Hot. Cold. Dry. Wet. He's screaming and he thinks he can feel a tear on the edge of an eyelash and it's all so real and he's alive.
No. No! He can't, he shouldn't! He has to go to sleep, because if he's this alive, this painfully full of adrenaline and terror and agony, he'll never rest again. Ever. Not once in eternity.
Hot for the blood that's in his ears and gushing through his veins and shooting through his hearts, keeping him alive at double the rate they normally do. Hot for the screams that are tearing him from inside. He's never screamed this loudly, this desperately, not in this Eleventh life. No! No! Please! Don't do this! Oh, help me.
Wet for the sweat that's plastering his hair to his forehead and wet for the spit that he can feel on his lips as he yells and for the tears, yes, that he can feel on his cheeks now.
Like this forever.
It freezes. He can feel it kicking in - his screams are stifled in his throat, and he can't breathe. He doesn't need to. His hearts aren't pumping anymore. But they don't stop the mind, do they? Oh, no. It's as active as it is when the tortured one enters, isn't it. And it will be forever.
I'll go mad, he realizes with cold hard certainty. Oh, oh, help. I'll go raving mad in here. If they let the mind move, well, it won't move to pleasant places.
A tear tickles as it slips down his cheek. It's not part of him, any more, so it's free to run. It's just a drop on his suspended skin.
Cold for the clamps 'round his wrists and the doors shut - as if he needs restraint when he can't move a millimetre. Cold for the air on his face. Cold for the hopelessness that's trapped in his lifeless body.
Dry because the tear has left his cheek, now. Dry because his eyes are glassy and empty now. Dry because that's what his mouth is. Dry.
He's so scared.
He realizes that. Everything, whole galaxies and planets just died. River. Rose. Amy. Rory. No! They're on earth. They're still safe.
Is it possible to relax when your muscles are all taut and your jaw is set and there's invisible pressure choking you and pressing you and squeezing you?
Yes. He breathes a mental sigh. River and Rose and everyone else he's ever loved, they're still here.
But for how much longer?
And will he ever, ever get out?
He stares at the walls of his prison.
He'll be staring at them forever.
He hates them already.
I'll go mad, he thinks again. Don't you think I don't know what's coming for me. Hate and blood and all that is going to boil and when it spills I'm going to break.
I run. I run and run and run and I can't any more. And now I have to look back. There's nothing left for me ahead, it's all behind me.
And I can't run anymore.
So, I was trying to decide whether I should publish this or not. I eventually thought - why not, right? I guess fanfictions are allowed to be pointless. The people I'm kind of worried about are the two awesome people who consistently read most of what I write. I've not been writing very great stuff recently, and I don't want to waste their time at all. So, shout out to Zoe Alice Latimer and Kel - if you're reading this - I'm really sorry if it wasn't that great. I have big plans for two huge chapter stories that I'm slowly developing and hope to be able to release into the wild soon(ish), so... I hope ... I can give you something better, soon. Right now I'm just kind of feeding the plot bunnies. Sorry again. :)
This author's note is getting longer than the story! I'll stop, but just say, thanks for reading, everyone! :D