to conventional sources, including the inner workings of the MOTHRA Institution and deeply esoteric concepts. Researchers hypothesize that Franz's cognition is somehow connected to a broader metaphysical network or that he has an intrinsic connection to the fundamental nature of reality itself.

Notable Interactions and Responses:

1. Question: “What is the meaning of death?”

Answer: "Death, dear peasant, is merely the culmination of life's grand masquerade. It is the final revelation, where all masks fall and the true face of existence is exposed. Yet it is not an end but a passage, one that removes the illusions of flesh and time, revealing the essence of what was, what is, and what will be. In death, the soul is freed from the prison of mortality, cast into the boundless sea of the unknown. It is there that great truths reside, in the abyss beyond all mortal comprehension, where even the deepest despair is but a fleeting shadow over the eternal."

2. Question: "Does anyone else know about 'The Abyss'?"

Answer: "Oh, many have peered into that dreadful void, but few have returned with their sanity intact. The Abyss is not merely the empty space between stars, but a living, twisted consciousness that yearns for knowledge and souls. Among you are scholars, dreamers, madmen, who have glimpsed its tendrils, felt its pull. MOTHRA itself treads dangerously close, teetering on the brink, blind to the Abyss yawning below. And there are others, entities beyond your comprehension, that swim in these dark waters, knowing far more than they should. Beware, for even knowing of this draws its gaze."

3. Question: "How did anomalies arise?"

Answer: "Anomalies, my dear subject, are fractures in the fabric of reality, where the laws to which you cling shatter like fragile glass. They arise from the clashes of universal truths, from the intersection of belief and doubt, from the will of the cosmos and the whims of those who play at being gods. Some are born from human folly, the result of meddling with forces beyond comprehension. Others are the residue of ancient battles between beings of unimaginable power. And there are those that have always been, the primordial scars in the very creation itself. Each anomaly is a reminder that the universe is not a clockwork machine, but a tapestry woven of chaos and dreams."

4. Question: "What do the Institution's superiors fear most?"

Answer: "Ah, fear is a peculiar thing for those who fancy themselves masters of the unknown. But even they, the mighty overseers and architects of your veiled empire, have their demons. They fear that which they cannot contain, the entity that breaks the game board and scatters the pieces to the wind. They fear internal betrayal, the subtle subversion of their grand design. But above all, they fear the moment when they must face the truth: that their ceaseless struggle is but a fleeting effort to hold back an ocean with a sieve, and that, one day, the tide will submerge them all. They fear what they do not understand, for understanding would reveal the futility of their cause."

5. Question: "Does the SCP Foundation exist in the same universe as our MOTHRA Institution?"

Answer: "Not only her, but also potential others of these organizations that play prison guards in search of their prisoners. The universe of the Mothra Institution is an open rift for the entry of anything that even thinks about being here. So yes, they are here, closer than you think."

6. Question: "Does General Jotavê blink his eyes?"

Answer: ... no.

Addendum 633-XK-11: Experimental Limitations and Ethical Considerations

Despite Franz Seymor’s apparent omniscience, ethical concerns have arisen regarding the types of questions he is asked. There is an ongoing debate within the Institute about the potential risks of asking His Highness about future events, undiscovered anomalies, or hidden truths that could destabilize reality. The entity’s answers, while often accurate and informative, carry the risk of causing psychological distress or unintended consequences to those who hear them.

Research teams are advised not to ask the King about information that could compromise the integrity of MOTHRA or the safety of the general population. All questions and responses must be reviewed and approved by the Site Director prior to any future interaction.

[sadistpet]

headcanon. under the cut. about raikov's cannibalism i keep referring to <3

tws for murder, gore, mentions of sexual assault / abuse, and general abuse ( psychological and physical )

it was an accident, at first. a necessity. he'd killed a comrade at 17 years old. one that'd hurt him, that'd brutalised him in ways that marred his body with irremovable and invisible stains. one man of many.

he hadn't meant to kill him. torture him, yes. make him pay, yes. but that was it. he didn't mean to kill him ; that was far too disruptive and messy and required far too much clean up and god, the consequences of killing a comrade would be horrific, likely resulting in the rest of his life being thrown away and resigning him to being behind bars til he died, if he was lucky, and if not, executed on the spot. or perhaps that would be the lucky ending, considering the hell he'd already been through. it was a bitter, sour realisation that raikov himself was the one who would be punished. not the ones who'd teased him, mocked him, stolen his food and his letters from home, subjected him to the utmost humiliation, forced him to do back-breaking labour... the ones who brought him to tears with their verbal abuse, the ones who beat him until he could taste naught but his own blood, the ones who forced themselves on him over and over and over again. they wouldn't face justice for what they did to him. but he would be punished for daring to fight back.

it wasn't fair, and he knew it wasn't fair. and more importantly, he couldn't risk it. he didn't want to die. he didn't want to get in trouble.

and god above, after months of having his food stolen and restricted, his stomach was eating away at itself. the appearance of blood and split flesh was too much. he felt sick with hunger, so sick and so feverish and so terrified of the consequences of being found out, his body weak and sinewy and struggling to even drive the knife through the flesh of the cadaver.

he couldn't hide the body. where would he ? there was no other option than to get rid of it. and what better way than to satisfy his own gluttony in the process ? meat was meat, and he was starving. he couldn't help himself. couldn't stop himself from sinking his teeth into the cooling body, his canines peeling through flesh and scraping against bone, nails embedded deep into the skin and peeling it layer by layer. muscle and tissue and nerves pulled apart with all the elegance of a butcher removing the finest cuts. when he was finished, when his haze finally lifted and his ravenous hunger was sated, he crushed the bones beneath his heel like rosin beneath a pointe shoe.

raikov felt no regret afterwards. he wiped the blood and gore from his face with a blithe smile that stays on his face for an eerily long time. when asked about his missing comrade in the following days, his smile remained, and never faltered. he just shrugged his shoulders and proclaimed ; i haven't the faintest idea where he could be.

