The Doctor's Regeneration

I knew it was coming.

The battle had finished. My companion had saved herself in one way or another, okay in some ways while in other ways scarred irreparably. That's how it works, yet they always stay with me, through till the end. But not now. This is the part where I'm alone. This is the part where I die.

I stood amongst the whirring knobs and twinkling buttons of the TARDIS, each of their functions clear to me the moment I laid my hand upon them. I did so now, caressing my dear gently. That's another thing: when the humans are gone she's always still there, with her handles and wires rattling, core glowing fluorescent light. She changed every time, like I did. We transformed together, in a way; our outward appearance changed yet our memories still lived. And oh yes, my memories still lived and thrived within the ever-expanding borders that make up a Time Lord's mind. We are meant to remember, and we do. When the Time Lords returned to reclaim Gallifrey, they remembered their pain. And they will remember me as I killed them, destroyed their last hope. But I know. They had their chance and it could not have been. The Time War was over. For good.

We were flying somewhere, though I didn't know where. On the street where I had said goodbye I simply stepped back into the TARDIS and she took me somewhere. She probably understood I wouldn't be getting out to see where she took me, at least not yet. In time, perhaps, my hands would grasp the rough wooden edge of the door, twist the warm metal handle, and fling open the portal into whatever lay ahead: new companions, new friends. A new life, perhaps.

The coat grazes my clenched fists as I realize that soon I'd need a clothing change. Over the years clothes have been synonymous with the rest of my body; if I had one type of face, I'd have one type of clothing. That'd certainly been true with this last face. He had a very particular style, very few alterations. Overall, I prefered it that way. Clothes can be so cumbersome, and if one would find themself in my position, I'm sure they'd agree that there are many more important things than the color of hat or tie. Still, I don't deny the intrigue of looking in the mirror for the first time and exploring the ins and outs of a brand new face. Sometimes I would wonder if I could pick a favorite face, but then I'd think better of it. It was silly to think about apperances at such a time, especially when in a moment all rational thought would leave my head.

I can almost hear my fabric of my mind ripping. I can't focus on anything. In a minute, I'll be absorbed with other thought. Like once I'm through with this process, where will I be? Not physically, like a location, but what will my mental state be? With all the thoughts and images of people and places I've seen jumbling around in my brain, it's difficult to make connections. At this point, shapes and colors are beginning to blend together. The edges of my vision are twinkling a little. That's the gold dust tinging my eyes. They're always the first to start feeling the change, though they're often the last to go. My hands will come next, then bit by bit my whole body will begin to dissolve. When I was a child I saw my grandfather regenerate and I was curious as to whether or not it hurt. Well, soon I found out that it did. It hurt a lot. But later, the pain lessened. Hopefully now it would just feel like a gentle throbbing lull, coursing up my body until it overtakes me and the moment arrives.

I've doubled over now onto the TARDIS. I can't last much longer. The fact that I've managed to hang on for as long as I have baffles me. Perhaps I'm getting stronger. Maybe, just maybe, I can heal. I can withstand this and in time I'll be good as new, ready to continue.

It's a ridiculous thought. The gold shimmers are reaching a bit further into my vision. Now the outline of TARDIS core is bathed in a beautiful yellow light. I'd imagine that somehow this process, as terrible as it feels, would look rather beautiful from the outside. Almost like a dying angel in a human religious text. I've often heard in the before times that Time Lords who found their way to earth were considered angels, and when they died, people honored them. What a lovely thought. A lovely thought indeed.

My fingers are aching from grasping onto the metal railings. My breathing is speeding up. I feel my feet wobbling, reaching toward the ground for help with balancing, but eventually giving up. I have to grab the TARDIS even harder just to withstand the sudden nausea. Outwardly I feel calm, but on the inside my mind is racing.

What is happening to me? I know what is happening to me. Why does my life always end in the same way: with me collapsing, alone, in my TARDIS, awaking the next day to the same set of mistakes but with a new perspective that somehow convinces me that I've got an upper hand. I never have the upperhand! With each new life I only drag myself deeper. All those people I've met, all those people who have relied on me for so long... if they could see me now. If they could see their great savior, gasping for air, pretending to be calm in the face of his death. How would they respond? Would they still believe in me after seeing me so weak? Why does it always have to end this? Why?

My eyes are clouding over. I look down at my hands. Sparkles of dust flicker on the tips of my fingers, slowly seeping down to my knuckles. I raise my hand, studying it in the dim light.

Now, I'm going to be gone. Now, my life will end. Now, a new man will take my place, and he'll gallavant off into the world causing trouble. And for what? Just to be killed and have to go through the whole process again! What is a hero worth if he is barely given time to prove himself? I've done so much, but I'm always cut short. Every time, I feel I'm almost there. I've almost accomplished something, something great. Something that in every life following mine I can look back upon and know that I've fulfilled my promise to myself, to the Time Lords, to humanity, and to the universe. Every time I wish, every time I get closer, and every time I end up here.

The gold is taking over me. The tiny sparkles have increased into shards. My eyesight has almost been completley washed out by the tunnel of vibrant light, growing brighter with every second. A dull ache has begun, rising up from my feet and oozing its way up to my brain. More pieces of my old life flutter away and dissipate into the stable TARDIS atmosphere. I can hear the voices fading. Their cries are fading into the golden rays, along with the faces and smells and feelings. They're all going away, in the few minutes that it takes to wipe out my body.

I can't go through with this! I don't know what to do! I could do so much more, I know I could, if I just had more time! For a second I wish for a higher being to stop this pain, to end this process that barres me every time from peace. What is the point of my life, if this is all it amounts to? My life is in this golden dust. I am just dust in the end.

The clothes are evaporating, along with my skin. Inside me I perceive the cutting pierce of heat bursting from my hearts, flooding my body, suffocating me, drowning me in myself. This is it. This is the end of me.

"I don't want to go!" I mutter. Then, the brilliant whiteness flashes through me and I'm gone.