So I picked up Blade of the Poisoner last night, as offensive as the Kindle version's cover is to me, and started to read it. As predicted, it is pleasantly easy to read, and the fact that each chapter is less than five minutes "long" at the speed I read means that I suspect I'm probably going to power right through this in short order. As noted yesterday, though, that's no bad thing; sometimes it's nice just to read something that stimulates the imagination a bit without challenging the more "technical" parts of your brain too much.

I'm actually surprised how much of Blade of the Poisoner I'm remembering — and I don't necessarily mean the details of the story, I mean certain little turns of phrase that have, for one reason or another, stuck in my mind for many years, even without having touched this book for probably several decades at this point. There were a few in the first chapter alone: protagonist Jarral's hesitant question "Can we go and … look at the village?" after his village has been burned to the ground by the evil Prince Mephtik, and the description of the character Archer falling to the ground, "sudden blood staining her brown curls" after being lamped over the head with the butt of a crossbow. Neither of these are particularly remarkable pieces of writing, but they are, for some reason, apparently lodged in my long-term memory, and I'm sure they won't be the only ones.

Thinking about it, despite a longstanding interest in and appreciation for the genre, one thing I don't think I've ever really tried my hand at writing myself is straight-up fantasy. I've done sci-fi, I've done "real world with fantastical elements", I've done "gritty realism", but one thing I don't think I've ever done is create-your-own-world-with-its-own-rules fantasy. And, dipping into Blade of the Poisoner for the first time in a long while last night, I feel like that's something which might be fun. I'm still yet to do anything with my "Scratch Pad" creative writing site that I've set up, largely because I haven't really been struck with any sort of "inspiration" just yet. But I think this might be it: it might be time for me to have a go at fantasy, and see what happens.

Fantasy is interesting because it has a whole different set of considerations to other types of writing. By its very nature, you don't have to follow the "rules" of reality, but you are then faced with the challenge of ensuring your world is internally consistent. How does magic work, if it is present at all? What species call that world home, and how are you going to ensure none of them accidentally end up as thinly veiled racial stereotypes? What social structures are in place? How do you strike a balance between giving the baddies threatening-sounding names and ensuring they don't end up sounding like medical terminology? Is there any connection between that world and ours? Is that world an "alternate Earth", or is it a completely different planet, perhaps with its own rules?

Lots of things to consider, and establishing a setting in this way can, at times, be a really fun part of writing. It is also an easy part to get very bogged down in, so one has to find a good balance between making notes on things that are important to the story you want to tell and the setting in which you want to convey that story, and not getting carried away writing what effectively amounts to a Dungeons and Dragons sourcebook. Of course, there's also a certain amount of value in fleshing out your setting to a ridiculous degree, because that can lay the foundations for future stories you might want to tell in that setting, but one shouldn't lose sight of one's main goal. As with any type of creative project, particularly if one hasn't indulged in such things for a while, it pays to start small and see where things go from there.

So yes. I am thinking. Hard. I can't promise if and when anything will appear over on the Scratch Pad, but I'll be sure to link it here when something does. And in the meantime, perhaps just a chapter or two more of Blade of the Poisoner, you know, as inspiration…

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The post #oneaday Day 430: Poisonous fantasy appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Well, I did what I said yesterday and set up a new site purely for creative writing shenanigans. You can find it at https://scratchpad.moegamer.net — there's nothing there yet, but feel free to bookmark or subscribe or whatever if you feel like it. I'm making no promises as to the regularity with which I'll post over there, but it is there for me to use when I feel like it. Long-term, I might like to try and make some sort of "commitment" to doing some creative writing on a regular basis, but as with anything, it's going to be a case of establishing the habit first of all before you can actually really make it into a full-on habit.

I've been thinking about what I might want to write over there. I think I might start with some short stories rather than attempting to do anything too complicated or ambitious right away. While complicated, ambitious stories are always a delight to get started on, it's easy to get bogged down in the middle section and never get around to finishing them. One thing I found with my "NaNoWriMo But Not Really (Especially Now They're AI Weirdoes)" posts on this site was that it was those middle parts which were the most challenging. You may have a strong opening (ooer missus) and a solid finale in mind, but it's getting from one to the other that is often the challenging bit. Particularly when you're trying to ensure you meet a word (or, in the case of those projects, post) count.

So short stories would seem to be a sensible thing to start with. I can perhaps use them to explore or establish some characters, and those characters can perhaps grow into something I want to do more ambitious things with. Perhaps a collection of short stories focused on a particular character or group of characters is a solid foundation for a longer work? Or perhaps what begins as unconnected short stories can end up telling a complete narrative? I don't know. It's been quite a long time since I've done this, so my mind is, frankly, fairly awash with possibilities at the moment.

One thing I am going to take care of on the new site is to ensure that things are categorised nicely. I'm envisioning a page where you can just browse through short stories, then anything which ends up being more ambitious can, of course, have its own page also so anyone who cares to do such a thing can read from the beginning to the end without interruption. And it goes without saying that this site will remain ad-free for the foreseeable future — given that I don't have any ads on my most successful site, MoeGamer, I really don't think having them on a creative scratch pad is really going to achieve anything.

And, of course, the site will remain proudly AI-free. Not a single bit of generative AI will go anywhere near that page, and absolutely definitely not for text generation. The whole point of the site is for me to indulge in some unadulterated creativity for the first time in quite a while, so dicking around with AI kind of defeats the object there, doesn't it? Also there's plenty of quite convincing evidence right now that using ChatGPT turns you into a dribbling cunt that is totally incapable of thinking for itself, so there's that, also.

Anyway, yeah. That's the announcement, I guess. Now to figure out something to write over there!

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 420: Scratch pad appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It's been far too long since I actually did some proper, honest to goodness creative writing that isn't burbling stream of consciousness blog posts or video game analysis, and I have to admit, I've been feeling an increasing hunger to just write something recently.

But what? I don't really know. There are lots of possibilities in my head, ranging from simple slice-of-life affairs to ambitious sci-fi epics — plus, of course, the Dreamwalker story I've had in my head since a teen but never quite got around to figuring out how it would finish, particularly as it started life as a Klik 'n' Play game — and I think it would probably be fun to write a murder mystery, given how many of them I've been watching of late.

I am beset with the odd mind goblin*, though. I feel like I can't write a murder mystery because I can't think through a crime logically enough to make it convincing — although honestly, with some of the absolute nonsense they get up to on Death in Paradise, I feel like particularly elaborate, bafflingly complicated murders are perfectly fine in the genre.

I feel like I can't write slice-of-life because it would either be too boring, or too unconvincing, or come across too much like wish fulfilment — although, again, thinking about the slice-of-life anime and TV shows I've enjoyed over the years, none of those things are necessarily a problem.

I feel like I can't write sci-fi because I don't know enough science to make it convincing — although, again, if you lean hard on the science fantasy angle you don't necessarily have to worry about.