[danascullysjournal]

For the ask game, I'd love to know 2, 18, and 32!

Thank you so much for the ask! 🥰

I did get a little heavy on this but you asked SO this is my honest reply. I do see the world brighter than this post makes it seem though 😂 Have a wonderful day!

2. Goodness I used to use nothing but pen all the time, but that was high school and college. Now my hands cramp up too much. I still like to do handwritten script for poetry. It has more feeling to me, somehow…? I used to carry around a little notebook/sketchbook for exactly that.

18. TW: Autopsy Scene

Unfortunately for me, and probably any readers, I’m neck-deep in a fic that takes place after “Milagro” in The X Files, called If You Will Let Me. It started as a single “Mulder needs to cuddle Scully and make sure she’s not bleeding out” one shot, but I could *not* stop thinking about how swayed Scully was by Padgett, and how insanely out of character it seemed.

I decided to give Scully a chance to cut him open, regain some control. She deserved that, and Chp 2 happened. Here is the excerpt:

“Victim is a Phillip Padgett, 32 year old male…” she studied the gaping hole in his chest, wreathed in the pale of chilled epidermis and the crusted, deep burgundy of his dried blood. “Apparent cause of death: self-inflicted… removal of heart.”

She could not stop herself from considering that this fate was exactly what he had planned for her. She swallowed hard, picked up her scalpel and continued.

His flesh cut under her skilled blade like every other cadaver she had examined, and with each slice, each organ, each measurement, she grew to be a bit more of herself. This was her profession. Measurable. Controlled. Messy, at times, but peaceful in that the outcomes were documented, usually expected, and always under her control.

She took the heart, which had been placed back into the body for storage in morgue refrigeration, and placed it on the scale for measurement.

“Heart. Weight, 10.3 ounces. Tissue appears healthy.” But it wasn’t, Scully thought. She felt a frown trace along her lips. His heart had not been healthy all. Yet somehow, she had been swayed by it anyway. It frightened her more than she dared to admit.”

While I was writing this, I felt more and more.. uneasy? Sickened? By a) Padgett’s ability to manifest a killer and knowingly kill people without being present, and b) his apparent ability to get *inside of Scully’s head and manipulate her thoughts and desires.* Who does that? It’s essentially rape, but on a mental level. Physically she was fine, but emotionally, mentally, she absolutely was not.

And I cannot really put into words how much I relate to how Scully must have felt, and how the triggers and reimaginings can take over. It became a quest to help her name and process what Padgett had done AND to somehow explain the how and why behind it all. And get her and Mulder together in spite of all that- a piece that says “yes, horrible things happen, but you can have a partner with you that will walk it all *with* you, and you’ll be okay in the end.”

32. The Lady of Shallott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson was my favorite poem all through college, and even though it’s old and has little to do with fanfic, the theme is (in my opinion) interesting and still relevant.

This section has stuck with me all these years.

“No time hath she to sport and play:

A charmed web she weaves alway.

A curse is on her, if she stay

Her weaving, either night or day,

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be;

Therefore she weaveth steadily,

Therefore no other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.”

She is so afraid of what could happen to her that she views the world only through a mirrored reflection. The concept of working and obeying for the fear of the unknown is so very striking to me.

Eventually she is lured to turn her head. Ironically, when she finally does make the choice to turn and see the real outside world beyond her tower, it was just to see a singing man passing by (Sir Lancelot, arguably the Grand Hussie of Arthurian legend). He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even notice her, but the curse is immediately brought down on her and she is a corpse by sunset.

The whole idea of being imprisoned to your fear, or seeing the real world for what it is (not always wonderful) and succumbing to it is fascinating to me. And she was led, unwittingly, to her pained death by a man.

**I should note, I’m married, but once divorced. There are good humans and there are selfish and vain humans, and I read the poem to be a cautionary tale against the latter.

[phantom-does-a-thing]

phantom can you pls tell me about dissection. its not a thing here, and part of me is relieved but another part of me really wishes i could see some guts. pls tell how its like pls pls pls

Well, I don’t know how big of a thing it is here since I’ve only participated in two dissections in school lol. A lot of other people got to do like pig hearts or other organs like that but I don’t know what schools they went to or what science track they took bc admittedly I had biology during distance learning and took chem last year. I just happened to take anatomy this year bc I did NOT want to take physics but I really like this class.

I’ve never talked about the dissection we just did in detail bc it feels idk weird to talk about on tumblr bc of what we dissected it grosses a lot of people out so uh idk

Tw for animal death and talking about like dead stuff ig

We dissected cats which was super shocking to everyone tbh but I was super excited bc I like dissecting things. Dude I get so cocky about loving gore and stuff and being okay with dead stuff or whatever.

The first day of dissection my teacher was trying to demonstrate something and needed a volunteer and because I’m cocky n everything I volunteered and she had me hold the (wrapped in a plastic bag) cat, and these cats are skinned already to save us some time bc otherwise we would’ve had to skin them. So they didn’t have skin. I’ve never seen dead animals like this. Especially not a dead cat. She had me hold it. Lua I almost passed out I had to lean against the counter (I didn’t pay attention to what she was saying). It’s a little funny but ooohhhh that was a feeling.

Since it’s for like anatomy class we obviously had to do like anatomy stuff n like these cats were skinned which is. Very weird. And also preserved so like smells like chemicals. One dude in my group literally did not touch the cat once while I was the one consistently manhandling it LOL I would pick it up and move it around when putting it away n stuff. It was kinda heavy too. Like that was a workout.

The reason we did cats was bc the muscles r most similar to human muscles and my high school anatomy teacher unfortunately cannot get human cadavers lol.

