TALES OF WHOUFFLE

28. Down

-Just a quick warning. Self harm is implied in this story. Not described, IMPLIED. But if you are sensitive, I'd advise you not to read. If you do read it, please listen to the video I've enclosed above whilst reading. You make my day, with all your lovely feedback about my absolutely awful oneshots. I see those lovely comments, and they make me the happiest person I could be. Love you all xxx.

I shot for the sky
I'm stuck on the ground
So why do I try, I know I'm gonna fall down
I thought I could fly, so why did I drown?
Never know why it's coming down, down, down.

Her footsteps echoed through the corridors, a metallic click pinging through her ears with every step she took. Her vision fogged, dark brown eyes filling with tears. She tried not to, she did, but one single small tear changed that, dropping onto her rosy cheek. She wiped it fiercely away, mustering up all her strength to contain her emotions. It was no use.

As soon as the first tear was spilled, more soon followed, until she was on her knees on the cold metal floor of a bathroom, somewhere in the small blue box that she had found herself in every Wednesday.

Stupid, she thought to herself. You stupid, useless excuse of a human. Pathetic. Crying, you can't even stop yourself from crying?  Weak, emotional - can't you do anything right?

She felt powerless, unable to stop the salty droplets seeping from her eyes. Her hands served as a way to cover her face, though no one was around.

Look in the mirror, a little voice whispered inside her head. Go on, look into it.

Despite her uncertainty, her legs straightened, standing up. Her foggy gaze fell to a mirror above the sink, she did not like what she saw. Her stomach lurched when she saw her reflection before her.

Black streaks stained her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy and red. The locks of brown hair on her head fell onto her shoulders, she hated it. Her body turned 90 degrees, she observed her stomach. It didn't stick out, but it wasn't good enough.

Look at you, the voice sneered. You're fat. You're ugly. No one could ever love you. The Doctor? He hates you. You're a burden to him. Ha, the impossible girl. The impossibly awful girl. Are you seeing yourself right now? Just give up. He'll never love you. No one will.

"That's not true," she said out loud. "He - he -"

You think your special because he showed you a few planets? Are you forgetting the others? He's got pictures of them all - you've seen them. Look at them, and look at you. You are nothing compared to them. He was better without you, happier.

She pressed her hands to her temples, pulling her hair slightly. "Get out of my head!"

You'll see it, too. You'll see how ugly you are. Soon, you will.

"Go away!"

You can't get rid of me, Clara. I'm you. These words? They're what you think of yourself. I'm always here.

"Stop!"

Look in the cabinet, Clara. Look what's inside.

She reluctantly opened it slowly, peeking inside. There was an assortment of items in there, from soaps to sponges and body washes to toothbrushes. Her eyes searched like a hawk until she found them.

Razors.

Pick it up, Clara. See how pretty they are? So sharp you won't feel a thing...

_______________________________________________________________________

"Clara," the Doctor sighed to himself, wandering the corridors to find his companion. The TARDIS had gave him directions to where she was. "How do I tell her? A letter? Victorian flower language? Spell it out in her alphabet soup? No, that's hardly romantic... I'll tell her. Yes, that's what I'll do. Tell her how I really feel." He spun around on the spot, coat flying around him as he proclaimed enthusiastically, "Oh, Clara Oswin Oswald! You beautiful, funny, clever thing-" The breath caught in his throat when he saw her, lying fully clothed in the full bathtub, head lolled backwards and arms hanging over the edge. He noticed the blood dripping slowly from his wrists.

He didn't need to think twice as he rushed to her side, scooping her out of the bath and into his arms, cross-legged on the floor. She was cold, so cold, like ice. He wrapped her in his purple coat, cradling her softly to his chest, rocking back and forth slowly.

Not her.

Not my Clara.

"Clara..." He choked, pressing soft, sad kisses to her hair, cheeks damp with his own tears. His hearts were being crushed, looking at her like this. He'd never, never recover if he lost her. "Wake up. It's me. P-please, Clara. Wake up. Wake up!" Gold specks of light and dust drifted from his fingertips and surrounded Clara, seeping into her slowly.

Almost by chance, he felt her soft, shallow breath against his neck. Her cuts were gone, though the blood still remained, and she let out a quiet sob.

"Don't ever do that to me again," He sighed with relieve, kissing her forehead. "I thought I lost you."

She looked up at him, and in that instant she saw it. The pain of over a thousand years, the pain of lost loves, lost friends, lost family; all inside his big, sad eyes.

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm so, so sorry." She cried.

His gentle, velvet lips met hers, he kissed her, not with lust, or passion, but love. Unconditional, irrevocable love.

"My Clara. Always brave, always funny. Always exactly what I need. I love you."