Mostly, my biggest mind goblin, though, is the big question: who would read it? And its closely related question, does that matter? No-one reads this fucking blog and I'm still tapping away every night, so surely if I'm taking some time on the semi-regular to write some fiction and I feel satisfied with what I've achieved, that should be enough, no?

I think that's probably the case. So I think I'm going to figure out what I might want to write, then set up a place where I can post it easily — likely another blog, separate from both this and MoeGamer. And then all I have to do is write, whenever I feel like it. And who knows? Maybe something will come of it in the long term.

^{*Mind goblin deez nuts? Yes, I got you good. Don't try and pretend like I didn't.}

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The post #oneaday Day 419: I wanna write a story appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

One thing I've found myself wondering about a fair bit of late is whether the world still has a place for authors. By that, I mean people who primarily write books as their main contribution to existence; people whose job it is to write things that are, by their very nature, more long-form than your average 500-word Internet article.

Because, you know, I'm a little concerned. I'm a little concerned that a lot of people simply don't seem to have the mental capacity to digest anything written that is more than 250-500 words these days. Worse, there are people out there who genuinely believe that getting ChatGPT to "summarise" books for you is the same as "reading" them.

Part of me wants to write a book, or perhaps more accurately, multiple books, both fiction and non-fiction. I've always wanted to do this, and to my shame I've never pursued it to any particular degree, when I probably should. But these days I find myself wondering if I haven't left it too late. Is anyone even reading books any more? If I were to write a complete book that was all me, conjured up from the depths of my imagination, would anyone even believe that it wasn't AI-generated these days?

There's also the question of what to write about. There are numerous things I've started writing over the years, but only a few I've actually finished. Some of them you can read on this blog; one I even turned into an actual, physical self-published book. But that big question always hangs over my head: would anyone give a shit? Would anyone care enough to read it? Does that even matter?

Well, of course it matters to a certain degree. Writing a book is a significant amount of work, and putting all that effort in only for no-one to actually read it is… a suboptimal outcome, to say the least. And the trouble is, I feel, that the longer I leave it, the more likely that suboptimal outcome is to come true. The fewer people will be reading books. The fewer people will ever care about me, a nobody in the grand scheme of things, having found some means of expressing my creativity.

I've just been back and had a rummage through my "Creative Writing" folder that I have on my Google Drive. There's a few things in there that are the start of a good idea. Perhaps I should develop some of those. Perhaps I should try and start something completely new. Perhaps I should try and actually finish the story I've had half-complete in my mind since the age of about 15.

Or perhaps I should just accept the world as it apparently is today, recognise that I have maybe left it too late, and attempt to content myself with the other creative things I do.

I dunno. That last one doesn't feel altogether satisfactory. I still clearly have some thinking to do in this regard, it seems.

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The post #oneaday Day 395: A place for authors appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Yes, I know that's almost certainly not correct Latin. No, I don't care. I just wanted a post title that wasn't just "catching up" again, because I missed yesterday and, as such, you are getting two loads of nonsense today instead of just one. Aren't you lucky?

The reason I forgot to write anything was because yesterday and today were my monthly trip down to the office, meaning last night I was staying in a hotel and, after having spent a long drive getting there, I doubt I would have felt like typing much of anything meaningful on my phone even if I had remembered to write something. But anyway, enough of that. You know by this point that my stays in hotels tend to result in short posts that either involve me talking about cop shows on TV or ranting about AI adverts I saw in between cop shows on TV.

Instead, today I want to call back to something I wrote about in the previous post: my previous creative writing projects. I actually went back and read the one I said I didn't remember writing or remember anything about. Turns out I did actually remember writing it and what at least some of it was about, though the exact details were actually something of a surprise to me come the conclusion. So I guess that did its job, or something.

I have decided to dub that particular work my name. for reasons that will be apparent to anyone who has read it. I actually rather enjoyed revisiting it, and while I think there's probably a bunch of work I could do to it before "publishing" it, I'm overall satisfied with it. Judging by the time I wrote it (November 2012), it was almost certainly as much a therapeutic exercise as anything else, and there are a lot of things about the main character's journey in particular that I can directly relate to my own experiences. I, unsurprisingly, do that in my own creative writing rather a lot; it's a means of processing the things I've felt and the things I've experienced, and by exploring them through another character, even if I'm writing from a first-person perspective, I can sort of take a step back and contemplate them from a slightly different angle.

One thing I do enjoy playing with when creative writing is perspective. I went through a phase of writing a lot of things in first-person present tense, and it's a style I still like very much. I forget exactly what inspired me to first do this, but I'm pretty sure it was something we were looking at in English Literature classes in school — likely something along the lines of Jane Eyre (which isn't first-person present, but is first-person) or its companion piece Wide Sargasso Sea (which introduced me to "stream-of-consciousness" narrative, a form I was also rather taken with, if that were not already very apparent.)

Out of curiosity, the other evening I happened to look up if there have been any novels written using second-person perspective — i.e. placing the reader in the role of the protagonist by narrating using the "you" pronoun. Of course, things like Choose Your Own Adventure and Fighting Fantasy automatically fall into this category, but no; I was thinking something more "conventional" and non-interactive.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover there are, in fact, several novels that have been written at least partially in this style. One that I found particularly intriguing was an Italian piece by Italo Calvino known as If on a winter's night a traveler. This novel is about you, the reader, attempting to read a novel named If on a winter's night a traveler and continually getting distracted. The story apparently jumps back and forth between what "you" are doing — which is the main plot — and the first chapter of a variety of other novels that, for one reason or another, keep distracting you. Supposedly the themes of the various novel extracts are weaved into the main narrative, and it all sounds very clever and, yes, post-modern. It may well be completely insufferable to read — and I'm not going to try until I've finished my Jane Eyre re-read that I started recently — but it definitely intrigued me, and made me think I might try something with second-person perspective at some point.

Anyway, I think that's probably enough for the first post of today. Please feel free to go and read my name. now I've given it a name, or indeed any of my other past creative writing pieces, which you can find in the menu bar at the top. I've even set it so they display in chronological order rather than the usual reverse chronological order — though WordPress' limitations mean that when you want to read the next page you have to press the "Older Posts" button rather than "Newer Posts". But I'm sure you can figure that out.

Enough! I have another post to write. So it's time to do that!