It was really fun tho I really really enjoyed it except for being tested on it, that kinda sucked. It was also not necessarily a competition but me n the other girl in my group were both so into it so it was a constant back and forth of taking turns cutting stuff that we had to cut. Cutting off the fascia from the muscles was genuinely kinda fun except when we don’t know what to cut </3

But opening it up was genuinely the most fun part bc mmmmmmmmmmm organs. It was so. Full. And the abdominal cavity just opened right up and I was so surprised that nothing was really like attached to the wall or anything, I expected it to be similar to the fascia on the muscles but it just opened it up and oh, organs. It was super cool. The small intestines felt so mmmmmmm.

They felt good to run your fingers through and they fell together against each other easily where they were supposed to be. Everything fit together. We also had to break the ribs open to get the thoracic cavity open (mmmmmmm bones) but we just cut through the sternum which was a jarring feeling bc that doesn’t seem like you should be able to cut it open like that!!! But ooouuughhhh yea it changed me.

I have pictures but I’m not gonna post them for obvious reasons </3

It was such an interesting experience I loved it so much getting to see inside. Our superior vena cava got blown out when they were preserving the cat so we didn’t have that in ours LOL. They injected dye into the veins and arteries so we could tell the difference. There’s something so… visceral about scraping at the internal dorsal wall of a cat, the intestines pushed out the way and your gloves covered in loose tissue and digging for the veins/arteries to separate them. I wonder if I have a pic of the veins bc I got them SO clean and well defined it. Ough. Thinking of the veins.

I’ve only other dissected a worm so I’ve not done it often but the cat dissection we did was so much fun. I cut open the trachea at the end and that was. An experience. I have a very distinct imagined feeling of what it would feel like to sink your teeth into a trachea just from that experience. Sawing it open sounded similar to running your nail down the teeth of a comb. It was weird. And just a hollow tube.

:) it was fun :) I wish I could do it again

[spaceship-pastimes]

Fruits are basically ovaries, and generally wouldn’t exist without bees and wasps crawling all over the plants that produce them. Flowers are sex organs, so that’s your vanilla. Cinnamon is from the skin of trees. Nutmeg is from the seed within a fruit, see above.

Meat is flesh and blood. Most are from the muscles that propel the living skeleton. We eat liver, the organ that filters toxins from the body.

Mushrooms are just the reproductive part of a mush larger organism, the part sent up to billow spores and create new beings of its kind. So it’s pretty much just what you think it looks like. And beyond that, they are a group of creatures specialized to feed on rot and decay

Seaweed is just like... the moss of the ocean

Shrimp are basically the ocean’s equicalent of like, bugs, like termites or ants given their place on the food chain, so congrats on your expensive high-class water centipedes I guess

Plants can sense when other plants are in danger. When leaves are damaged, the pheremones they release into the air alert other leaves nearby to bolster their defenses. This is meant as a warning system against insects that would chew up the plants, but it means that your salad maybe ‘knows’ it’s being eaten, on a cellular level. That shredded lettuce on your sandwich is sending out a distress signal. That kale in your smoothie is full of the plant equivalent of panic.

Don’t get me started on seeds. An entire potential life, eaten.

All of these things are a healthy and natural part of their ecosystem

So i love when people try to make a certain food sound “gross”, as if the prospect of eating at all isn’t an absolute horror show. “Honey is bee barf” that’s not accurate, what the hell is your point. At least plants offered the nectar that becomes honey willingly. Because other than salt and water, there are no foods on this planet that aren’t somehow the result of us taking the flesh of another once-living creature, even in the rare case that it doesn’t spell immediate death for the creature we take from. Be disgusted and horrified by all foods indiscriminately or get out of my face.

“milk is from bre*sts EW” “eggs are basically menstruation” “honey is bee barf yuck!!” do you guys ever stop sounding like 4th graders who think cooties still exist or what

[mrmiserymushroom]

Gore anon again! TW for heavy gore and death/cadavers!!

So! Bodies are actually much more yellow than you'd expect, because of the fatty tissue. We also only have around 5L of blood, (and generally die of bloodloss after losing only two) and most depictions of death or injury in the media have much more blood than you'd actually lose.

Organs are typically pinkish or a deep purple color, and sometimes things look very orangey.

In the media, when someone falls off a building or such, they usually only have their skull damaged. However, in real life, when the fall is high enough bodies will have multiple fractures and limbs bent in all angles, sometimes even ripped off. Bodies also bounce a little!

These are just from the top of my head, but I can get more if you're interested!

I DON’T KNOW WHY but wow that was really cool to know AJDJAAKAJS I like to know this kinda of thing! really thanks for sharing it with me

also, bodies BOUNCE? and why we die from blood loss if we still have 3L left?

[chronicallyblogged]

Tw : corpse, medical procedure, suicide mention

I dont understand human morality and I really don't get how anyone does. There are double standards everywhere. And things that just don't make sense. Recently I had a surgical dental procedure. They explained the procedure to me and I agreed to it. The day of I paid and went to the room. They re explained the procedure but this time added on the detail that the tissue they'd be using for the graft was a human cadaver. They waited until I had paid and was in the chair to tell me this. I was already so anxious that my blood pressure was through the roof so it was hard to process this and I didn't really want to. But they insisted there was no other way. And I already paid. So I said yes. So now I'm sitting here with a piece of someone's corpse stuffed in my head. How is it when I manipulate people its bad and means I'm evil bc of my disorder. But when they do it it's just medical practice?

There's stuff like this everywhere. You shouldn't suicide bait people is an fairly accepted statement. But at the same time people see it as acceptable to allow conditions for depression to worsen or shame people experiencing symptoms. How the heck am I supposed to develop a stable moral compass? It's frustrating. Im supposed to just innately know right from wrong somehow but I dont and society is so hypocritical its hard to learn from.

Allias

[actsoflancaster-blog]

“The Game, the Brain and the Scary Truth” -by Joseph H. Lucas PsyD

 Aaron Hernandez Had Severe C.T.E. When He Died at Age 27

The Game, the Brain and the Scary Truth

- by Joseph H. Lucas PsyD

 For many football players across the country Mini Camp or summer practice will soon begin for “Pop Warner” through College and even the National Football League (NFL).  Though many parents, coaches, athletic trainers and team physicians will be focused on ensuring players safety from heat exhaustion.

