May. 28th, 2008

onlysayinghello: ([dead] text - boy with the thorn)
There isn't a doubt in his mind that this is going to be horrific. The weight of the dirt keeps piling onto his chest heavier and heavier and each shovelful brings up the question again. Is this the breath I take? Is this the big gulp I need?

He doesn't need it, but the question is all the same. Even when he's drowning. When the water is flooding up against his sides and the space between the water line and his mouth is shrinking, the question pushes to the front of his mind. Is this the last breath to take before the flood? Do I hold it in now? Alive for so many years and he still can't remember that it doesn't matter what he does, it never really will because he'll just survive it again.

It doesn't change the fact that he knows this is going to be the worst of them all. The earthy smell floods his nostrils, the dull walls of the grave will just commit him to darkness eventually.

The final breath comes too quick for his liking. The dirt already weighing against his throat and chest, pressing with all that it has in it to leave him no room to take in the air he really believes he needs. It shifts despite him trying to stay still, spilling against his chin and mouth and against his nostrils once more. Shutting his eyes comes next and then the darkness.

It would be easier if this was the Darkness coming for him, but he knows all too well that sort of name isn't fitted for a shallow grave. This is just time passing for now.

It takes him twenty revivals to finally get his body to slow. He thought the panic would be easier to overcome, but after a year in chains, he's not fond of his body being unable to move. That weight of earth upon him though makes it impossible to move. The feeling of insects burrowing alongside of him expecting the rotted flesh, and the decay of clothing only to find him still living tissue no doubt is a disappointment.

He's disappointed too.

Each time he awakens the need to take in air comes and is stifled because he knows opening his mouth will simply flood it with more dirt. Each time he comes back he's forced back into stillness. His heart rate so slow that truly it's any wonder he can still hear it echo in his ears. His lungs barely able to expand to pull in the lack of air, now sit weakened by lack of use and no longer hold anything of worth at all. The thoughts he has are few and far between all of his mental capacities focused on simply not trying to live that he's pretty sure that if he makes it out of here, if John actually comes through, that he won't have to be heavily medicated just to cope with the presence of others around him.

Madness might set in, but the lack of oxygen to his brain is a bigger battle. Keeping that alive, keeping that the way it's meant to be seems nearly impossible. But he manages it because each time he's dragged back from death over shards of sharp glass and the broken bodies of those he never could have saved, he remembers not to open his mouth. He remembers what he has to do should he get out, and he remembers their faces.

Still he knows that time is passing out there without him once more, and despite knowing all the things he would've loved to see... he knows that at least this time he can't mess anything up.
onlysayinghello: ([reinette] never left)
Fade in, start the scene
Enter beautiful girl
But things are not what they seem
As we stand at the edge of the world

"Excuse me, sir,
But I have plans to die tonight
Oh, and you are directly in my way
And I bet you're gonna say it's not right"

My reply:
"Excuse me, miss
But do you have the slightest clue
Of exactly what you just said to me
And exactly who you're talking to?"

Seeing her on the screen didn't change anything. The woman who stood on the edge of the square and watched the people heading off to their lives only to at some point finish her coffee and head into the crowd where she honestly did seem to just vanish. The feeds did nothing to help him, and all he could do was stare agape at them when Toshiko finally ran the program and picked her out of history itself.

But she had died.

History had written it, and history had left her name emblazoned on it so that so many would know who she was, and what she'd done. History being so important, being so true and honest he had to actually stop to wonder how she'd done it. There was a slight doubt that it was really her, but honestly he'd seen so many things in the past year that for all he knew the Rift had opened and dropped history on his front steps.

Parts of his mind flickered to life, casting faded images upon his memories of things he thought were too surreal to actually be real. Phrases that clearly were of his own saying, but from times he never recalled ever actually being.

-- "This is never easy... it's a risk, and while I do adore taking the big ones with you... this isn't the same as hopping through time. This is rewriting it..." --

His fingers gripped to the edge of the monitor and his silent gesture begged for Tosh to run the feed back. The woman appeared and moved backward through the crowd, steam being pulled in from the air to the contents of her cup and then it would stop rewinding to jump for a moment and be played again.

"It's her? You're sure?"

"Well not really... but I mean does explain the painting we found Jack."

That was the other thing. The other thing he really couldn't explain. It wasn't ever easy to not explain what he was, or who he had been but his image showing up in a painting from a time when he was positive he'd never been to? That was near impossible.

Then again he was an impossible thing.

"I told you I don't even know what that is."

-- "Ladies... ladies... honestly I could give your artist here something far more interesting to paint if you'd allow me the freedom."

"Truly Jack, this shall be fine enough. Just please sit with us."

Shaking his head he ran his hand over his features for a moment, trying to focus on the image as it played back for him once more. The hand that ran over his nose and mouth moved to his forehead and then into his hair feeling it against his palm. None of it made sense, and the flashes of a life he'd never lived came more frequently, and he was actually starting to grow fearful that all of the traveling through time had ripped a hole in his timeline. That he was now seeping through all his years and his mind was soon going to be just one big ball of twine with all the events of his life tumbling atop the others.

"Run it back again."


"Run it back again."

It couldn't be her, not here... because he knew that she had died.

Not even the Doctor could've changed that, nor would he have... but part of Jack felt responsible for whatever this was. The memories he had that didn't seem to belong to him, felt like the earmarkings of a book that he'd forgotten he'd read.

Time was something he'd almost taken for granted having so much of it, that the time he lost... the years he knew were taken... it bothered him to believe there might be more out there he was unaware of.


onlysayinghello: (Default)

August 2010


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