oncoming_storms: Wrath
OOC: Why the Seventh Doctor's darkness (or should it be Darkness ©?) fascinates me so, I cannot say. But I am on a quest to continually explore it. And thus, this prompt was born. Nothing too violent, but maybe a little...disturbing? Unsettling? I'm sure I'm overestimating my abilities, but 'twas a noble effort, at least. Without further ado...
A sharp, pungent smell of antiseptic invaded the Doctor's olfactory senses as he neared the room; his steps echoed eerily in the corridor, a drum uncertain of the time it was keeping. The lighting was muted, a faint yellow, as though it were an ill sun. As he neared the room where Dr. Michaelson was being kept, the lights flickered, nearly conceding to shadow, reluctant to observe what it illuminated.
“It might be better not to watch,” the Doctor spoke to the tremulous incandescence, sighing heavily. He felt all of his long years in this moment, and cursed his perspicacity, which opened his hearts so completely to all manner of suffering; Death held itself so fervently to his fingers, supercilious as it begged to be borne again today. He would not give it the satisfaction. No, the Doctor had other plans for Dr. Michaelson; it was the only thing he imagined would be effective enough to make death consume every day of a man's life.
One lightbulb, tethered weakly to a wire dangling from the ceiling, rested above the man's stomach. It made slight movements now and again, pushed by the stale, oppressive air around it. This light was firm, certain, as though it knew exactly what the man had done, proclaiming he did not deserve the serenity shadows could grant. He had to see the blood on his hands, after all. The Doctor himself was rumpled, his clothes grimy, streaked with blood, peppered with ash. He had a wound on his side that would need tending, but all else would wait.
It would wait. This was his focus now, and it took precedence over all else. Even his own needs would not preclude this, what he felt he needed to do. The darkness in his eyes was errant at the moment, but the storm was incipient, approaching with unsettling calm. Eerily, he approached Dr. Michaelson, with his hands in his pockets, the unassuming expression on his face belying his pernicious intent. The man was injured himself, and only semi-lucid at the moment, though he turned his head at the sound of the Doctor approaching.
For a minute or two, the Doctor simply stood above the man, his hands positioned with a firm grip on the edges of the metallic gurney. He was cognizant of the fact that the longer he stood there, the more the man began to fidget as his level of consciousness improved. Still, the Doctor remained silent, contemplating the austere room with its dark corners, its lone bulb, and the man it was harboring, the man who had destroyed so many in mere seconds.
When at last the Doctor spoke, his voice was unyielding, void of clemency.
“Just the tip of your finger, wasn't it?” The Doctor queried, reaching for the physician's right hand and lifting it closer to the light. He turned it over to examine his fingers.
“Ah, this one,” the Doctor stated, brushing the fingernail of his thumb against the tip of the man's forefinger. “And you didn't hesitate. No pause, no second of indecision, no tremble.”
The Doctor set the man's hand back down, almost gently, before gripping the gurney again and leaning down so that his eyes were mere inches from the sweat and blood-stained face that would haunt his own dreams for weeks to come.
“You knew,” the Doctor sneered, “and yet you did it. You had no regard for the consequences, blinded by your hubris, your greed.”
A burst of fire invaded the Doctor's head, and he watched in his mind's eye as it curled expeditiously from one house to the next, like it was a serpent stalking prey, obliterating all life wherever it remained. He shut his eyes, backing away from the gurney for a moment as he turned to face the wall, his hands clenched tightly into fists as they hung at his side.
“You always destroy yourselves,” the Doctor spoke angrily, though his voice was imbued with an equal mixture of mourning, the closest he would come to eulogizing the dead. When he turned back around and approached the gurney once more, his eyes had changed, bereft of the pretense of affability. There was not a scintilla of mercy in his expression.
Before the Doctor could speak again, however, Dr. Michaelson leaned weakly on his elbow, a bemused and bewildered look on his face.