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 333: Scribus Interruptus appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I've been feeling kind of in the mood to do a bit of creative writing recently. I have not yet actually acted on this impulse, because I haven't yet decided what the optimal means of doing it is. Longtime readers may recall that I did not-NaNoWriMo (before NaNoWriMo became a dirty word) a few times on this very site, using my daily #oneaday posts to compose a story 1,000+ words or so at a time. If, for whatever reason, you're interested in reading those, you can find them with their first chapters starting at the following links:

• Wasteland Diaries, a post-apocalyptic tale I inexplicably decided to write as someone who isn't the biggest fan of post-apocalyptic settings.
• Untitled, a story I don't remember writing and can't remember anything about. I'm going to have to re-read this one, I think.
• Special Measures, a novel about a teacher in a struggling school. (There's even an Actual Book version of this, though I did it through Blurb before I found out about their absurd shipping costs. You're welcome to buy a copy though.)
• Unfinished, an unfinished project.

There are also a few other bits and pieces here and there, such as an extremely short-lived "collection" of two short stories about a school (number 1 here, number 2 here), and another extremely short-lived collection of short stories based around the themes of "beginnings and endings" starting here. And probably some other stuff I've forgotten. Like this!

I think I just want to "write a story" again. It's something that used to bring me great joy when I was younger, particularly when I was at school — I was notorious among my English teachers for creative writing projects that were several orders of magnitude longer than anyone else in my cohort — and I feel like it's one of those things that is probably good "therapy" of sorts, too.

The thing I'm umming and ahhing over is whether I should start a new site specifically for the creative writing stuff, or if I should just do what I've done previously and host it here. My concern if I host it here is that I'll lose it, or forget about it, such as what has apparently happened with Untitled, above. But then at the same time it's nice to dive back into the archives sometimes and stumble across something like that. So perhaps I will just host it here, and maybe make a bit more of an effort with the menus to make accessing things like those past stories a bit more straightforward.

Okay, then it's settled. Maybe. I will start Writing Stories again. Whether these stories will form part of my #oneaday efforts or be something completely separate I haven't yet decided. But creativity will happen. Oh yes, it will happen. You just wait. And without even a whiff of generative AI bullshit, because generative AI, particularly anyone attempting to make out that using it is somehow "creative", can eat my entire ass.

Now to ponder what I might want to write about, I guess!

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 332: From the brain to the page appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I didn't mind for the most part, of course. I loved the cat, too, and I always appreciated any time she came and sat in the chair in my office while I was working. I knew that her priority was sitting somewhere comfortable and warm rather than necessarily enjoying my company, but it was nice to feel like she wanted to be in the same room as me now and again.

Now her real master was gone, though, and she was left with just me, forever second-best. I could see the sadness in her eyes. I could see it in the dejected-looking way that she sat on her cat tree. I could see it in the way that she just didn't seem to have the energy she once did.

The cat's obvious sadness made me feel miserable, too. It was an uncomfortable reminder of past times of joy, never to be repeated. Once we had been a family of sorts, always together, always sharing in the wonders of life. Now we were just a man and his cat.

And yet, at some point, I don't know when… we bonded more than we ever had done. Our shared grief brought us together. Just as I recognised how the cat was suffering from her absence, so too did the cat recognise that it had hit me hard, too. And slowly, little by little, completely wordlessly, our relationship began to change.

I remember the first night it happened. I was lying in the bed which now felt entirely too large for me, tossing and turning, struggling to get to sleep. Suddenly, I felt something; a weight on the bed. And I heard something: a soft purring. In the dark, I could just make out the shape of the cat. She had come to see me in the night; she never used to do this, usually preferring to sleep in her comfy cat bed downstairs in the living room.

But now she was here, purring softly in my ear. She headbutted my outstretched hand until I began to pet her, and she rubbed her face on my hand as I tickled her cheeks and chin.

Then, she sat down. It was a decisive move, a declaration. She managed to mould herself so that she fit perfectly into the curve of my arm that was extended across the empty half of the bed, and quickly curled up, ready to fall asleep. Her soft fur felt good against my arm, and I felt a sense of relaxation wash over me — a feeling that I hadn't really been able to enjoy for some time now.

From thereon, I had that feeling every night. Things were going to be all right, in their own strange way.

She loved me, too. This cat loved me. Perhaps it had taken our shared loss for her to really feel like she could show it, but I was left in no doubt whatsoever.

Neither of us wanted to be alone. And now, neither of us would be alone.

Please do not worry about me, everything is fine and this is not an autobiographical blog post! The above is a piece of creative writing following the prompt "A human and a cat who come to some sort of mutual understanding."

The post The Cat and the Human. appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

One thing I've often wondered over the years is whether or not there's any perceived value in the memoirs of "ordinary people" — in other words, memoirs written by people who aren't celebrities, or even those who haven't had anything seemingly noteworthy happen to them. And I'm inclined to think that there is — after all, the best celebrity memoirs are the ones that talk not about being a celebrity, but about their childhood, or formative experiences growing up, or things that they've experienced that helped make them the person they are today. Things that are relatable to the audience; things that are relatable to "normal" people.

There's value in having a celebrity name attached, of course: someone who enjoys Sue Perkins' TV and radio appearances is likely to pick up her memoir simply because they like her, for example. But this doesn't mean her life story is inherently more valuable than anyone else's. In fact, I'd wager a guess that there are lots of people out there who have had lives far more interesting than today's celebrities have.

In my experience, whether or not the person whose life you are reading about is famous or not is largely irrelevant; what does, on the other hand, matter is whether or not they have interesting stories to tell.

And, well, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet too much, but I do feel I have more than a few interesting stories to tell. My life has certainly been eventful, if nothing else. This blog has occasionally dipped into memoir-esque territory, but as an idle side project, I've started writing down some of the things I remember from my past.

I am a normal human being. Well, as normal as anyone is these days, which is to say I’m riddled with neuroses, suffer from depression, anxiety and social anxiety—two very different, but related things.

I digress; I am a relatively normal human being. I haven’t survived some sort of unimaginable tragedy, I haven’t had to cope with a life-threatening illness or the challenges of a physical disability and the nearest I’ve come to being involved with a famous person is working in an Apple Store at the time John Cleese came in with a black credit card, proclaiming that it could “sink a bloody battleship”. I didn’t serve him, I was just there; that’s how much of a relatively normal human being I am.

Nonetheless, Things have happened to me, much as they have doubtless happened to you, your friends and the rest of your family. These Things may not have seemed like a big deal at the time, but if you’re anything like me, you’ll have found that the strangest things stick in your memories for many years, and it seems like quite a shame to run the risk of them, at some point, being filtered out of your mind in favour of some new and ultimately useless piece of information you picked up from Wikipedia. We live in an age full of constant noise, after all, with every piece of media around us vying for our attention and threatening to fill our minds with useless dribble that might get you lots of Likes on Facebook, but which doesn’t really compare to the fond memories of your childhood.

My memories aren’t all fond. Some of them are downright painful or embarrassing, and some of them, to this day, still make me feel overwhelmingly negative emotions such as anger or grief. It’s healthy to share such memories, though; otherwise, they just get bottled up inside, and, over time, you run the risk of them overflowing and forcing you to, I don’t know, run naked through a shopping centre with a chainsaw in each hand singing Stairway to Heaven. Or, you know, something.

