TM Topic #166 - Do you believe in ghosts?
Mar. 2nd, 2007 04:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecricketerThe Doctor wasn't accustomed to unwanted dreams; he had a great deal of control over his psyche, and didn't tend to allow tragedy to interfere with his rest. He saw too much of it for that, and though he didn't need much sleep, he needed it to be effective. He always had to be at his best.
So when he first had the nightmare, he knew something was amiss; when it continued he grew quite concerned.
It manifested in several different ways, but always ended with one image - a small figure, cracked like glass yet with blood seeping steadily from his ruined skin. It was if he had been torn apart and carelessly put back together again.
He would stare with blank eyes and scream. Sometimes there were words, brimming with agony and accusation.
Then his voice would grow silent and pleading, and he would always say the same thing.
It hurts so much, please, please make it stop, please save me this time.
As the Doctor ran to him his as if through water, the boy's body began to disperse in a cloud of crimson that tasted of copper and salt. He would inhale it and awake, gasping, chest aching and eyes burning.
He would spend long hours in the library, dragging out dusty books of parapsychology from a number of different worlds and times. Nyssa knew somehow not to disturb him, and he was grateful - even more so when she simply raised an eyebrow as he performed complex calculations when walking through the corridors, or executed intricate tests in various rooms.
Nothing came of it. He grew frustrated, with himself, with the countless useless explanations.
Eventually he accepted that there would be no solutions, and that the answer was in his grasp the entire time, festering with neglect.
Some tragedies are far too personal to distance yourself from.
So when he first had the nightmare, he knew something was amiss; when it continued he grew quite concerned.
It manifested in several different ways, but always ended with one image - a small figure, cracked like glass yet with blood seeping steadily from his ruined skin. It was if he had been torn apart and carelessly put back together again.
He would stare with blank eyes and scream. Sometimes there were words, brimming with agony and accusation.
Then his voice would grow silent and pleading, and he would always say the same thing.
It hurts so much, please, please make it stop, please save me this time.
As the Doctor ran to him his as if through water, the boy's body began to disperse in a cloud of crimson that tasted of copper and salt. He would inhale it and awake, gasping, chest aching and eyes burning.
He would spend long hours in the library, dragging out dusty books of parapsychology from a number of different worlds and times. Nyssa knew somehow not to disturb him, and he was grateful - even more so when she simply raised an eyebrow as he performed complex calculations when walking through the corridors, or executed intricate tests in various rooms.
Nothing came of it. He grew frustrated, with himself, with the countless useless explanations.
Eventually he accepted that there would be no solutions, and that the answer was in his grasp the entire time, festering with neglect.
Some tragedies are far too personal to distance yourself from.
