(no subject)
COMM: creative_muses - "Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes." - Oscar Wilde
VERSE: canon
WORD COUNT: 339
You've been bested again.
It's always the Doctor who foils you, no matter what it is you do. It frustrates you to your core, it makes you loathe your own existence at times. You can make whole planets crumble, but one man can tear your carefully laid plans to shreds without so much as a moment's hesistation. That is something you can't wrap your mind around.
You smell of failure and that will not be tolerated. It's almost a bit of a ritual to you now, something you always do when you find yourself defeated. You slip into the bathroom and shed your clothes; you have to get rid of that sense of not good enough, of second best. It only takes a second to turn the water in the shower onto a hot setting - something beyond what you usually use. It'll burn your skin, but you'll live.
You give a hard, gasping inhale as you step under the stream. The water is scalding; you stand stiff and rigid to keep from leaping out from under it. The room is filled with steam in a handful of seconds, thin wisps of temperature caused fog. It takes a few minutes for you to adjust to the heat, and by then your skin is red and dull pain makes every moment strenuous.
You thrust your head under the water and gasp, then blindly reach out to grab a washcloth. You don't bother to lather it now, you just furiously scrub at your fingers, hands, arms. You just need to get rid of that sense of failure. It doesn't matter if it causes more pain, you need to put everything back in it's proper order.
It's not good enough; you slam your fist against one of the walls. "Damn," you curse, "damn, damn, damn." You hit the wall again, then a third time, before roughly turning off the water flow. Your lungs heave from the sudden lack of tactile stimulation; your nerves scream from the memory of heat.
You step out, dripping wet, and grab a towel.
VERSE: canon
WORD COUNT: 339
You've been bested again.
It's always the Doctor who foils you, no matter what it is you do. It frustrates you to your core, it makes you loathe your own existence at times. You can make whole planets crumble, but one man can tear your carefully laid plans to shreds without so much as a moment's hesistation. That is something you can't wrap your mind around.
You smell of failure and that will not be tolerated. It's almost a bit of a ritual to you now, something you always do when you find yourself defeated. You slip into the bathroom and shed your clothes; you have to get rid of that sense of not good enough, of second best. It only takes a second to turn the water in the shower onto a hot setting - something beyond what you usually use. It'll burn your skin, but you'll live.
You give a hard, gasping inhale as you step under the stream. The water is scalding; you stand stiff and rigid to keep from leaping out from under it. The room is filled with steam in a handful of seconds, thin wisps of temperature caused fog. It takes a few minutes for you to adjust to the heat, and by then your skin is red and dull pain makes every moment strenuous.
You thrust your head under the water and gasp, then blindly reach out to grab a washcloth. You don't bother to lather it now, you just furiously scrub at your fingers, hands, arms. You just need to get rid of that sense of failure. It doesn't matter if it causes more pain, you need to put everything back in it's proper order.
It's not good enough; you slam your fist against one of the walls. "Damn," you curse, "damn, damn, damn." You hit the wall again, then a third time, before roughly turning off the water flow. Your lungs heave from the sudden lack of tactile stimulation; your nerves scream from the memory of heat.
You step out, dripping wet, and grab a towel.