(no subject)

It's weird, Amy thinks. It's weird that it's not the fact that they all almost just died that's bothering her. It's also not the whole space-station-Indiana-Jones thing, and it's not the web of fine papercuts that sort of cover her left arm from where she'd stumbled, the one on her leg that's deeper but still not so bad. She doesn't care that she's hurt, and while she cares that other people are injured, that's not why she's moved sort of by herself, back from the fire enough that it's clear that she doesn't want to be bothered, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

It's because she's not thinking about those things, but of the tendrils of gold, the ones that slip through everything and just take, and that's not her mind anymore - it never happened, but it did, but it didn't, around and around, those things had never happened but she remembered, she remembered them happening, even though she couldn't remember any of it. It made her want to be sick, the crashing realities, the memory of Rory being taken, that she'd forgotten like he'd never existed. She knew that, but of course he'd always existed, but somehow it'd happened, somehow they'd ended up in France and seen Vincent and Rory hadn't been there and she remembered when other people didn't, she remembered Father Octavian just like everyone else, but she remembered Marco and Crispin and Phillip, and they'd been forgotten by everyone, eaten by that thing, pulled into nothingness and somehow it'd all happened and it hadn't and she thinks she's going mad. She stares into the fire because it's something, and it exists, and that's at least something she can be sure of.