 The most publicised and perhaps most important aspects of the game, “Player Safety” will be put to the test.  The terms “Player Safety” and “Heads Up Football,” mean brain safety.  Through the promotion “correct” tackling technique which is not leading and tackling with the crown of one’s helmet and the teaching of “better tackling techniques,” such as tackling with your “head up looking straight ahead at your target,” safer football’s goal is for players to sustain fewer concussions and Mild Traumatic Brain Injury (MTBI).  

 We now know the dangers of head injuries in sports and any of life’s arenas can have immediate and life-altering effects.  For instance, Twice concussion syndrome (sustaining a significant concussion, before the sequela or adverse neurological and neuropsychological symptoms for the initial concussion have abated) can lead to death and/or permanent brain damage.  The latest brain research and cadaver brain studies indicate that multiple concussions and MTBI can lead to Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), an inorganic and devastating brain “disease” that ultimately leads to death.

Many parents across the country may be considering or even acting upon not allowing their children to participate in football due to the inherent dangers that the game presents to their children’s brains.  Our brains control every organ and process in our body; from our heart rate, blood pressure to thoughts and emotions, even creativity, it is not surprising that parents may balk when signing the consent or permission to play form.

 Perhaps the sport that has arisen to “America’s New Pastime,” but increased awareness of the dangers that lurk inside each and every game, and the lack of evidence to support the fact that tackling with “heads up” is reducing any or immediate or long-term term brain damages, would make this parent get “writer's cramp” when it would come to sign the parental consent form to play football.  You may ask why would an ex-high school cornerback and quarterback make such a blasphemous statement?  Then, I direct you to read the disturbing and sobering article regarding Aaron Hernandez, who at just 27  years old was posthumously diagnosed with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE).  The Ex-New England Patriot and All-Pro Football Player died of a suicide inside the walls of a prison and it is not doubted in my mind that his murderous behavior turned suicidal; both most definitely due to playing football and sustaining multiple concussions and MTBI.”  So read on and hold on for the ride and I warn you, you made need a box of tissues.

 “BOSTON — The brain arrived in April, delivered to the basement of the hospital without ceremony, like all the others. There were a few differences with this one — not because it was more important, but because it was more notorious.

It went to the lab outside the city, instead of the one in Boston, where most of the examinations are performed these days, because it was less likely to attract attention that way. Instead of being carried in through the service entrance, it was ushered in secretly through the underground tunnel system. The brain was given a pseudonym, and only three people knew how to identify it.Other than that, the brain came alone and disconnected from its past, unattached to its celebrity. The sordid details of the man’s rise and fall, the speculation over what went wrong, the debate over justice — all that was left behind for others to assess.

It was just a brain, not large or small, not deformed or extraordinary in appearance, an oblong and gelatinous coil weighing 1,573 grams, or about three and a half pounds, just carved from the skull of a 27-year-old man. The coroner took special care, and it arrived hours later in near-perfect condition.

“They handled everything beautifully,” the neuropathologist said.

The laboratory was a 30-minute drive from the prison where the man hanged himself a night or two earlier. His name was familiar to the scientists, just as he was to people throughout New England and many around the country. Now his brain was about 30 miles north of where the man had most recently worked, in Foxborough, Mass.

They expected a normal brain because of the man’s age.

“I didn’t equate his behavior with the disease,” the neuropathologist said. “I just thought that’s who he was.”

On the table, the brain appeared healthy. The meninges, the layers of translucent membranes that coat and protect the brain, still enveloped it. The brain had a healthy sheen.

The brain was sliced into sheaths, maybe a half-inch at a time, starting at the front. That was where the first inkling came that this was not just another 27-year-old brain. Even to the naked eye, the cross sections had substantial gaps in the tissues — fluid-filled ventricles that expanded as the brain tissue itself shrank. A cross section of a healthy 27-year-old brain looks robust, fleshy. This one was hollowed by boomerang-shaped caverns.

“The reason the skull grows is to make room for the growing brain,” the neuropathologist explained. “Everything is packed really tightly. Nature doesn’t leave any gaps.”

The septum pellucidum, a small membrane between the two halves of the brain, was atrophied to the point that it looked withered and fragile, even perforated. When the neuropathologist later went to look for others in a similar condition, the youngest comparable example was a 46-year-old boxer.

The fornix, a C-shaped bundle of nerves, was similarly deteriorated, stripped of its relative heft. The hippocampus, too. Even some of the most famously diseased brains that the neuropathologist had explored, from men who had died decades later, did not have such obvious signs of destruction when examined by the naked eye.

But only under a microscope could the disease be diagnosed with certainty. Wafer-like tissues were immunostained, using antibodies designed to discolor a specific protein — in this case, tau, which clumps and spreads, killing brain cells. That is where the full scope of the damage was apparent.

Tau, stained brown, appeared like bursts of fireworks in the frontal cortex, the part of the brain that controls decision making, impulse and inhibition. The neuropathologist could see it spreading through the brain. It was in the amygdala, the part of the brain that regulates emotions like fear and anxiety, and the temporal lobe. She spotted “a perfect demonstration” of lesions around the tiny blood vessels, a telltale sign. She found previous microhemorrhages and astrocytic scarring around the ventricles.

She declared the case Stage 3 on her own scale of severity, which goes from 1 to 4. It was the most damage she had seen in anyone that age. Among the hundreds of other brains she had examined and graded, the median age of a Stage 3 brain from \his profession was 67. Now she had one that was only 27.

What made the brain extraordinary, for the purpose of science, was not just the extent of the damage, but its singular cause. Most brains with that kind of damage have sustained a lifetime of other problems, too, from strokes to other diseases, like Alzheimer’s. Their samples are muddled, and not everything found can be connected to one particular disease.

This one looked as if it had been lifted from the pages of a textbook devoted to just one disease.