With all that in mind, then, writing them down in some form seems like a reasonable idea.

The post 2471: Memoirs of an Ordinary Person appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

With it being October now, I find myself pondering whether to do some creative writing this coming November as I have done for the last few years. And I think I'm going to, only this time try something a bit different.

I've been meaning to check out the well-known interactive fiction creation software Twine for quite some time now, and this November feels like an ideal opportunity to do so. I've been having a little fiddle with it this evening in an attempt to get to grips with the basics, and I think I now know enough to be able to put together a convincing interactive story over the course of a month.

For the unfamiliar, Twine is an open-source piece of software that allows you to create primarily text-based games with hyperlinks as a means of interaction. In simple terms, it allows you to create Choose Your Own Adventure-style experiences, though with a bit of scripting knowledge and/or making use of the macros available in the various story templates, you can create somewhat more complex affairs with conditional branches, variables and all manner of other goodies.

Perhaps the most appealing aspect of the software for me is the fact that it's entirely text-based and consequently carries no need for you to be good at graphics or sound design — and no risk of people accusing you of being "lazy" for relying on predefined assets. Everything in a Twine game is a collaboration between the author's skill at writing and the player's own imagination. (It is possible to add graphics, sound and music to Twine games for those who see fit, but doing so feels a bit like you're missing the point somewhat.)

Another really nice aspect of Twine is the fact that it depicts your story as a flowchart, automatically creating new branches according to the choices you offer throughout. This makes it very easy to visualise the overall flow of your story and branch it off into different routes if desired; likewise, it allows you to bring divergent paths back together pretty easily.

I need to have a think about what sort of story I want to write and how it might be interactive — the latter being a consideration that you don't have to think about when writing linear traditional fiction! Still, I've read plenty of visual novels for "inspiration" over the years, so hopefully it won't be too difficult to come up with something; going by my previous experiences, however, the true challenge will be keeping the scale of the project in check so I don't get too overambitious and start attempting to produce something that will never be finished in a month of development!

I'll continue experimenting in Twine in the run up to November so hopefully by the time November rolls around I'll be proficient enough in the software to produce something convincing. And then, of course, the final product will be playable by you, dear reader, should you so desire.

The post 2449: Planning Ahead appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I spent a chunk of time today porting the work I've already done on a story from Google Docs online to Scrivener on my Mac. Scrivener is a piece of software I picked up quite a while back and have used sporadically whenever I feel creative; it's a lovely piece of software to keep written projects of any size manageable and organised.

For the unfamiliar, Scrivener allows you to organise your whole project into a single file, including the chapters and sections/scenes of your book, research material, front matter and general notes. Within the file, you have a tree structure of folders and items, with numerous templates available for various types of project. When you're all done, you "compile" the project like a computer program, and Scrivener spits the finished product out in the format of your choice, be it double-spaced manuscript for sending to a publisher, attractively laid out pages ready for self-publishing, or various popular eBook formats. You can even export it to a word processor if you so desire, allowing you to format it further using tools beyond that which Scrivener offers.

I was surprised what a feeling of motivation I felt from porting the existing content over to Scrivener, and I attribute this primarily to the fact that what you bung into Scrivener looks remarkably like what the finished product will end up being. In fact, if you compile a project in progress to a PDF just to have a look at how things appear, it's even more motivating, because you can imagine holding the finished book in your hands. That's quite exciting.

Just the fact that Scrivener uses some very attractive, convincingly "book-like" default fonts helps with this feeling of seeing the final product coming together, though. Couple that with the fact that Scrivener's interface is designed to be as clean and distraction-free as possible, and all in all you have a piece of software that is eminently suitable for creative types to realise their written ambitions — even if you barely use a fraction of the functionality the software has to offer, which I suspect is a category I will probably fall into unless I want to get really anal about page headers or something.

Anyway. This is a long-winded way of saying that I have been successfully motivating myself to continue with my creative writing project while I still don't have any full time work. I'm under no illusions that I'll be able to make money from this — at least initially — but the story I'm working on at present is a passion project that it will simply be satisfying to see completed at last, and released into the wild. If anyone ends up actually buying it, so much the better, of course, but if nothing else completing a project of this sort will 1) show me that I can do it, and hopefully inspire me to do more that take less than 15 years to complete and 2) stop my mother telling me every so often that I should "write that book". (She hasn't done that for a while, to be fair, which probably means it's due a mention sometime soon… I know you're reading, Mum, so take this as assurance that I'm doing it.)

So that's that. Writer? Windows or OSX-equipped? Give Scrivener a go, and you might just be surprised how much you can get done.

The post 2221: Seeing the Final Product Forming appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"You’re on a long flight, and a palm reader sitting next to you insists she reads your palm. You hesitate, but agree. What does she tell you?"

Daily Post, December 10, 2015

[This didn't post yesterday for some reason, so here it is today.]

"Hmm," she says in a long, drawn-out sort of way, clearly milking the moment for maximum drama. I look around, conscious that other passengers are surreptitiously watching to see what's going on, clearly having overheard her request. Then I look back at her. She's gazing intently at my proffered palm, running her fingertip down what I assume, as a layman, to be my "lifeline", but she's saying nothing for the moment; all I can hear is the low drone of the engines, and the somewhat subdued conversation of the other passengers in the cabin.

"Your path has been a meandering one," she says at last. "You have stumbled headlong into chaos on frequent occasions, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that chaos has sought you out; it is hard to tell at this point."

I say nothing but incline my head slightly in silent agreement. Well, she's off to a running start, at least.

"You have endured many hardships on your travels," she says. "They may not have been physical hardships, or even hardships that people could see you struggling with, but they were hardships nonetheless."

I feel my skepticism fading away a little as she offers what appears to be an accurate assessment of my life to date; that said, there's still a little voice in the back of my mind pointing out that everything she's said so far is fairly ambiguous and could probably be applied to anyone.

"Your pain has helped to forge you," she continues. "Your struggles have made you stronger, but at a cost: turbulence, uncertainty, a lack of clarity."

I glance around to see how many passengers had reacted to the mention of "turbulence" — not a word you want to utter on a plane in most instances — but most people in the immediate area appear to have returned to their own business, or at least are being subtle about their eavesdropping if they are indeed indulging their own curiosity.

She's not wrong, but again, these statements could probably apply to anyone out there. Without context and specifics, I remain not entirely convinced of her reading's veracity.

"Your future remains uncertain," she says, her finger apparently reaching its destination on my palm and ceasing its movement; she doesn't break contact, however. "You desire nothing more than to know exactly what the future holds, and how you can ensure you are on the correct path. But the truth is that there is no correct path, only the path that you choose to take. While it may feel like you are at something of a crossroads right now, be sure that you will make a decision and proceed down a road, and that road will be the correct one for you. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, it may not even be next year. But your route will one day be illuminated, and you shall find your way."

