Disclaimer: Me no own. BBC not sue. OK?
I scream at night. I can't help it. In my dreams I see such terrible things. Death, blood, torture, enslavement. The smiling man.
I lived through it and that kind of thing leaves a mark. You can't just go back to normal. Except. . . everyone else did. To them, it never happened. But it did. I remember it. I know it.
My family don't know what to do. They can't understand why I became a basket case overnight, why I jump at the slightest thing, why the sight of a silver coloured football gives me a panic attack or a black-out.
I've seen a lot of psychiatrists and therapists. They don't help. They can't. One told my mother that I was suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder, apparently without having suffered trauma. Another compared me to a war survivor with shellshock. Maybe he was right. Because I survived. Everyone else didn't.
My mother keeps asking them to tell her how someone can go from normal and well adjusted to war-damaged and abused in the space of two minutes flat. None of them has the answer. A few had my brain scanned. They couldn't find anything.
I know I'm not crazy. I know it happened. I know why everyone can't remember. What I don't know is why I can remember it. I don't want to.
Eventually I leave home. It's too hard seeing my family every day when I know I saw them murdered in front of me. So I travel. I keep moving. I can't stop.
One day I see her. I'm in Cardiff, sitting on a low wall in Cardiff Bay. There she is, striding across the pavement with a man in a long blue coat, looking for all the world as if she's totally normal. In shock I cry out her name. "Martha Jones!"
I'm a normal enough person. I have weird dreams sometimes, but that's about it. Except for the amnesia. I'm missing a year of my life. According to my family I started acting weird one day and my records show me as having unexplained mental problems. But . . . I don't remember.
The last thing I remember is getting ready to watch the prime minister's speech. After that I wake up and it's a year later. I'm in a hospital in Cardiff of all places. There's a nice policewoman waiting to talk to me: P.C. Cooper. Or Williams. She hasn't decided yet.
She told me about my accident. I was on holiday, (in Cardiff? still not sure about that...) and I fell and hit my head. Not much damage luckily. A missing year, yes, but I still know who I am and how to talk, read and write. Could've been worse I suppose.
My family arrive to take me home. To my surprise, when I greet my mother with a smile, she looks shocked and bursts into tears. Guess she thought my accident was worse than it actually was. I dunno really.
I go home. I get told things that happened during the Year I Can't Remember. My memories never come back though.
In a very impressive looking secret base, three people were watching a family on a computer screen. The alien, the immortal and the doctor shared a look.
"Will it stick?" the doctor asked worridly
The immortal shrugged. "Not really sure. Retcon wasn't really designed for this sort of situation. I mean, he never should've remembered The Year in the first place. He wasn't on the Valiant."
The immortal paused, looking at his companions. "Was he?"
The alien shook his head. "Nah. He just has a very developed latent psychic synapse. Poor bloke. It'd normally be a big help in life. But it backfired on him 'cause of The Year rewinding."
The alien sighed regretfully. "I had to block it. Shame really."
The immortal looked at the alien curiously. "Psychic synapses? I thought humans wouldn't even start evolving them until the next millenium?"
The alien hmmed. "Technically yes" he confirmed. "But you'll always get someone who's ahead of their time."
The doctor looked irritated. "That's all very interesting boys" she said tartly. "But will he", she gestured to the screen, "be alright?"
The alien sighed again, sadly. "We've done our best Martha", he said to the doctor. "Now. . . we can but hope."
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