“It’s rare for us to get a brain of a person this young in such good shape,” the neuropathologist said. “It is a classic case. And it tells us a lot about the disease.”

The brain is no longer a brain, in function or form, because it has been sliced into pieces. Those pieces have been numbered, archived and stored. Scientists still study it, probably will for years, because it is such a perfect, fascinating specimen.

The neuropathologist and her closest associates kept this all to themselves for months, though, until the man’s family agreed to let the results go public. In September, the news came out and the headlines returned, but the neuropathologist did no interviews. She released only a short statement confirming the results of the examination.

“I didn’t want to contribute to the sensationalism,” she said.

But science cannot advance without the cumulative power of research, which was why she was in a university ballroom on Thursday, in front of more than 150 neurologists, pathologists and other scientists.She stood in the dark and put a PowerPoint presentation on the screen, several dozen slides of images showing an immensely atrophied young brain, the mind of a former star in his field who was also a convicted murderer. “He had beautiful pathology, if you can call it beautiful,” the neuropathologist had said earlier.  The particulars of the damage that the neuropathologist detailed — the tangled tau proteins, the battered frontal cortex, the shrunken tissues and the enlarged ventricles — have long become familiar to those paying attention to brain science. They are the things that threaten the long-term future of the industry in which the man worked.This is where his job faces the most scrutiny — under the microscope in darkened labs and in the scientific presentations at academic conferences.

“It’s scientifically interesting,” the neuropathologist said. “To me, it’s a fascinating brain.”

Retrieved 11/14/2017 from: https://mobile.nytimes.com/2017/11/09/sports/aaron-hernandez-brain-cte.html?smid=tw-share&referer=

[danascullysjournal]

If You Will Let Me

Post-Milagro X-Files Fanfic

Tw: Graphic depiction of assault. Trauma is shitty.

If you read nothing else, please take a moment to read the notes at the end. Much love ♥️

Disclaimer:

The first portion details a flashback dream sequence in Scully’s perspective. It is graphic. I felt it necessary to give space to what she *did* experience from the attack as well as what she probably would have experienced as aftermath- because trauma is a thing. It was not fun to write, it will not be fun to read- especially for anyone who has been assaulted or abused.

To skip that portion, move to the 2nd dashed line —————- and you can read only Mulder’s response to her.

Chapter 8: Facing It

—————————

God, it hurt.

Everything was a haze.

She couldn’t breathe, and the darkness was overtaking her, fueled by starved lungs.

Gasping, Scully tried to take in air. But… the pressure. Crushing weight over her body, on top of her throat, pressed out any hope of oxygen.

Her chest was burning. Through shadowed eyes, she saw a form over her. Shrouded.

Pressing.

Digging.

The searing pain in her chest grew more intense, and she tried to scream, but there was no sound. Her larynx was crushed by the shadowed being.

She clawed at its face as it tore her clothes and ripped into her body, pressing through skin, breaking through muscle tissue.

Stop.

It had to stop.

She ripped at the dark hood in a frenzy. Through her fading vision she saw a nose.

Keep ripping.

Teeth.

Keep clawing.

Eyes.

Keep fighting.

Padgett.

“But…. you’re… dead.” It choked out of her in a whisper.

Padgett’s face faded to the pale, chilled skin of the corpse she had inspected three days ago. He grinned at her with lifeless eyes as red spattered his sunken face.

“I am… in you…” The lips of the cadaver did not move. She felt his voice ringing inside her head.

She felt herself being torn.

Flayed open.

She ripped at his cold cheeks and kicked, refusing to let him win. His fingers wriggled between her ribs, tearing cartilage, snaking to her heart.

Reaching.

Clutching.

Scully screamed with every ounce of energy she had left, and managed a small shriek.

More pressure wrapped around her body, tightening.

She fought.

God?

Where was He?

She was dying alone.

The darkness was winning.

Suddenly the sound of the ocean shore was in her ears. Or blood rushing out of her?

She gasped and jolted awake, eyes wild.

———————————

“Shhhhhhhhhhh.” Mulder spoke softly into her ear, stroking her hair with his hand. Wrapped securely around her waist, his other arm held her close, protectively. The lumpy motel bed was soaked in her sweat. He could see the droplets on her upper lip, and on her forehead, some mingling with her ruddy hair in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

Scully’s breath steadied as she turned in to him, burrowing into his shoulder.

“A bad one?” He asked the question, but he knew the answer. She nodded against him, silent.

“Shhhhh. You’re okay, Scully,” he whispered. He hugged her to him, softly kissing the top of her crown. His fingers ran through her damp hair.

“No.” Her voice was muffled, her lips against his chest. She shook her head, moving her body away from his, pressing up onto her elbows, but refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m not okay…. And we both know it.” She looked down at the sweat-dampened sheets. Angry. Exhausted. Afraid of speaking, but unwilling to sink back into a sleep that promised nothing but fear and pain.

Mulder studied her quietly for a moment before sitting up alongside her, and she scrambled upright as well, unable to stay down on the bed with someone looming over her. Not even Mulder. Not right now.

She slid herself to the wood paneled headboard, pressing her back against it. Seeking something firm, something stable to ground herself. She felt his eyes watching her. Closing her own, she tilted her head back to the wall and let out a small sigh. She despised feeling weak. Especially around him.

The days with Mulder were good. Secure. Normal, by their standards, and steady. She treasured them, even this pathetic middle-of-nowhere ammonium nitrate fertilizer case.

But the nights.

The nights were hell.

Clearing her throat, Scully brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, folding her fingers together securely. She looked and found his deep, hazel eyes watching her. Caring. He was always so caring, she thought to herself. She found herself suddenly, irrationally angry. Caring didn’t help. It was nice. But it didn’t help, not really.

Or maybe she was projecting. Perhaps she was just finding a living human to single out, to pin down and blame for what was happening, since her real tormentor was dead. She didn’t know anymore. She felt muddled from exhaustion, and from all the emotions assaulting her in a constant barrage.

She squared her shoulders, holding his gaze. Willing herself to be collected. Strong. In control.

