Eleven's Hour

The Day of the Doctor

They're real.

All of them.

REAL.

All of the things from my childhood, come to life.

The Daleks, Weeping Angels, Cybermen, even the Sontarans.

What is a seemingly a fantasy of British television is not quite the fantasy people expected.

They're real.

And how do I know?

I died at the hands of one.

CHAPTER 1

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The shrill, tinny sound of my alarm clock practically ruined my day before I could even get up. Without even hesitating, I slapped my hand across the snooze button. I closed my eyes and tried to savour the last few minutes of my dream.

That dream didn't last long. I heard my mother's voice calling from the kitchen.

"Henry! Get over here or you'll be late!"

I groaned loudly. I tried to get up, but failed miserably. I flopped back onto bed and burrowed myself in the covers.

Why would I even want to go to school? First period history practically ruins my day. All because of Mr. Vincent. All he does is point at a board with words in small font and drones on and on about events that I didn't really care about. It feels like he hands us a blank sheet of paper and tells us to ace the exams. He specifically hates me, and there seems to be no specific reason.

The rest of the school day is moderate, but I still decided not to make too much of an effort to go on time.

"HENRY GET OVER HERE!" screamed my mother.

"I'LL BE THERE IN A MOMENT!" I replied.

Groggily, I got up and slowly got ready for school.

When the bell rung, all of the students fled to their classrooms. All the populars went in crowds, the girls with more girls flaunting pink, the jocks, nerds, everyone. I don't really fit into a category. I am a ghost. Someone that's just there to take up space. Sure I have friends, but not 26,000 fake friends like the populars. A few real friends.

I shuffled into Mr. Vincent's classroom as slowly as possible with my head down.

"You're late," said a voice.

I looked up and saw that we had a substitute teacher. My spirits lifted a little bit.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir. It's annoying."

"Yes, sir."

He gave me a curious look and then looked back at his clipboard.

"Your name is?"

"Henry, sir."

He made a little note on his clipboard.

"My name is Mr. Smith. Welcome to history, everybody!

The class mumbled a hello. Everybody wasn't paying attention like they do whenever we have a sub. I started to doodle on a corner of my notebook.

I never payed too much attention to Mr. Smith. He was just some bloke in his early 30s with floppy brown hair. He was wearing a ridiculous tweed jacket with a bright red bow tie. Oddly enough, he looked familiar.

I am not the dullest person ever, so on the first day of school I strategically chose a window seat. I usually just doodled and stared out the window while Mr. Vincent talked in his monotonous voice.