Revenge Pt. 1

Mulder awoke in the deepest part of the night with a sense of foreboding so strong it was like a physical ache, jarring his bones and making his muscles throb with unreleased adrenaline.  He took several deep breaths, assuming that he had been awakened by some nightmare too horrible to remember; it had happened before.

Just as he found himself relaxing enough to drop his head back to the pillow, he heard a noise come from somewhere near the bedroom door.  He sat bolt upright again, peering vainly into the darkness, waiting for the sound to be repeated, and thinking …the television is off…  Then, more concerned: …my gun…  He heard nothing, and the very lack of sound unnerved him more.

"Who's there?"  He silently rebuked himself for the tremor he could hear in his voice, the uncharacteristic fear that made the question less of a demand and more of a plea.

No answer.

The blow came just as he had decided to get out of bed and turn on the lights, convinced that by dispelling the darkness, he could dispel his unease as well.  Psychologist-Mulder, the cool objective part of his mind, told him that he had been hit on the side of the head by a small wooden club of some sort, even as the panic hit and was quickly cut short by pain; he saw stars and fell forward, nearly tumbling off the bed. 

A hand curled into a fist in his hair and dragged him painfully back from the edge of the bed.  He struggled, but his sense of late night disorientation, coupled with the stunning blow to his head left his efforts ineffectual.

His assailant pushed him down on the bed on his stomach, released his head with a cruel yank that pulled hair from his scalp, then hoisted his arms behind his back so severely that he swore he could hear the tendons creak over his loud groan of protest.  He felt cold steel encircle one wrist, then the other.   Full-fledged terror set in at this, and he bucked at the weight on top of him like a wild stallion, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Another ringing crack to the side of his head cut him off in mid-shout, then the hand was back in his hair, pulling his head back, baring his throat, and he struggled even more, twisting his neck and arching his spine, all to no avail.

Another cry of fear and pain was smothered to a low moan as something large and round and vaguely rubber-tasting was forced into his mouth, stretching his lips until he felt them split, top and bottom, and warm blood trickled past the shape being wedged deep into his mouth.  He tried to push the invader out, but a leather strap was quickly fastened over his face, pressing hard against his hurt mouth and driving the item to the back of his mouth, just shy of his gag reflex.

A ball gag, Psychologist-Mulder maliciously informed him. Often used by an attacker not only to render the victim mute, but to increase the sense of violation and vulnerability

Even at this point, bound and gagged, he tried to escape.  Fear was like a great wet quilt, though, smothering his efforts as effectively as the body above him.

When he heard the sounds of a belt unclasping and a zipper opening, all reason left him, and he was reduced to mindless thrashing; a low keening noise issued from deep in his throat, and it was all he seemed capable of doing, even when his legs were rudely thrust apart.

Sudden pressure made him gasp, and his assailant's voice made him whimper.

"I could have made it easy for you, but I know you like it rough, don't you?"

Mulder recognized the voice.

Then there was a huge explosion of pain, centering on his anus and spreading outwards through his torso.  His sense of self spun wildly out of control, then began to spiral down, down, to the deepest center of himself, past the shock, the pain, the humiliation, down to a place that was dark and small, yet oddly comforting.  At the last, he heard what he though was a child's voice, thick with tears and cracking with anguish; "No, please, no…"

It was his own voice.

An eternity of pain followed, and when it was over, Krycek unfettered him and, pulling his pants back up, said, "Tell anyone, and you die.  Simple, huh?"

Mulder couldn't find the strength or sense to reply, and Krycek smirked contemptuously in the dark, pausing at the bedroom door before leaving to say, "Maybe we'll do it again sometime-hell, I've had worse. Chupa dura, amigo."

Tears trickled down Mulder's cheeks, and blood trickled down his thighs.  He struggled to turn over onto his back, trying to determine whether or not his insides were going to actually slide out of his body.  Tensing up his muscles brought about more pain, and he settled for curling up in a ball on his stomach.  His mind cast about desperately for any defense mechanism that it could find-he was a psychologist, for God's sake!  At last, he took the only recourse that seemed available to him in this situation, and, with an almost grateful sigh, completely passed out.
 

Wow, sucks to be him...What we need now is a hero-maybe in Pt.2-Six Weeks, Twelve Steps...