She releases my hand, which plops back into my lap.

"Thank you," I say simply. Ultimately I'm not sure I've learned anything particularly new from her statements, but if nothing else they gave me pause to reflect on my life, the decisions I've made, the decisions that were made for me, and what the future might hold, as uncertain as it might be.

Finding that route will be scary, no doubt, but as I look at her gently smiling at me, I feel like there's at least one person out there who has faith I'll make the right choices somewhere along the way, and that everything will work out for the best.

I hope she's right.

The post 2151: Life Line appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

In response to The Daily Post's writing prompt: "1984."

"You’re locked in a room with your greatest fear. Describe what’s in the room."

My immediate reaction to this prompt was to say that the room was absolutely full of spiders. And to be fair, that would pretty much scare the shit out of me, particularly if they were of the deadly variety.

But that would be too easy. Someone who truly wanted to break me psychologically — as opposed to kill me — would go for something much more subtle, and something that wouldn't physically hurt me, but which would deal some damage regardless.

And, on reflection, I came up with an answer pretty quickly.

There is nothing in the room. Nothing at all.

The walls are plain. The floor is plain. The ceiling is plain. When the door closes, you can't even see its frame, so flush with the wall it is. There's no clear delineation between floor, wall and ceiling; no sharp corners, no right angles; everything just sort of flows into one another, making the room take on a somewhat otherworldly quality where no matter which direction you face, you see the same thing.

The nothingness extends to sound, too. There is not a single sound in the room, save for any noises I might make. I become very aware of my own breathing, and of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. But there are no other sounds; I can't hear anyone moving around outside, and my captor certainly doesn't seem to be in any sort of hurry to communicate with me. Perhaps they're just watching somehow — though it's impossible to distinguish even a tiny spy camera anywhere in the room, because that would be a distinguishing feature by which I would be able to orient myself, and clearly that would go against the intention of this place.

The light level in the room would remain constant; not so bright as to be dazzling, but just slightly darker than comfortable. The kind of light you're bathed in when in an environment lit by a bare bulb; a cold light that seems devoid of home comforts and humanity. A light that is threatening, rather than welcoming. A light that beckons with a smirk on its face, rather than inviting you in with open arms.

And of course, there are no other people in the room. No-one communicating with me. No means for me to get a message to the outside, and seemingly no means for the outside to get a message to me, either.

It's lonely. And the combination of the ever-constant light level, the total lack of sound and the lack of people or even things with which to communicate makes it impossible to tell how much time is passing. There's nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to focus my attention on. The room is completely devoid of meaning; it's devoid of joy, but it's also devoid of other emotions, too. It doesn't even inherently inspire "fear"; it just is, and that's the scary thing about it. It's impassive, cold, unyielding. No way out. No way in. No-one to help me. No way to distract myself. I just have to wait. And wait. And wait. Alone.

That's a room that would break me. I don't know how long it would take, but it would get me eventually. So kindly don't put me in anywhere like that any time soon, please. Thank you.

The post 2112: 1984 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

In response to The Daily Post's writing prompt: "A Storybook Day."

You have to spend one day as or with your favorite fictional character. Which one would it be and what would you do?

[NB: I am aware this is dangerously close to fanfiction territory, but whatever. Deal with it.]

Sometimes, you know before anything has happened that it's going to be a peculiar day.

As odd circumstances go, suddenly waking up face-down on a hard floor, the sounds of civilisation and industry mingling somewhere in the distance, is probably near the top of the "most peculiar" list. And this is how my day began.

I open my eyes and groggily get to my knees. I seem to be in an alleyway, and there's no-one else around. That would explain why no-one had come to my aid, then; I would have thought that a grown man lying face-down in the street would attract at least a little attention, but this makes a certain degree of sense. Not much, but a little, anyway.

My muscles expressing their displeasure at being disturbed from their slumber, I unsteadily brace myself against one of the alley's walls and get to my feet. I seem to be facing a dead end of some sort; the alley doesn't have much in the way of distinguishing features, aside from a couple of doors that look like fire escapes, and a dumpster or two towards the end. The alley itself abruptly ends at a strangely metallic wall.

"Stop right there!"

A feminine, assertive voice comes from somewhere behind me. I jerk upright, suddenly feeling a lot more awake than I was just seconds ago.

"Don't move!"

I want to look over my shoulder. There's something familiar about that voice.

"Um," is all I can say. Somehow words seem to be failing me.

"Oooh!" comes another feminine voice, this one energetic and somewhat childish, from somewhere behind me. "Wassat?"

"My, my," comes yet another woman's voice, this one sounding somewhat more… regal, distinguished? "Isn't this peculiar?"

I clear my throat and try, once again, to speak.

"I'm, uh," I begin. "I'm not going to hurt anyone. I don't think I'm really in a position to do so, from the sound of things."

"Turn around," says the first voice. It seems to be quavering slightly, but it's only barely perceptible. "Slowly!"

I comply with the order and turn to face the ones who discovered me. I give a start as I see who I'm confronted with.

One young woman, clad in a short blue skirt, cropped top and stockings, is pointing at me with an aggressive look on her face. Her twin black ponytails are flapping in the slight breeze. Behind her is a tall, older-looking blonde woman with a calm, gentle expression on her face. And standing at her side, fists clenched and knees slightly bent in a stereotypical expression of excitement and curiosity, is a young-looking purple-haired girl who appears to be wearing a hoodie as a dress, paired with striped thigh-high socks and sneakers. I know without looking closely that her hoodie is tied up with HDMI cables.

I instinctively bow my head, because it feels like the right thing to do.

"Goddesses," I say, trying to sound humble. "It's an honour to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, buddy boy!" pipes up the purple-haired young girl before the twintailed girl has a chance to respond. "Whatcha doin'?"

"I wish I knew," I say. "I just sort of woke up here."

The twintailed girl is still pointing at me and looks like she's about to speak, but this time she's interrupted by the blonde woman's gentle tones.

"Hmm, we did wonder what had happened," she says. "Histoire mentioned some sort of strange energy from this region, and here you are."

I couldn't even begin to guess why I would be the source of a "strange energy", but given that I'm standing face-to-face with three women I've only previously seen through a computer screen, I feel something very odd may have happened.

This time I'm the one to interrupt the twintailed girl just before she gets something out of her mouth.

"Lady Noire," I say. "Lady Black Heart," I correct myself. "I'm not sure what I'm doing here, but I'm kind of at your mercy here."

Noire seems to shiver and then falter slightly, still pointing at me. I swear her cheeks blush slightly. Neptune, the purple-haired girl, gives a slight snicker and digs the blonde woman Vert in the ribs with her elbow.

"Here it comes," she says in a stage whisper just loud enough for everyone to hear. Noire apparently ignores her.

