TALES OF WHOUFFLE

35. Remember Me [2]

(Hello! So remember a while back when I wrote Remember Me [Oneshot number 23] and I ended up making a tonne of people cry? Well, here's the sequel one shot to it - GAH, I'm crying myself. Remember to listen to the song whilst reading and vote if you enjoyed.)

Clara Oswald's life was the definition of boring. One could simply glance at her life, no matter of their own suffering, and feel thankful. Of course, that wasn't Clara's fault, nor was it the fault of the people around her. Somehow, for a reason she couldn't put her finger on, she felt ... Different. Like a part of her had been extracted. Trouble was, she couldn't remember anything. Stupid, right?

It wasn't stupid at night. Every time she came home, completely exhausted after working, she would look out of her window and up at the sky. A wave of nostalgia washed through her every time she did, like déjà vu ...

And then she would feel a sharp pain in her head, as if her brain was straining to remember something. Why did she always bloody feel like this? It was obvious that she had never been to the goddamn moon or seen the goddamn stars from anywhere other than the Earth where she stood. And the scars. She had scars on her arm, as if a tight, metal grip had cut into her skin. She didn't even remember how she got them, and the one on her hand was beyond odd, also. Back to front letters, reading big friendly button. The things she must've got up to when she was drunk ... God, she needed help.

Of course, after that it was a simple routine. Shower, get dressed into pyjamas, brush teeth, read for a bit and then go to bed. And the same thing would always happen. As soon as her head hit her pillow, and she delved into a deep sleep, the same dream would always play over and over again, every night.

The room she stood in was dark and terrifying. Her arms were stinging, dripping with blood, and tears stained her cheeks. There was a piee of saturated cloth around her neck, which she believed, once served as a gag. Gross sobs erupted and surfaced, as if they were desperate to flee her body. She felt an unbelievable pain, not physically, but in her heart, in her soul. A heartbreak, she realised.

The man in front of her was handsome. He, she believed, had deep green eyes, now flooded with tears that dripped down his angular cheeks and sharp jaw. He wore something purple that she couldn't quite make out. For someone with such ridiculous fashion, he was beautiful. However, that was all she could point out, for the vision in her dream was blurred slightly, and his face was blocked out by a shining golden light behind him. She could make out no real detail about him, aside from a few vague outlines

She was crying harder than him. He was strong, she knew he was. Sobs shook and racked her whole body as she choked out and gasped for breath, unable to breathe from crying so hard.

"I love you, Doctor," she cried loudly and messily as she cupped his face tenderly.

"Quite right, too," he chuckled through his tears slightly, sniffling. "And I suppose ... If it's my last chance to say it ..." His strong, large hands moved towards her head and he pressed his thumbs against her temples, his fingers at the back of her head, almost like he was covering he ears soothingly. "Clara Oswald ..." The mysterious man leaned in and kissed her softly -

At that exact moment, Clara jolted awake, jerking upwards in her bed. Sweat coated her entire body, her breath was shaky and there was a slight wetness on her cheeks from crying in her sleep. It terrified her, and she didn't know why. It was only a dream. A foolish little dream. But it felt so real, everything about it. Like it wasn't a dream at all. It felt almost like a bad memory, a sickening memory that her brain was straining to remember, despite the pain it caused her. She had so many thoughts rushing through her head at that moment. If it was only a dream, why did she recognise the man so fondly? Why did the fading, old scars on her arms correspond with the fresh, stinging cuts in the dream?