“Do you want to try to sleep?” Mulder offered hesitantly. Doubt was evident in his expression.

Scully shook her head slowly. “No, Mulder. I… don’t. I don’t know what I want right now.” She shrugged, offering a small, momentary smile. A thankful smile, she hoped, but it felt forced and exasperated.

He nodded. “Okay. It’s okay.” He shifted his weight on the rumpled comforter, as if he were going to move toward her, but he stopped abruptly. “We don’t have tea, Scully… but I can get you some water, maybe?”

“Yes, please.” She tilted her head at him. He was trying so hard to be what she needed right now. She was grateful for the attempt. “Thank you, Mulder.”

He smiled at this, seeming satisfied that his efforts were, at a minimum, acknowledged and appreciated. Even if they made no real difference in her situation. He retreated to the bathroom, plastic motel cup in hand.

Scully panned the dim motel room, with its faded floral wallpaper. Off white wicker chairs sat next to yellowed curtains, and the pea green carpet was dulled to an army camouflage streak where the foot traffic was heavy. But, Mulder’s bag, with a black sock hanging listlessly out of it, sat on the broken radiator beside her suitcase. And that simple fact made it feel more like home than her own apartment ever had. She dared to hope, for a brief moment, that this togetherness- minus her nightmares- could become their new normal.

Sighing, she rubbed her tired eyes. When she looked up, Mulder was standing next to her, hair tousled from sleep, she noticed, and water in hand. She drank it gladly. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, after sweating through her pajamas and into the sheets.

Instead of sitting next to her, Mulder retreated to the wicker chairs, facing her directly, but with a distance between them. Scully felt her stomach sink, in spite of herself.

“This… feels like an intervention,” she said flatly.

Mulder gave her an exaggerated pouty lip, feigning hurt. “You know me better than that, Scully.”

“I do know you, Mulder… and I’m scared of what you’re going to say next.”

Mulder nodded at this. “Fair. Would you rather I shut up, and we can go to sleep?”

Scully shook her head. “No. I can’t sleep.” She sighed, irritated at herself. She said no to him a lot lately. Not the half-playful, have irritated no of a doctor negating a crack pot theory… but a sad no. An angry no. A no that, if said too much, shuts a person down. That was the last thing she wanted to do to him. “I don’t want to sleep because… because… it’s not rest… Not right now.” She felt her eyes beginning to tingle with the pain of repressed tears. She was so tired. Of all of it.

“Hey. I know.” Mulder folded his hands and put his elbows on his knees, leaning toward her. He probably did know, Scully considered. Given that he was the man calming her at every nightmare. “I just wanted to ask,” he continued, “if you were ready to talk about it. If you wanted to.”

His eyes searched her for an honest answer. She knew she had to give him one.

“I… don’t want to,” Scully began slowly, looking down, processing her thoughts. “I don’t. But… I think maybe... For me, or for you. I don’t know… but… I’m not sleeping anymore… Not real sleep. I don’t know.” She looked up at him, feeling the tears beginning to flow.

“Okay,” he gave her a small, sad smile. “Listen. I know that in psychological treatment, one of the techniques to process, and take back your control, is to talk about it.” He looked down at his clasped hands. “It doesn’t make sense right now, I know. And I know you don’t want to, but you’ve studied enough to know it’s the truth. Even if it feels like it won’t help you. Laying it all out there, processing it, takes away the power it has on you. Normalizes it, for lack of a better word. It’s a part of your experience, I know. But it doesn’t define ‘who’ you are, Scully. You are not a victim. You’re stronger than that.” He looked up at her, his eyes searching her under anxious, furrowed brows. “And I don’t know much, but I do know that when you’ve dealt with something bad… Talking with a friend… helps.”

It hit her suddenly. Mulder knew more about trauma than she did. Not because of his education, but because of…

“Samantha,” Scully whispered.

Mulder gave a small nod, pressing his lips together. She knew it hurt him, still, to discuss it. And perhaps she would be the same, to an extent. But maybe, if there was someone she cared about to support her… she would still be alright.

“Are you sure you want to hear all of this?” She needed to know.

“Scully. I will do anything for you. I would punch Kersh in the face if you asked me to,” Mulder said seriously. Scully laughed through her tears.

“I don’t doubt that a bit, Mulder. You would punch him even if I didn’t ask.”

Mulder smiled. “True. Ya got me.” He paused, and his face sobered. “Scully, you’ve been here for me, for everything. For my search for my sister. For… for so much. Why wouldn’t I want to be here for you? It’s what we do.”

Scully nodded, smiling slightly at him. She knew he was right. They were for each other. Always.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Dana Scully had always prided herself on being autonomous. Competent. Controlled. She believed in God, science, and self, and had tried for so long to live a life of self sufficiency and strength… for herself, yes. And to prove herself to others. But as she looked at the open, compassionate face of the man before her, she felt herself turning all the more toward a desire to have his presence. His support. His partnership in all things.

And in the flimsy wicker motel chair, at 2:17 a.m., he was offering himself up to her for precisely all of those things.

So she poured herself out to him. Exhaustion in the early morning hours dampened her inhibitions, and Scully found herself detailing it all. It was a purging of bitterness, a fury of violation. Complete bewilderment that a man could be so selfish as to write into truth such abuse.

“It was like he was ‘in’ me, Mulder,” she said through bitter tears. “In my head. Making my brain say things that are not… not me.” Her reddened eyes fixed on his. It was a full confession of the truths written to life inside Padgett’s book. “And the dreams, they are the same. He is in there. In my head… I know he’s not, really, but he is. And I’m… I’m scared. That it won’t stop… I’m sure I sound crazy…” she looked down, embarrassed, utterly spent from the emotional deluge she had just produced.

