Beyond the Rift: Stasis
justprompts: What was the worst thing that happened to you last year?
He walks, sometimes, through the empty parts of the city, the parts few people willingly go - and if they do, it's not for long. Things move in the shadows, skittering away when he approaches, bright eyes reflecting from out of the darkness, but he hasn't been eaten yet, and what Charlie doesn't know can't hurt him, so he thinks he shouldn't have to worry that much. He follows the streets without conscious thought, trainers tracking over cracked asphalt and broken sidewalk by habit and some indefinable gravity.
He's made an art, over the course of his life, of never looking over his shoulder, but a year in the same place makes it impossible not to retrace the same paths every now and again.
Sometimes, though not often, he steps into an empty warehouse, where a madwoman used to live, where so many people died. The bloodstained floors, the soft flare and oscillation of Rift openings, the echoes of everything that ever happened here, every bit of it... reverberates, bruises the sore places that haven't quite healed and opens old wounds afresh, and maybe that's what he comes looking for, here.
There's a small bathroom painted rusty red with dried blood, and that is, on rare occasion, where he finds himself, standing in the doorway and staring at it like it's brand new, like the blood's still sticky on the floor. He wonders if this is what she intended, that he hurt and hurt and hurt and never quite heal, that she never quite leave him, and if that means she won after all.
Muse: Tenth Doctor
Word Count: 264
He walks, sometimes, through the empty parts of the city, the parts few people willingly go - and if they do, it's not for long. Things move in the shadows, skittering away when he approaches, bright eyes reflecting from out of the darkness, but he hasn't been eaten yet, and what Charlie doesn't know can't hurt him, so he thinks he shouldn't have to worry that much. He follows the streets without conscious thought, trainers tracking over cracked asphalt and broken sidewalk by habit and some indefinable gravity.
He's made an art, over the course of his life, of never looking over his shoulder, but a year in the same place makes it impossible not to retrace the same paths every now and again.
Sometimes, though not often, he steps into an empty warehouse, where a madwoman used to live, where so many people died. The bloodstained floors, the soft flare and oscillation of Rift openings, the echoes of everything that ever happened here, every bit of it... reverberates, bruises the sore places that haven't quite healed and opens old wounds afresh, and maybe that's what he comes looking for, here.
There's a small bathroom painted rusty red with dried blood, and that is, on rare occasion, where he finds himself, standing in the doorway and staring at it like it's brand new, like the blood's still sticky on the floor. He wonders if this is what she intended, that he hurt and hurt and hurt and never quite heal, that she never quite leave him, and if that means she won after all.
Muse: Tenth Doctor
Word Count: 264