Breathe, just breathe. In and out, exhale, god just breathe – not that you need to. You've got a double bypass system. But still you do it to please her, to let her know that she's not that different from you after all. You can't stop now. Breathe, just breathe. You can't forget, you made it so it was programmed into you! You can't forget, you just can't. Please breathe pleasepleasepleaseplease.
"Rose." you whisper brokenly. Your hearts breaking, but unlike hers, at least they're beating.
You crawl forward, you hands pushing down onto broken glass, tearing your skin - your knees follow, scrapping against the road. You're crawling to a big pool of blood. Too many, too many cuts. Stop, please stop, and don't bleed. Don't, just don't. Don'tdon'tdon't.
Your hand reaches her first and she's cold. She shouldn't be cold, don't be cold, I'll keep you warm. You pull yourself up into a sitting position and reach and pull her to you. You rock her. "Wake up." You silently pray – pray to god who you don't even believe in.
Your hand slides down and rest on her stomach. Kick, please kick. You choke on the sob that makes its escape and you're not sure you own hearts are beating anymore. "Rose, wake up!" You're yelling now, and you look up and you see people are watching you. "Help me! Help her!" But they don't move they just stand there, they just stand there and watch.
How can they just watch you slowly die? Can't they save you from this?
Can anyone? But they can't. They're humans. Call Torchwood or Martha. But they're not. Just watching you slowly die.
Can you not go back 30 minutes to when you were holding her hand as you drove back? It was your idea to drive. A way of showing her that you are domestic. It was your fault as you drove back from the restaurant where you had just had a baby shower, for your daughter.
Your daughter. Two months until you hold her in your arms...two months until you would have held her in your arms. You would have called her Donna. Donna Rose. After your best friend and the baby's beautiful mother.
Closing your eyes you see her. She's walking into the light, away from you. You're loosing her again.
"Don't leave me."
She already has. They already have.
He's a husband and a father without a wife or a daughter.
There are people by him now, trying to take Rose away from him, but he won't let go – he won't let them take her away from him again. She belongs to him; she's the mother of his baby. His baby girl, they have the nursery painted yellow.
Rose will never call out his name or he hers. It'll be a void of sound. Silence, silent, quiet. Deafening.
She's not in his arms anymore. They feel empty, so does his hearts. He hears them zip something and he looks round and the zip passes Rose's stomach (Donna) and past Rose's face. He's staring at a black bag. She's in a black back, get her out of there, get her out! Now! But they're not listening to him, because he's screaming it inside his head. The tears roll down and over his cheeks and he watches as they lift her and carry her away.
He just sits, he's numb. Someone's trying to tend to his cuts (his only injuries) but they don't realize that they'll heal them selves. He falls to his side and heaves, his stomach now as empty as his hearts.
"Bring her back." His voice is hoarse and he's trying to get to his feet but he can't find the energy. I need her back, she keeps me alive. Bring her back! "I need my family!" but they're gone. You're alone. You're always alone – Sara Jane was wrong. He'll never be able to have a family, he can't. Time won't let him.
His eyes slide close against his will and he sees her face. He tries to fight to open them, but he's exhausted and looses that battle.
He sees her face the entire night, and the blood continues to flow. He's almost drowning in it in the morning, but then his eyes snap open.
He's not in on the road anymore.
He hears laughing, he knows that laugh.
She's not bleeding. She turns to him and she smiles. "Are you ready to go?"
"Home. The TARDIS."
They're in the restaurant, and she's not bleeding. His hand reaches out and lands on her stomach, Donna kicks. Her heart's beating. "Donna?"
"Are you really here?" He felt her die, how can she be standing in front of him, two months away from letting him hold their daughter in his arms?
"Of course I am," she tells him with a smile, reaching out her hand and taking his. She's warm. "Where else would I be?"
He doesn't want to think about that.
He pulls her onto his lap and kisses her, tastes her. Imprints another memory of their life into his memory.
"You fell asleep." She lets him know with a smirk. "You looked cute. Were you dreaming? You didn't look peaceful."
A dream? A nightmare.
This was what that was? Only a nightmare? It felt too real.
His hands tightened around her and held her. They sat there for a while, quiet. They were the last too leave, he remembered in the nightmare they were the first too leave. "Let's go home."
She stood, and pulled him up and into her, kissing him like she always did. "I love you."
"I love you too Rose."
She grinned and rested their hands on her stomach. "You make my heart beat."
"Funny that, you make my hearts beat as well."
They got into their car and drove. He held her hand, tight, afraid to let her go.
It all felt familiar. Too familiar.
There was flashing lights at the crossroads ahead and he slowed to a stop like the people in front of him.
He could see her lying there, bleeding – this was where it had happened, where his hear was breaking and hers had stopped beating.
He turned his head and looked at her. She was right there, she wasn't lying bleeding. "Guess there was an accident."
"I hope no one got hurt."
"Everyone's fine." You smile to yourself, letting her vanilla shampoo over whelm your sensitive nose. She's really here, alive, breathing. You drive home that night and hold her as tight as possible, never letting go. For you fear that if you do, time will wisp her away from you once again.