The Secret Pretend Journals and Strange Adventures of the Mysterious Doctor Whom
…is the title of the book I will be writing this year.
I called you to torture myself.
The message on the other line says that you’re currently unavailable, and I almost have to laugh at how sickeningly true that is.
Mister Lonely.
“Does it disturb you, Doctor… to know that you are alone in this universe..?”
The man… the greatest man in history looked away… trying with everything to conjure an answer. A simple “yes” or “no” would suffice; if, of course, he knew which one was the truth. But after an incredibly uncomfortable thirteen seconds, he had to look her in the eye again, and release a small sigh, “I’m not alone.” he tried. Perhaps it was folly. But perhaps there was a faint glimmer of hope that it was fact.
”Seems to me you are.”
“And how’s that?”
“…the last of the Time Lords. Quite a title you’ve earned, there.”
“Title’s just a title… I’m the Doctor. You’re the Captain.” he shrugged, pacing to fill the void that their conversation could not, “It’s what we do. Doesn’t define us.”
She raised an eyebrow, “Not me, perhaps… but you…”
“…me…” he looked away again, just past her this time, out the window of the vessel and into the star stuff beyond it, “Me, I haven’t got a doctorate. I’m no certified medic. I’m just a man in a box, making his way about the universe.”
“The last…” she reminded him, “…of the Time Lords.” The Doctor made an attempt to look casual, and unmarred, but she continued. “The last of anything is alone. The last. The only. The sole survivor…”
fit.
Sickness welling in her stomach, a scream made its way up her throat as the phone left Xana’s hand, slamming against the wall. She clenched her fists, kicking at a still packed box from her recent move with all her might and rerunning the conversation in her head, over, and over…
“I HATE YOU!” she cried out to the great No One, heart beginning to pound at an outstanding rate, “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!”
The box toppled over, and she tore over it, reaching for the next innocent inanimate object; a half-empty pack of cigarettes. This went against the wall after her phone, and her outbursts simmered into mush, her body going numb, and then limp… the young woman shook her head quickly, trying to keep herself angry…
His face.
His eyes.
His voice.
“I FUCKING HATE YOU…” she choked, looking up as she fell to the floor…
Why?
Why do you have to shoot me down on every level? You need to think I’m an attention whore. You force my accomplishments down. You knock over every inch of pride I do muster… why..?
Maybe that’s not it.
I feel sick. Is it nerves? I can fake who I am when I’m around her in public, but… living together, will I be able to hold that same composure? I… my dad leaves for Afghanistan again in an hour. Maybe this has nothing to do with moving. I just want a hug… I want to be ME and not care if anyone else is around. I… wish I was in Huntsville. I need to write. Computer’s unplugged. Notebooks are packed. Brain is a mess…
Moving day…
I’m excited. I guess. I’m just worried. I never realized the possible identity stiflization that I would have to go through when I moved in with a roommate. I worry about my stuffed animals, my geeky decorations, burning insence and oil, singing in the shower, my mental health times of silent writing, my music (from Atreyu to Vas), and… my cat. The new roomie’s allergic, and I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I have to get rid of October. I’m misty just thinking about it now…
