Continuum (Doctor Who Fanfiction)

Chapter 1 - Intransigence

Dear Samuel,

            I’ve let the demons in.  I’ve sold my soul, I’m sorry.  This is not your fault.  Everything has seemed far too shattered.  Shattered; in my unrequited outlook, that word is vastly underutilized misused.  Yes, misused.  It could depict a fragmented mirror; functioning yet in shards.  Or, for instance, it could illustrate a person.  Or me.  You’re choice. 

Ever since the accident, I’ve been afraid to breathe.  Afraid of every little crick of the floorboards, afraid of those distant noises from across the street.  I can already feel the detachment driving a wedge between us.  Granted, there isn’t a great deal of detachment to embark on, seeing as we are all we have.  But I have deprived myself the consciousness of recognizing that detachment.  I refused, insensibly of course, to discern a flaw within our relationship, a fault in the titanium (or so I thought) bond I considered we shared.

Again, I’m sorry.  To you.  Not to me.  To be downright honest, I’m thrilled to be leaving.  I get to see Gran again.  Do you think she’ll be younger in heaven?  Oh and Papa!  I hope he’s still with Gran.  I’m getting ahead of myself here.  I still have to commit suicide first.  I love you Samuel and I bid you a long and happy life.  As Spock would say, Live Long and Prosper.

-Skylar

 

I held the cyanide capsules in my sweaty palm.  I stared at them with curiosity and disgust.  Swallow them.  The thought raced ephemerally through my mind, stirring up other ones.  I knew this would happen.  That’s why I had a gun placed on my desk.  For back-up just in case I froze.  My dark eyes flickered to the handgun; it sat so lonely on the desk, all alone.  If the cyanide pills wouldn’t kill me, that would.  I’d make sure of it. 

For three years, new waves of pain mottled in inimitable and sundry ways than the preceding ones.  The nightmares that plagued me while I slept forced me to wake up screaming, and to my astringent bolt from the blue, I still found myself alone, entangled and intertwined within my blankets.  The sadness that filled my everyday life was beginning to get too much to handle; I wanted out.

I felt purposeless, aimless, less than human.  Throughout the entire repercussion and aftermath, the prevailing side-effect of the accident was how alone I felt.  My single bedroom apartment seemed to echo, the sounds of the radio I blasted as not have to hear my own thoughts reverberating off of the walls that were crowded with disturbing and morbid paintings I’ve done over the years. 

I threw the cyanide pills against the walls.  They landed pointlessly onto the carpet.  I slowly edged my way to the desk, to the gun.  It sat, waiting.  It smiled a friendly smile at me.  It trusted me, I trusted it.  I reached my hand out, my long, pale, bony fingers stretching out.  The tip of my ring finger brushed the handle and it shocked me.  I immediately curled my hand back, tremors shooting up my forearm.  I knew if I was going to do this, it had to be sometime in the next several minutes.  I clenched my teeth together and grabbed hold of the gun.  It felt cold in my sweaty palm, like I was gripping ice.  Yet at the same time it burned.  It blackened the skin right off the inside of my hand. 

I closed my eyes.  I brought the gun up to my head, shoving the barrel into my temple.  I could hear it calling out to me, that one shot I’d have to make happen.  I could hear it echoing inside my skull, pleading to be heard.  Do I want to die in silence?  No.  Lowering the gun, I went over to my stereo.  Turning it on, the CD that had been previously played echoed throughout my room.  I cranked it up.  Loud enough to where it hurt my ear drums.  Loud enough to where I would receive numerous reiterated tirades from Mr. Reid, the elderly man who lived below me.

The songs of Rush damaged my ears as I prepared for death.  I brought the gun up to my temple once more.  I felt my finger toy with the trigger and just as I felt a surge of courage wash over me like a tidal wave, a thought struck down on me.  It hit me hard, right in the stomach.  I was going to die alone.  All alone.  Nobody there to coax me out of suicide and my haunting madness, nobody there to grieve over my fallen corpse that would bleed profusely from the bullet hole I’d soon make.

Nobody.  This thought upset me most of all.  Not the idea of dying, no.  Hell no.  All my life I’d been alone, so you’d think I’d be used to it by now.  But I wasn’t.  I wanted somebody there to hold by hand as I pulled the trigger.

As my eyes flashed around the room, they caught the mirror.  The side portrayal of me stared back at me.  Who would blink first?  Don’t blink.  I told myself.

My eyes roamed the mirror and I couldn’t escape the view of my face; ridiculously pale skin from so much time inside, long face, large, rounded nose, and neck-length light brown hair.  Curly.  Longer on one side.  Around four months ago I came to a conclusion that I needed to look different.  Mainly because my innovative facade reminded me so much of my teenage years.  So I cut my original butt-length hair and got a small nose stud.  Then I personally pierced my belly-button but had a professional stud my nose.  I then had my cousin, a certified tattoo artist, give me a series of black stars across my neck and ending behind my ear.  On my left arm are piano keys, a tribute to my grandmother, the best pianist who ever lived.  As a sort of "going-away" outfit, I donned a gray jumper, dark navy jeans, and my red trainers.  I even wore make-up.  Might as well look my best to die.

I turned away from the mirror.  I shut my eyes.  Now.  I thought to myself.  Now.  Dammit, now.  My finger throttled the trigger.

“Well, this isn’t Chronos.”

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Well, this is my second attempt at writing a Doctor Who fanfic.  The first died in my arms when my flash-drive had been utterly destroyed and burned from the inside out around 5 months ago.  But I hated it, so it's all good.  I should be uploading the next chapter possibly by tomorrow.  I am a diehard Whovian; this show deserves a spot on the shelf next to Sherlock (By the way, I'm writing a Fanfiction for that too, check my Works if you aren't already reading it).  Comment, vote, do whatever.

P.s. the photo off to the right is what I pictured Skylar as.  So you should too hopefully,

Sayonara.