Without a word, Mulder rose from the old wicker chair, which crackled and snapped at his movement. Scully heard his feet on the carpet, felt the old bed creak and slant as he sat down beside her. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her gently to his chest. She let her head rest on him, empty of tears, feeling a strange peace wash over her. A peace she didn’t think she would ever feel again.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mulder whispered. Softly, he kissed the top of her head, and let his lips stay there, stroking her auburn strands behind her ear.

She breathed him in. He was her security. The only one she trusted… and the only one she really wanted. Ever.

“I don’t know why,” she mumbled.

“Because, Scully. That was hard. Opening up is hard… Being controlled by someone is hard…” he kissed her head again. “I know it’s different, but when Modell was trying to control me, I thought I would lose you… But the truth is, we can take back our control. Listen. You are taking back your control.” He lifted her chin up to meet his gaze, offering her one of his beaming grins. “Every day will get easier. I’m so damn proud of you, Scully.”

“Thank you, Mulder.” Scully closed her eyes, aware that he had given most of his night to be up with her. Willingly.

“Ready for sleep?”

She paused, a low panic beginning to creep in. “I think so. If… if you hold me. Please.”

“Always, Scully.”

She smiled up at him. Sleepy, but heartfelt. Mulder stood to give her room to get comfortable, then lay beside her, wrapping himself around her protectively, obediently. She turned and buried herself into his chest, feeling secure, and loved, even if only as a dear friend.

For the first time in three days, the knot in Scully’s stomach was smaller. Sleep came easier, and she knew without question, it was all because of the man sleeping beside her.

————————-

Notes:

If you hated this but took away from it that talking about abuse and assault with a trusted person helps healing, then I call it a win.

“Mild” abuse is still abuse. Most of us will not experience what Scully did, not in such a violent manner, (and definitely not from a crazy writer and his invincible character) but some of us already have been abused or assaulted.

Your experience should not be weighed next to that of another. We can always justify that “someone has it worse”- but that does not negate your experience. It does not mean you should stay in a mentally, physically, or emotionally harmful space simply because your experience has not led to broken bones and skin. Your feelings are valid, and you deserve to feel whole. Whether it is a friend, a certified counselor, or a safe person at a shelter, there is ALWAYS someone willing and happy to listen and help. ♥️

You matter. Period.

—————

Post-Note Note:

This is part of a larger work that delves into ptsd after the physical and mental assault Scully experiences in “Milagro.”

[danascullysjournal]

If You Will Let Me

Post-Milagro X Files Fanfic

T+ (TW: autopsy, panic attacks, references to physical and sexual assault)

Chapter 2: Post Mortem

The warm, bright morning sun seemed exceedingly garish to Scully after the night she had just experienced. She had been utterly exhausted, but nightmare after nightmare had interrupted her rest. Shadows of someone in the doorway. Pressure on her body, holding her paralyzed. Searing pain inside her chest, while she lay helpless, unable to scream. Unable to move. She watched again and again as a hooded man loomed over her, stripping her of all power and autonomy. It might have mattered less, had the visions written by the writer not become reality. Now, though…

Shaking her head against the darkness, she downed the last of her extra cup of coffee, bracing for the day. It did not help that she had an autopsy scheduled first thing for a late Mr. Phillip Padgett. She had requested this, she chided herself. There was no one else she could blame for it. Except Padgett himself, she reasoned, but that served no purpose, because he was dead. Besides that, this would give her some… she puzzled. Closure? Is that what she was seeking?

Mr. Phillip Padgett’s corpse lay on the examination table, cold and unfeeling. The blood loss from his self-inflicted wound left him almost white, like a strange specter was housed inside his skin.

She had demanded to do the autopsy, just as she had demanded to accompany Mulder in the pursuit. A pursuit which had ended abruptly in the basement with Padgett’s body in a pool of blood. Seeing the writer dead, holding his own heart in his hand on the sooty concrete floor, had been less of a shock and more of a comfort.

She felt guilty for that. Never before had the death of a person given her such a sense of relief, and it made her feel ill at ease. Somehow, less human than she had been before. She had stared at him dumbly, her arms wrapped tightly around her small frame while Mulder called paramedics and set into motion the beginning of the end of Padgett. The calling of next of kin- there had been none. The transport to the morgue. The autopsy schedule. Only then had she spoken up, to take back her control and her place in their partnership. He dealt with the bizarre, and she with the bodies.

Yet now, standing next to the cadaver, adorned in lab coat and goggles, Dana Scully was keenly aware that her clinical, controlled demeanor was more difficult to maintain. He was dead, after all. Wasn’t he? She did not want to consider why, then, she still felt a chill when she looked at his face. Instead, she followed procedure, turned on the recorder, and began the autopsy.

“Victim is a Phillip Padgett, 32 year old male…” she studied the gaping hole in his chest, wreathed in the pale of chilled epidermis and the crusted, deep burgundy of his dried blood. “Apparent cause of death: self-inflicted… removal of heart.”

She could not stop herself from considering that this fate was exactly what he had planned for her. She swallowed hard, picked up her scalpel and continued.

His flesh cut under her skilled blade like every other cadaver she had examined, and with each slice, each organ, each measurement, she grew to be a bit more of herself. This was her profession. Measurable. Controlled. Messy, at times, but peaceful in that the outcomes were documented, usually expected, and always under her control.

She took the heart, which had been placed back into the body for storage in morgue refrigeration, and placed it on the scale for measurement.

“Heart. Weight, 10.3 ounces. Tissue appears healthy.” But it wasn’t, Scully thought. She felt a frown trace along her lips. His heart had not been healthy all. Yet somehow, she had been swayed by it anyway. It frightened her more than she dared to admit.

—————————————-

Mulder took his time organizing his thoughts, crunching a sunflower seed absently. He didn’t have the concise, analytical mind of his partner, but he had insisted on taking the field report. Insisted that, if she was to do the autopsy, he could at least help her with this and give her some time to relax after all she had experienced yesterday. He had expected her to balk at this, but instead she had held his gaze for only a moment before looking away, nodding in agreement.

