June 20, 2012: 8:14pm
Jun. 21st, 2012 04:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
girl_who_waitedAmy.
She can't deal - it's been three days of it, every window and spoon and mirror brings the same thing. Amy.. Her communicator before the screen comes to life. She'd been freaking out, albeit quietly, since the temple. Since she stared into the mirror and saw the nothing coming for her, since there was the crack that ate everything, that wasn't supposed to exist, that didn't make sense in her memories. Ever since she'd lived a life where her parents and her husband and her life didn't get sucked into a crack in the wall, she'd only barely thought about it, but there it was, front and center, the Things That Never Happened.
And it's not that she's so much afraid of the crack reappearing, even though she thinks she sees it out of the corner of her eyes, it's that it shouldn't exist, shouldn't ever exist. That life's gone. So she tried to not think about it, but when she comes home, it starts some ten or fifteen hours later.
Amy.
Every time she sees herself, every time she catches her own eye in the mirror, in the shower glass, in the chrome of a doorknob. It's not constant, it's only once when she sees it, but sometimes it drips and sometimes it flurries and she can't not notice how many reflections there are. Her room's mostly safe but for the mirror - she keeps her door open usually, and there's a big patch of drawings on one wall - drawings on cocktail napkins, of the TARDIS and the Doctor and Rory, the Pandorica and Melody and they're not particularly good drawings, but she'd started drawing them before this all happened, and now it's even more important - which life is real, which one is not, are they both, and while she's drawing there's no reflections and she's well aware that that line of thought sounds ridiculously crazy. She's gone to get herself some more tea from the replicator - she's gotten mint, chamomile, rose-hip and one blissful cup of earl grey before, and she's walking back when she looks up.
"Stop it," she says, for she's caught her reflection in the mirror again. Amy. Her voice rises with the same words as she doesn't think, as the coffee mug in her hand is thrown and the mirror breaks, and even though some shards fall and some don't, there's a million reflections staring back at her and that's all she can hear over and over. Amy. Amy. Amy. Amy.
She can't deal - it's been three days of it, every window and spoon and mirror brings the same thing. Amy.. Her communicator before the screen comes to life. She'd been freaking out, albeit quietly, since the temple. Since she stared into the mirror and saw the nothing coming for her, since there was the crack that ate everything, that wasn't supposed to exist, that didn't make sense in her memories. Ever since she'd lived a life where her parents and her husband and her life didn't get sucked into a crack in the wall, she'd only barely thought about it, but there it was, front and center, the Things That Never Happened.
And it's not that she's so much afraid of the crack reappearing, even though she thinks she sees it out of the corner of her eyes, it's that it shouldn't exist, shouldn't ever exist. That life's gone. So she tried to not think about it, but when she comes home, it starts some ten or fifteen hours later.
Amy.
Every time she sees herself, every time she catches her own eye in the mirror, in the shower glass, in the chrome of a doorknob. It's not constant, it's only once when she sees it, but sometimes it drips and sometimes it flurries and she can't not notice how many reflections there are. Her room's mostly safe but for the mirror - she keeps her door open usually, and there's a big patch of drawings on one wall - drawings on cocktail napkins, of the TARDIS and the Doctor and Rory, the Pandorica and Melody and they're not particularly good drawings, but she'd started drawing them before this all happened, and now it's even more important - which life is real, which one is not, are they both, and while she's drawing there's no reflections and she's well aware that that line of thought sounds ridiculously crazy. She's gone to get herself some more tea from the replicator - she's gotten mint, chamomile, rose-hip and one blissful cup of earl grey before, and she's walking back when she looks up.
"Stop it," she says, for she's caught her reflection in the mirror again. Amy. Her voice rises with the same words as she doesn't think, as the coffee mug in her hand is thrown and the mirror breaks, and even though some shards fall and some don't, there's a million reflections staring back at her and that's all she can hear over and over. Amy. Amy. Amy. Amy.
