Title: My End
Author: Eileen Whipple
Rating: PG
Classification: V/A
Keyword: Character death
Summary: Melissa's thoughts while in her coma.
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Chris Carter and 10-13. I'm borrowing 
them.
Notes: I sent this off to be marked for the Melissa Scully Studies for the 
XFU and I haven't gotten any response, so I'll put it on my web page. That's 
not against the rules, is it?

**My End**

So this is the end.
	I hardly remember what happened. I entered my sister's apartment, saw 
a flash, heard a bang. The darkness enveloped me despite the lights being out 
in Dana's apartment. It was a different darkness.
	The shot entered my temple and I fell. My eyes wouldn't open. My 
blood dripped onto the floor. I heard the men's voices as they left me to die. 
I was the wrong one. They wanted Dana killed.
	Now, I'm here, in a coma, on life support. I hear everything but I 
can't speak. I can't open my eyes.
	I hear my mother talking, whispering, a prayer in my ear. She thinks 
I'm strong enough to pull myself out of this but no matter how much I try, I 
can't.
	I don't hear Bill, or Charles, or Dana. So much for my family. I 
realise Dana probably wants to be here but can't be. Those men had been 
waiting for her. I understand her reasons. I always have although I haven't 
always agreed with them.
	I was here when Dana was in a coma and I wish she were here now. 
We've always been there for each other. What are sisters for?
	I've heard a man named Albert Hosteen in my room, saying that Dana 
was sorry she couldn't be here. That same man has been praying for me.
	My prayers were always unanswered. That's why I turned my back on God 
and Catholicism. I now pray in my head, to nobody in particular. I pray that 
my sister and brothers will show up, I pray for my mother because I want 
her to stop crying. My final prayer contradicts my beliefs. When Dana was on 
life support and not showing any signs of waking up or improvement, I said 
that machines helped continued lives that should end. I thought it was cruel 
to keep the dying alive, so they would suffer day after day, rather than die 
quickly, painlessly and with dignity. I want the doctors to keep me alive. I 
want to wake up, to see my family one more time. I know that will never 
happen. Since I'd been blasphemous and forsaken God, he's forsaken me as well. 
I guess that's only fair.
	Now, I wish I'd treated my family better, like when Dad died. I wish 
I'd gone to his funeral. Everybody probably thought I'd stayed away because 
of some deep-seated anger I held for him from my teenage years but it wasn't 
that. I just couldn't face that fact that he was gone, as if not going would 
turn back time.
	Or Dana. I treated her quite badly when we were young because Dad 
favoured her more. She did as she was told. She was a very intelligent young 
girl. I was smart as well but I let my social life get in the way of 
schoolwork.
	Once I began slacking off, Mom and Dad put their focus on the younger 
children, Dana and Charles, as they had not been spoiled much by the world. 
They still hadn't surrendered themselves to the life of experimenting with 
drugs and all the other evils, as I had. I envied them for that. They hadn't 
botched their futures because, like I once told Dana at Christmas a few years 
ago, they had chosen the paths they were on, just as I had chosen my own 
path, and it was a bad choice.
	This is where it's led me, to my deathbed, however not purposely. All 
I can do is wait. I don't want to die but I'm not afraid to. I'm actually 
looking forward to my next life. Perhaps I'll be with Dad there, as his 
sibling or his friend, and we can patch up our relationship that was scarred 
so many years ago.
	I now hear the doctor telling Mom that I will go into surgery and the 
doctors will try to repair the damage the bullet had done. I'll be in there 
soon. I hope I'll be okay.
	I've lost all track of time. I don't really think it's that important 
right now. It's the time that's passed that is important because I can't 
change it.
	I feel myself moving. I'm going to the operating room. I hear my mom. 
"Missy, I'll be waiting here for you when you get out." She's doing what the 
doctors told her to do; she keeps encouraging me, trying to give me enough 
love and caring to pull me out of this coma. I wish I could respond.
	The surgeons' voices are familiar because they were the same ones 
who'd removed the bullet. I am numb as they begin to operate. Time stops...
	The silence is shattered by voices calling out medical jargon only my 
sister would understand. All I catch is that my blood pressure's rising and 
they're losing me. I don't feel any pain.
	This is my end...
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