So he sat dutifully in his office chair, glaring through wire rimmed glasses at his computer screen, doing his best to record each relevant detail, while filtering out what he knew he could not prove… which was quite a bit. All the loose ends that he had grown accustomed to somehow felt more frayed and tangled this time. Everything was clouded by this writer who had- somehow- written a killer to life, all while attempting to seduce his partner. His best friend. Mulder clenched his teeth unconsciously. He might not ever have a chance with Scully, really, but the thought of a guy like Padgett with her?

“And after all that, the guy tried to kill her,” Mulder muttered.

Typically, he tried not to wish ill on others. He had experienced enough of his own, so he resigned himself to process most things under the umbrella of duty and Truth, carrying them as his personal crosses. But this Padgett man- he despised. For several reasons. All Scully-related, and mostly, though he would never admit it openly, rooted in his protection and possession. She was his everything. Even if she didn’t know it.

She had been stiff, guarded, and strange since the incident yesterday, and Mulder knew Padgett was to blame. It didn’t take a behavioral profiler to know that. After completing the autopsy this morning, she had walked briskly into the basement office, planted the autopsy report on his desk, declared, “he’s dead,” and marched right back out. He had tried to call her several times, but each time it went to voicemail. Worry was taking over his thoughts now, despite himself. He knew she was a very capable agent, a fierce woman. A fighter. That’s part of what he admired about her. But this wasn’t his usual Scully. She was usually calm, collected, albeit brewing under the surface- usually toward him. Today, she was strained. Fragile.

He popped another seed in his mouth, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Picking up the phone again, he prepared to call once more, expecting to leave another voicemail but refusing to stop.

“Hello?” Her voice greeted him, and he grinned with surprise.

“Scully! It’s me. Where are you?” He paused a moment, unsure of how far to push his partner. She was not herself. “You just dropped the file here and bolted. Like I was a bad date or something.” A little self deprecation always lightened the mood, he reasoned. But not this time.

“Yeah…”

Mulder waited. She had more to say. She just needed time to formulate it.

“Look, I just…. I have a lot on my mind right now. And I need some time.” Her voice was distant. Mulder felt his stomach sink. Scully didn’t just ask for time. Not unless there was something very heavy weighing on her. Something, he was fairly certain, he could help her with if only she would allow him to.

“Is this about the case? I mean it is. I know it is.” He furrowed his brow, searching for the right thing, the thing his partner needed to hear. Whatever that was. “Scully I know that you just went through a lot. I can’t imagine.” He cleared his throat, chasing away the vision of her, bloody, unconscious, on the floor. “But I’m here. Okay? I am always here for you.”

“I know.” There was a small smile in her voice. “I know, Mulder, and thank you. And thanks for writing the report.”

“Of course. No problem.”

“I went to my cathedral. To think. And pray,” she offered. She knew he cared, and she didn’t want him to worry. “I’ll be fine.”

Mulder wondered if she believed those last three words. He wasn’t sure he did.

“Okay. Well I’m going to finish up the report. It’s almost done.” Well, sort of, he added silently. “Scully, if you need anything, just call me?”

“I will,” she said. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.” Scully hung up the phone, turning back to the cathedral. It towered over her, simultaneously ominous and welcoming. Biting her lip, she walked back up the steps and into the cavernous, monumental structure that stretched to the heavens, promising hope and connection. She had not been entirely truthful with her partner, and it nagged at her. Yes, she was at a cathedral. But not hers.

She walked slowly, deliberately past the faded red pews, enveloped in the scent of prayer candles, incense and history. She did not stop until she once again faced the painting of Christ, holding the burning heart of Mary Magdalene. She had been fascinated by this painting, the story behind it, the idea of love that pure. But now, it haunted her. Or rather, Padgett haunted her through it. Instead of studying it for beauty, artistic technique, or spiritual inspiration, Scully just stared. The questions and anger swirled in her brain, too abstract, too ephemeral to hold onto. So she stood, defiant, in a desperate attempt to stare them down.

———————————————

Notes:

Thank you for reading! This was a longer one, with a bit of morgue gore, so cheers to those of you with the stamina for it.

As previously stated, if you haven’t seen Milagro in awhile, it bears a revisit before this fic will make sense. As someone who has experienced mental and sexual abuse, the longer I dwell on this the angrier I am on Scully’s behalf. It will end hopeful, and with good feels, promise. But man. I never liked Padgett- but now I HATE HIM.

[starseneyes]

For anyone following me who might’ve missed how this grew and grew, I wanted to share.

Y’all, this is exactly what this post is about. I wrote a post, right? But then someone else took it and grew it and grew it.

And while a piece of me went with it, I was no longer driving the story—these beautiful folks were.

And that is just so, so beautiful.

I Carry You With Me

I knew going into my surgery that cadaver bone would be used to help support the shifts in my upper jaw. In fact, I surprised my surgeon’s office when we first discussed it.

"We’ll be doing a bone graft on the upper jaw." "Oh, where are you grafting it from?" "Oh, we won’t be using your bone." "Ah, dead tissue. Got it." "You really did do your research!"

13 days ago, I underwent the procedure. The plastic splint on my upper palate will come out in another five weeks or so. But the bone up there? That is now a part of me.

And now that it is in me, I realize I am carrying someone else with me for the rest of my life, someone who chose to donate pieces of themself to help others live. I will have a more fulfilled and healthier life because of them.

I will never know their name or their life story. Did they have children? How old were they when they died? Were they loved?

I don’t know if they chased their dreams, or if they were too afraid. Did they love to watch sunrises and sunsets, too? Or did we have absolutely nothing in common?

And now this selfless person who chose to be an organ and tissue donor has given me a better quality of life—one I would not have without them.

I will carry them with me the rest of my life. And I will hold gratitude in my heart for them, too.

And, yes, I am an organ donor! Maybe someday some part of me will help someone else. And that is a true gift.

[chronicallyblogged]

Tw: corpse

some food scraped the cadaver tissue and I accidentally swallowed it. Does this ethically make me a cannibal? I fucking hate this.