[TM] 224 - Mad.
Apr. 4th, 2008 10:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onlysayinghelloThey've got to be mad he's thinking, mad or possibly just drunk. Though if they were drunk he might've faired a bit better with the lot of them, and he was pretty sure he was drunk. Well he had been.
Drunk that is.
Before.
Before they had strapped him into the chair and began running voltage through him.
Clearly he wished he was still drunk now.
Still they've got to be mad, he's thinking. What sort of person... what special type of woman does this sort of thing...
Well... this sort of thing out of actually wanting to cause pain and death in someone.
The pain is there too. Death with all of it's intricate little details hurts more than most would care to know. It hurts though only because each time he comes back, each time he pulls that air into his lungs knowing that the world hasn't stopped him yet... it hurts. It's raking across his underside and poking at him like shards of broken glass laid out beneath a thick layer of skin that doesn't fit.
It shouldn't fit.
What with all the broken glass grinding beneath it.
"Who's the Doctor? Here ... you've said it at the bar, 'The Doctor will know.' 'The Doctor will fix me.' Who is he?"
Oh... now he knows he's mad. Mad enough to stick to a single town without much thought as to who or what he's been talking to. It's never easy containing the secrets of a man from the fifty first century trapped in a time when hygiene isn't exactly a common denominator among the people. He's mad for even thinking that what these women do is actually research, and actually has a point.
Of course he's just been killed at least a dozen times now, and they still can't figure it out.
Then again neither can he.
So really he has to wonder... just how mad is he... to let them continue this. How mad is he... at himself to think that he deserves this.
This... never ending death.
Drunk that is.
Before.
Before they had strapped him into the chair and began running voltage through him.
Clearly he wished he was still drunk now.
Still they've got to be mad, he's thinking. What sort of person... what special type of woman does this sort of thing...
Well... this sort of thing out of actually wanting to cause pain and death in someone.
The pain is there too. Death with all of it's intricate little details hurts more than most would care to know. It hurts though only because each time he comes back, each time he pulls that air into his lungs knowing that the world hasn't stopped him yet... it hurts. It's raking across his underside and poking at him like shards of broken glass laid out beneath a thick layer of skin that doesn't fit.
It shouldn't fit.
What with all the broken glass grinding beneath it.
"Who's the Doctor? Here ... you've said it at the bar, 'The Doctor will know.' 'The Doctor will fix me.' Who is he?"
Oh... now he knows he's mad. Mad enough to stick to a single town without much thought as to who or what he's been talking to. It's never easy containing the secrets of a man from the fifty first century trapped in a time when hygiene isn't exactly a common denominator among the people. He's mad for even thinking that what these women do is actually research, and actually has a point.
Of course he's just been killed at least a dozen times now, and they still can't figure it out.
Then again neither can he.
So really he has to wonder... just how mad is he... to let them continue this. How mad is he... at himself to think that he deserves this.
This... never ending death.