"W-well," she says. "Perhaps you'd better come back to the Basilicom and we can figure this out. But don't misunderstand! I-it's not like I'm doing this for you or anything! I just want to find out why a stranger suddenly appeared in my city!"

Giving Neptune a knowing smile and a nod, Vert moves aside to make room for me to pass, and I step out onto the streets of Lastation.

"So that is the long and short of it," says the tiny girl perched precariously on a floating book. "It will take about three days to make the preparations." Her facial expression doesn't change, but for some reason I find myself thinking of an exaggerated emote as she speaks.

"Three days?" says Noire.

"Yes," says Histoire, the tiny girl, whom I already know is a "tome". "Although this individual has brought a substantial quantity of Shares into this dimension, it will still take time for the–"

"Yada, yada, yada," says Neptune. "We got three days to go out and play!" She grabs me forcefully by the hand and starts to drag me out of the Basilicom, a large church-like structure that acts as Noire's home, office and base of operations.

"W-wait!" says Noire, her voice oddly high-pitched. "We still don't know anything about him! You shouldn't just go off with him by yourself!"

"Who said anything about going on my lonesome?" says Neptune. "You're coming out to play, too, Lonely Heart. It's about time you had a break! I swear, you'd be working through the night if your body didn't shut itself down every so often!"

"I concur," replies Vert. "After all the strange happenings recently, I feel we could all do with some rest and relaxation."

Noire puts her hands on her hips and looks like she's about to object, but thinks better of it at the last moment.

"F-fine," she says. "I can take a little time off, I guess. You are all visiting, after all."

An hour later, I'm sitting at the head of a table with an array of colourful women. Noire is sitting to my left, Neptune to my right. Then, moving around the table, there's Neptune's little sister Nepgear; the sullen face — currently buried in a book, ignoring the situation — of Blanc; Blanc's twin sisters Rom and Ram, the former of whom is looking very uncomfortable indeed; then Vert, who is wearing a borderline-indecent dress that shows off her considerable cleavage to great effect; and finally Noire's sister Uni, who keeps giving her older sibling and Neptune furtive glances.

"I don't understand what's going on really," bellows Neptune in what she clearly thinks is an authoritative tone, before indicating me with a wave of her hand, "but Mr. Dude here is our guest! So let's show him how we have a good time! And you know what that means — pudding!"

On cue, several waiters — whose faces I, strangely, seem to forget the moment I look away from them — put a selection of large dishes on the table, each full of a colourful pudding of some description.

"I-is this all pudding…?" says Noire slightly uneasily.

"Yes!" cries Neptune, throwing her hands in the air and accidentally tossing the spoon she'd picked up so hard into the air that it embeds into the ceiling. "We've got strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, dogoo and lamb with rosemary!"

Noire doesn't look convinced of the nutritional value of our dinner, but chooses to say nothing further. Neptune, meanwhile is clearly excited about it, and it's hard not to go along with the sheer amount of energy she seems to exude at all times.

"Dig in!" she cries.

The three days pass far too quickly for my liking; a blur of pudding meals, trips to the local chocolate cake shop, multiplayer tournaments on slightly twisted versions of video games I recognise from my own dimension and some truly baffling conversations with the goddesses.

"I wish I could stay here," I say to Noire as we both look out over Lastation from the balcony of her Basilicom. We'd both stepped out for a little air — and to get away from Neptune's vacillations over what we should all do next, to be honest.

"Hm," she says quietly, not turning in my direction. Her attitude towards me seems to have softened somewhat in the last few days; gone is the prickly, defensive young woman who confronted me in the alleyway, and taking her place is someone who seems to be strong, but carrying around a faint air of melancholy.

It's silent for a moment; all I can hear is the faint throb of industrial machinery off in the distance. Then Noire turns to me.

"I think you'd like it here," she says to me with a gentle smile, a slight flush in her cheeks. "And believe me, we're all truly grateful for your faith in all of us. We get really competitive over the Shares, but it's rare to find someone who has such value for all of us."

I smile wryly.

"Is that all I am to you, Lady Noire?" I ask. "A fountain of Shares?"

"N-no!" she says hastily, her cheeks blushing even redder. "Y-yes! No! I…"

Her shoulders slump slightly and she closes her eyes for a moment. After a moment's quiet, she begins to speak, her eyes still closed.

"You don't belong here," she says. "I… kind of wish you did, but you don't. There are people waiting for you, aren't there…?"

"Yes," I admit.

"Then you should go back to them," she says, opening her eyes and smiling softly. "We'll always be here for you, even if we're not standing right in front of you."

I smile back at Noire.

"And I'll be here for you," I say. "You'll always have my Shares." Hesitantly, I reach out my hand and pat Noire on the head, ruffling her hair slightly. She doesn't object, thankfully.

I turn around from the balcony to go back indoors and am unsurprised to see Vert, Neptune and Blanc crowding around the doorframe, clearly watching what has been unfolding with great interest. Neptune gives me a thumbs-up and an enthusiastic nod of the head. Noire doesn't appear to have noticed her observers yet, and I feel I probably shouldn't point it out to them.

I turn back to Noire.

"Lady Noire?" I say.

"Hm?" she says absently.

"I'll miss you," I reply. In an uncharacteristically assertive display of affection, I take her in my arms and hug her.

"Wh-what are you…" she objects initially, but after a moment I feel her shoulders relax and her own arms reach around my back. We stay like that for a moment. I glance over to the doorframe and see Neptune giving Vert a silent high-five. I can't help but smile.

"Thank you," says Noire. "Don't forget us,"

"I don't think you have to worry about that," I say. And I mean it.

The journey back was surprisingly simple. Histoire gave a technical explanation that Nepgear did her best to expand upon, but it frankly went in one ear and out the other. All I really had to do was stand before the Sharicite crystal and wait for Histoire to do her thing; she was waiting for "dimensional alignment" or something.

I faced my friends, who had assembled in the doorway to see me off. It was strange; these people had been "friends" to me long before I'd ever met them face-to-face, and so parting from them now, while sad, didn't hurt as much as it could have done. I knew that when I got home I could see them again any time I wanted; it wouldn't quite be the same as the experience I'd just been through, of course, but it was good enough for me. And I had a strange feeling that even if dimensions of time and space separated us, they'd all be able to make good use of the Shares I contributed.

As the Sharicite chamber fills with a brilliant white light, I raise my hand in farewell.

"Bye," I say. It doesn't feel quite like enough, but it also doesn't really feel like goodbye.

"Bye-bye!" cries Neptune, followed by a slightly subdued chorus of farewells from the other goddesses and Candidates.

The light intensifies until I can't see anything any more. I close my eyes. Then, I feel the light replaced by blackness.

There's a strange chiming noise. I open my eyes again. I'm sitting up. Wherever I am, it's dark, save for a small sign up in the upper-right field of my vision.