“I don't-I don't remember. I don't know-”
“Of course you don't! The universe granted you a small mercy that I refuse to perpetuate.”
“What--”
“I thought you were a man of science, that you would see reason. But you used that substance before it was tested. I warned you the combination of compounds might-and yet, with ignorance and delusions of grandeur, you did as you wanted, with no thought of who would endure the consequences. And now, here you are, with amnesia. Oh, things will right themselves, you'll regain your memories eventually. But not quickly enough.”
The Doctor's voice continued to fluctuate between soft and loud, raging and calm. But as he leaned down again, the soft tone held no compunction for what he was about to do. In fact, he was glad for it. Placing his thumb and middle finger on Michaelson's temples, the Doctor pressed against his skin, manipulating his mind and mending the imperfections.
“You took their lives. I'm returning your memories so you can remember their screams every second that you have been allowed to live,” he whispered.
The man began to writhe in pain as his mind was inundated with all the terrible images the Doctor had been struggling to reconcile for hours. At last, he let out a low, keening wail, and the Doctor removed his fingers. On a level far too close for comfort, he derived immense satisfaction from the pain so palpable on the scientist's face. It wasn't near enough to even rival the things the Doctor had witnessed, the screams he heard in his mind now, so entrenched that they would position themselves alongside the many symphonies of torment and suffering he had absorbed through the centuries. He was the sum of all his memories, and even worse, the sum of all the tragedies he had been unable to prevent. He so often gave life, and yet so often felt death. What was such a creature, then? A manifestation of the living dead, wasn't he? Because he never left behind these terrible things, never forgot them. He carried them inside, forever, so that he became them.
What was he?
What was he?
Dr. Michaelson's vocal moans of agony had faded to whimpers now. He looked intently at the Doctor, his eyes glazed over, and asked, with fear in his voice, “What are you? What are you? A god, a terrible god...”
What was he?
What am I?
He was a wanderer among ruins and ghosts.
“Far worse than that, I'm afraid,” was the Doctor's quiet, simple reply.
Michaelson was sweating and had begun to shiver, and the Doctor stood above him for a few moments, watching the man's eyes shut in a vain attempt to expunge the images. They were his to relive, now, and the Doctor had no pity for him. But as a testament to his enigmatic nature, the way he could conjure ruthlessness and effortlessly transition to some degree of sympathy, the Doctor reached for a blanket and draped it over the man, saying nothing.
“There are chambers in the depths of your heart, devoid of even the smallest beam of light, where things composed of unimaginable darkness dwell. We do not and cannot speak of these things, can hardly conceive of them, let alone entertain the thought we would be capable of allowing them to come from our own souls. If you find a way to live with these things, you'll have done better than me,” the Doctor spoke firmly.
Feeling he'd said and done what he needed to, the Doctor backed away from the gurney, pausing in the doorway on his way out of the room, “There will be people coming to look after you. I suggest you attempt to rest.”
He could have eased the man into unconsciousness, but that was a kindness he could not bring himself to bestow.
With that, the Doctor left, staggering wearily down the long corridor as he leaned on his brolly for support. The journey back up the hill was arduous, as he felt a great need for rest, to restore his physical and mental health. The survivors had set up camp in the only building left standing, and after he'd assured himself they were all taken care of for the night, the Doctor eagerly returned to his TARDIS. He hung his umbrella up, removed his coat and lifted his shirt to observe the wound still oozing slightly on his side. There was no danger of mortality looming, and though he knew it needed to be tended to, the Doctor was in desperate need of comfort. He was grateful not to have a companion at the moment, for human arms would not have been welcomed. He wouldn't have spoken of what he'd done, or wanted to speak of what had happened. But his TARDIS knew, as always, and he could feel her sorrowful hum in his hearts, briefly supplanting the pain. The lights dimmed, and the Doctor smiled in gratitude, sitting carefully down on the floor and resting against the console.
His sleep would be short and unsettled. He hadn't yet figured out how to sleep with those ghosts.
Muse: Seventh Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,572