[oncoming_storms] - No regrets
The girl sleeps.
It has been too long since she's rested, you know. Twenty-six hours, seventeen minutes, forty-eight seconds, in fact. You have counted each, tracked the passage of time as she sobs into her pillows. You have done what you can to comfort her, to ease her tired body and even more exhausted mind. Her response was largely negative, but you expected as much from one of your own. She's too much spirit to allow another to bring her such comfort.
But you are stubborn and do not stop, even when she's no longer aware of what you do.
Now she sleeps and you watch her in the quiet moments, monitoring her heart rhythms, blood pressure, temperature, the measure of her breathing and the activity in her mind. All is well, all is quiet, empty and drained as her body. Empty as her heart.
That is what hurts most, you realise. All the vigour and life she once had, all the fight and anger and personality, so much like your own ... it is all locked away, now, buried and stamped to dust. It could not save her, could not protect her, and so she has no use for it. What had once saved her from being small and frightened and broken has now left her barren and lost and torn.
It's the reason you do not regret your actions, do not regret attacking that which she was unable to. That which harms what is yours deserves no less.
But killing the creature does not restore her soul and so you watch and you wait. The ghost of a hand brushes across her cheek and she mumbles in her shallow sleep, cringing away from the touch. She has never flinched away from you before; she has never mistaken your touch for anything other than yourself.
Perhaps her dreams are nightmares and your touch the monsters therein. You cannot know, because you cannot see her dreams, but it's enough to guess, to wonder.
Either way, you never leave her, remaining with her until she wakes fitfully. You brush against her and she shivers, drawing the covers closer, and for the first time you pull away. She has never shuddered at your presence before, has never cringed at your touch.
Perhaps her waking hours are nightmares and your touch the monsters closing in. But you can live with that, because at least this monsters will protect her from those which would bring her harm.
You regret nothing and go back to watching, counting the minutes, the hours and the beats of her heart, the ghost of a hand waiting always to catch her when her tired body again needs rest.
Muse: The TARDIS
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 442
Prompt: There but for the grace of God go I.
It has been too long since she's rested, you know. Twenty-six hours, seventeen minutes, forty-eight seconds, in fact. You have counted each, tracked the passage of time as she sobs into her pillows. You have done what you can to comfort her, to ease her tired body and even more exhausted mind. Her response was largely negative, but you expected as much from one of your own. She's too much spirit to allow another to bring her such comfort.
But you are stubborn and do not stop, even when she's no longer aware of what you do.
Now she sleeps and you watch her in the quiet moments, monitoring her heart rhythms, blood pressure, temperature, the measure of her breathing and the activity in her mind. All is well, all is quiet, empty and drained as her body. Empty as her heart.
That is what hurts most, you realise. All the vigour and life she once had, all the fight and anger and personality, so much like your own ... it is all locked away, now, buried and stamped to dust. It could not save her, could not protect her, and so she has no use for it. What had once saved her from being small and frightened and broken has now left her barren and lost and torn.
It's the reason you do not regret your actions, do not regret attacking that which she was unable to. That which harms what is yours deserves no less.
But killing the creature does not restore her soul and so you watch and you wait. The ghost of a hand brushes across her cheek and she mumbles in her shallow sleep, cringing away from the touch. She has never flinched away from you before; she has never mistaken your touch for anything other than yourself.
Perhaps her dreams are nightmares and your touch the monsters therein. You cannot know, because you cannot see her dreams, but it's enough to guess, to wonder.
Either way, you never leave her, remaining with her until she wakes fitfully. You brush against her and she shivers, drawing the covers closer, and for the first time you pull away. She has never shuddered at your presence before, has never cringed at your touch.
Perhaps her waking hours are nightmares and your touch the monsters closing in. But you can live with that, because at least this monsters will protect her from those which would bring her harm.
You regret nothing and go back to watching, counting the minutes, the hours and the beats of her heart, the ghost of a hand waiting always to catch her when her tired body again needs rest.
Muse: The TARDIS
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 442
Prompt: There but for the grace of God go I.