"You have earned a trophy!" it says.

The post 2072: Storybook Day appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Today, then, inspired by the fact I've been playing with Retrospring a bit recently — ask me anything here (caution: Umaru boobs) — I thought I'd work through a few questions as writing prompts. Rather than just being lazy and using my Retrospring answers, though — which is tempting, believe me — I thought I'd make use of the dearly-departed Plinky.com, and use some of its writing prompts that it still has available. I'm not going to spend more than a paragraph on each, mind.

All right! Let's begin.

Was there a toy or thing you always wanted as a child, during the holidays or on your birthday, but never received? Tell us about it.

Lots of things, I'm sure! Every child wants absolutely everything because they have no concept whatsoever of what money is or how it works. (I remember when I was young and my mother remarked that they were a bit low on money that month, and in my primary school wisdom I suggested they just "go to the bank and get some more") Specifics, though? Hmm. I quite wanted Red Venom, the evil counterpart to the awesome Manta Force toy that I had, but never got one. I also wanted a Mega Drive to go along with my Super NES, but never got one. I'll probably live.

Write about a noise — or even a silence — that won’t go away. (We’ll let you interpret this in different ways…)

Thanks, mysterious question master. Well, there are indeed lots of ways this can be interpreted. It could be interpreted as something simple like tinnitus — I like to listen to music loud in the car and on headphones, so occasionally give myself mild bouts of this — or it could be used to describe an "earworm" of a piece of music that just won't go away. In the latter case, I think the opening theme to Monster Musume definitely counts as this, particularly the bit where Centorea is doing her "whooshwhooshwhooshwhooshwhoosh" bit with her sword.

What’s your learning style? Do you prefer learning in a group and in an interactive setting? Or one-on-one? Do you retain information best through lectures, or visuals, or simply by reading books?

Whoa whoa whoa there, sparky, one question at a time. My learning style… uh… I'm not really sure, actually. Depends somewhat on my mood, but I'm quite good at learning by myself using books. I like to have practical examples of the things that I'm learning and ways I can practice those skills. If I'm learning under someone, I generally prefer one-on-one as there's less scope for embarrassment if you can't do something while everyone else can. I loathe passive lectures, though; they put me to sleep, particularly if the subject matter isn't something I'm particularly interested in in the first place.

You have 15 minutes to address the whole world live (on television or radio — choose your format). What would you say?

Given my self-imposed "one paragraph" rule, I'll paraphrase: I'd tell people that they need to be better to one another, and that they need to stop judging each other on stupid things, be it skin colour, race, gender, sexuality or even tastes in entertainment. Everyone is different, and that's something that should be celebrated, but we should also enjoy it when we manage to find people on the same wavelength as us. Worry less about what's "problematic" and "troubling", and focus more on the positives. Stop listening to blowhards like Anita Sarkeesian, Jonathan McIntosh and Michael Pachter. (One of these things is not like the others.) Make up your own mind about how you feel, and don't berate other people if they feel differently. (Unless, of course, they're actually hurting someone, in which case you can give them a swift kick in the genitals.) Above all, don't be a massive cunt.

Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?

I'm not in full-time work at the moment, so all day is technically "playtime". That's not true at all, of course; I spend a considerable proportion of the days when I'm not working worrying about the fact I'm not working and that I'm not earning any money, then attempting to be proactive about getting some work to do. Playtime, though, is extremely important, as it helps you to unwind and switch off from the stresses of the day. Everyone should play. Exactly what "play" means is different for everyone, but you should find something that (preferably) has nothing to do with your job, and indulge in it until you feel happy and content.

Are you good at what you do? What would you like to be better at?

It's difficult to say "what I do" these days. I've been through so many jobs and things that I'm really not sure what my "identity" in this regard is any more. The one real constant has been writing, though, and I think I'm quite good at that. I'd like to be better at music and computery things on the technical side (both hardware and software); these are both things I was really good at when I was a youngster, but my knowledge hasn't really "moved with the times" over the years, unfortunately. I'll happily throw myself into attempting to learn things, but some stuff just doesn't stick; I can still program complicated things in Atari BASIC, for example, but I can never remember how fucking JavaScript works.

Share the story of a time you felt unsafe.

I'm not good with any situation where I worry I might hurt myself, so I try and avoid them whenever possible. One example that springs to mind is a time some university friends and I went up to Sheffield to visit a friend who had moved there. During our stay, we went walking in the impressive hills nearby, and several of our number decided they wanted to climb a rock face, and did so without too much difficulty. I got a few inches off the ground, became utterly terrified and refused to go any further. I'm not proud of that, really, but I'm also glad I didn't go through with it, as the shoes I was wearing really weren't suitable for that sort of thing, and I probably would have hurt myself.

Think about something that drives you crazy. Now, think about something that makes you happy. Does it change your perspective on the former?

Nope, unfortunately, because the thing that drives me crazy is the way people act towards the thing that makes me happy. Get out of that little paradox, if you will.

(Last one for now.)

What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?

I'm scared of all sorts of things — many of which would appear to be stupid to the average observer, but such is the nature of anxiety-related issues. I think the thing I'm most scared to do is simply the mundaneness that is finding a job that is worth my time and effort, sticking with it and accepting that that is who I am: nothing special, nothing remarkable, nothing out of the ordinary. Or perhaps I'm just too proud to do that. Either way, it's something that isn't happening at the moment, and it probably should; ultimately, it's going to be that ol' faithful motivator money that makes me do something about it, I guess.

The post 2027: Questions, Questions, Questions appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She knew she was very lucky to be allowed on the factory floor, because usually the children of the colony weren't allowed anywhere near it. The fact that her father was the manager of the complex, overseeing the various automatons' duties and making sure everything continued to run smoothly on a daily basis, meant that she enjoyed certain privileges, though: privileges that she didn't take for granted.

The other children in her class sometimes teased her for spending so much time in the factory, but she knew that secretly they were jealous; she overheard them sometimes talking about the robots, and how interesting they were, and how they'd love to get up close to see how they really worked. But no-one but Lily was allowed to do that. She'd have let them come with her if they'd only ask — her father often said that she could bring her friends — but no-one ever did, and she wasn't sure she wanted to.

That's because Lily didn't really have many friends. She'd always been somewhat distant, generally preferring the company of a book from Old Earth or a headset filled with classical music. But her father had seen how much she'd come to life the first time he'd brought her to the factory, and so he'd made special arrangements for her to be able to come and go as she pleased, so long as she was careful.

Trundlebot was particularly special to her, because Trundlebot was the first robot she'd encountered up close. Trundlebot wasn't its real name, of course, but Lily had quickly christened the mechanical giant that after seeing it trundling leisurely around the factory floor, carrying things from one place to another as if it had all the time in the world.

