(no subject)
Ages ago, a whole other lifetime in the past, Sarah Jane Smith had two parents who loved her (she liked to think). They were tiny memories in her mind now, the fragments of a life she'd had and lost, all of five years old and standing up at the funeral in a plain black dress, her hair all mussed about, and her Aunt Lavinia telling her to be strong.
Sod strong.
Now.
Well, now, here was the problem. Every now and then, when Sarah Jane fell into the thickness of deep, dark sleep, the nightmares crawled from the shadows of every corner available and seemed to creep at her. Memories of the phone call, the first morning as an orphan, so terribly and horribly alone. It hurt to be abandoned and whether five or twenty-four, it didn't stop hurting.
Tonight, Sarah Jane had a nightmare.
She had retired early, having fallen asleep with a thick tome beside her; a translated copy of the Odyssey and she was alone, but sleep didn't come easily at all and the fire in her nightmares and the screeching of cars and the empty, lonely, horrid blackness haunted her, all her fears coming back threefold and she dreamt she was two hundred feet above it all, perilously hanging from a limb and watching her mother (whose eyes she sometimes recalled) and her father (who used to have smudges on his fingerpads from the paper) and she watched them stolen from her.
She never did ask the Doctor to bring her to see them.
Sarah woke with a start, sitting up and staring at a moonlit-wall, clutching her chest for air, breath shaky as she wiped tears from her cheeks, stupid, stupid tears. It felt too musty in the room, far too oppressive and she took up her overcoat, her fingers aching with arthritis as she used her own private exit and began to wander the paths of Tabula Rasa at night. Lost. Lost and alone and unable to shake the nightmare.
Sod strong.
Now.
Well, now, here was the problem. Every now and then, when Sarah Jane fell into the thickness of deep, dark sleep, the nightmares crawled from the shadows of every corner available and seemed to creep at her. Memories of the phone call, the first morning as an orphan, so terribly and horribly alone. It hurt to be abandoned and whether five or twenty-four, it didn't stop hurting.
Tonight, Sarah Jane had a nightmare.
She had retired early, having fallen asleep with a thick tome beside her; a translated copy of the Odyssey and she was alone, but sleep didn't come easily at all and the fire in her nightmares and the screeching of cars and the empty, lonely, horrid blackness haunted her, all her fears coming back threefold and she dreamt she was two hundred feet above it all, perilously hanging from a limb and watching her mother (whose eyes she sometimes recalled) and her father (who used to have smudges on his fingerpads from the paper) and she watched them stolen from her.
She never did ask the Doctor to bring her to see them.
Sarah woke with a start, sitting up and staring at a moonlit-wall, clutching her chest for air, breath shaky as she wiped tears from her cheeks, stupid, stupid tears. It felt too musty in the room, far too oppressive and she took up her overcoat, her fingers aching with arthritis as she used her own private exit and began to wander the paths of Tabula Rasa at night. Lost. Lost and alone and unable to shake the nightmare.