Trundlebot wasn't the most efficient or advanced model in the factory, but Lily's father had kept it around for as long as it remained functional, since he knew how much the ageing robot meant to his daughter. Even as the rest of the factory was staffed by shiny white plastic automatons with more convincing humanoid forms, Lily still found herself fascinated by the browning metal of Trundlebot; the stereoscopic cameras that formed its eyes; its spindly, awkward yet vaguely humanoid arms; the caterpillar tracks upon which it made its way around the factory.

Lily wasn't so naïve as to believe that Trundlebot knew who she was — she was nearly ten years old, after all; far too old for such childish fancies — but that didn't stop her thinking of it fondly and always spending most of her factory floor visits following the automaton around. Trundlebot was the closest thing she felt she had to a true friend; often, when she knew no-one was watching her, she'd talk to it, spilling forth her deepest, darkest secrets that she didn't even tell her father. She found the experience therapeutic; Trundlebot never judged her for the things she said, and she found sweet release from offloading her emotional baggage in this way.

One day, as spring was just starting to show itself in the colony, Lily headed to the factory after school as she always did, and immediately sought out Trundlebot. It didn't take her long to find it, but something didn't seem quite right: it didn't seem to be "trundling" so much as rolling around the factory floor in a somewhat determined, almost aggressive manner, with a clear purpose. It had always had that sense of purpose about it — it always got the job done, after all — but there was also the distinct impression that it would do things at its own pace and wouldn't be rushed. It reminded Lily in many ways of an elderly man pottering around his garden; plenty of things to do, and all the time in the world to do them one at a time.

Today, though, Trundlebot seemed to be moving with unusual efficiency and speed. It didn't look at all right, and it concerned Lily somewhat.

"What do you think?" said her father, walking up behind her and placing his hand gently on her shoulder.

"What did you do to him?" asked Lily. "He's… different." Lily always personified Trundlebot as a "he", despite the robot technically being completely genderless.

"We upgraded its drive components," said her father. "They were getting a little worn, so we took the opportunity to put some more efficient parts in there." Here he lowered his voice. "Plus between you and me, the bosses have been getting on my back to get it sorted out for a while. It's the weak link in the process."

Lily did not like this at all, but she just pouted and said nothing. Despite the new-found spring in its step, it was still Trundlebot, after all. She spent her usual few hours following it around the factory floor, this time having to jog to keep up with her mechanical companion. After a few short minutes, she found herself enjoying the exercise, and it wasn't until she was on her way home that she started to think about the old Trundlebot and how the new one differed from it.

Lily continued to visit the factory every day, and eventually became accustomed to her robotic friend's new-found burst of almost youthful vigour. But then something else changed, and she found herself once again feeling a little strange.

This time around, Trundlebot's spindly arms had been replaced with what appeared to be more heavy-duty lifting apparatus: large metal claws on the end of thick, almost muscular-looking arms wrapped in flexible plastic tubing, like that seen on a vacuum hose but about five times the diameter. Lily watched it from a distance for a little while; its new arms allowed it to lift much heavier, more cumbersome objects, and when combined with its new drive parts, it was doing so with remarkable efficiency.

"What did you do now?" she said, sensing her father walking up behind her.

"Well, I think you can see," said her father. "It's been working out." He chuckled.

Lily pouted again, and said nothing. Her father, sensing something amiss, continued.

"We've been starting to deal with much heavier materials now that the Arcology project is underway," he said. "It made sense to upgrade its lifting apparatus, as it just wouldn't have been able to cope otherwise."

Reluctantly, Lily found herself forced to agree; better that Trundlebot could continue doing its job than be consigned to the scrap-heap simply because it wasn't able to do the work any more. As it passed by, its stereoscopic vision cameras looked right at her, and she felt like she had made "eye contact" with the machine; it was still her friend in there.

Once again, the weeks passed by, and Lily gradually became accustomed to Trundlebot's new, more physically imposing form. On one occasion, her father took manual control of Trundlebot with the override device — essentially a remote control for any of the robots on the factory floor — and made it pick her up in its big, powerful arms. She was delighted, and found herself with an uncontrollable desire to fling her young, skinny arms around the cold, metallic neck of the automaton; it wasn't quite a hug, but it was near enough.

Summer came, and the colony enjoyed a heatwave. It was delightful weather; the sun shone in clear skies, and it was pleasantly warm without being uncomfortable. Even Lily, who generally preferred to stay indoors if at all possible, spent some time out in the sun, though she quickly found that her pale skin was more inclined to burn than tan.

One particularly hot afternoon, Lily went to the factory in the hopes of cooling off. The air conditioning inside the building usually kept things pleasantly temperate all year round, but today she was surprised to discover that it was almost as hot inside the factory as it was outside. Still, the shade inside the building afforded some respite from the rays of the sun, at least; the skin on her arms was still a little tender and was peeling in a few places, so she had no particular desire to remain outside.

She looked around for Trundlebot as usual, but was surprised to discover that it appeared to be nowhere to be seen. She walked around, calling out its "name" a few times before realising how foolish that was and continuing her search in silence. All she saw were the more modern humanoid-form robots going about their business; they ignored her for the most part, only acknowledging her presence by stepping around her when she was directly in their path as they proceeded to their next task.

Eventually, eyes widening, she saw a figure that was simultaneously familiar and strange to her. There was the base with the caterpillar tracks; there was the body of browning metal; there were the big, powerful arms that she had grown used to, but atop the body was not the familiar cuboid "head" sporting the stereoscopic vision cameras she knew as Trundlebot's "face"; instead, there was a white plastic ellipsoid atop the body.

With a mechanical whir, the robot turned around and revealed the front of its new "head"; a black screen sporting glowing green symbols clearly designed to resemble a face. As it turned to face Lily, the symbols changed to an approximation of a smiling, cheerful face, and then something very surprising happened.

"Hello. Lily," said the robot in an awkward synthesised voice. Lily didn't respond. She was frozen to the spot, but the robot was starting to advance on her; slowly this time, somewhat more akin to Trundlebot's old pace.

As the robot got close enough to have grabbed Lily with its arms, she blinked away sudden tears, shook her head and took a step back. The robot advanced again, the smiling face still glowing on its screen.

"Li. Ly," it said again.

"What do you think?" said her father, who had seen her come in earlier but had only just caught up to where she had ended up. He had a smile on his face. "Not strictly by the book, but I thought you'd like it."

The robot stopped in front of her. She looked at its still-smiling face, then her lip started to quiver, tears started to fall from her eyes and an uncontrollable sob escaped her.

Then she ran; past the big factory machines, past the oblivious humanoid robots, out into the heat of the summer's day. She kept running until she was no longer anywhere near the factory; she had come to the main recreational area of the colony, an area of lush greenery that sported a large tree she had spent many a time sitting under contemplating the meaning of life in as much depth as an almost-ten-year-old can muster.

She headed straight for the tree and sat down in the shade, her back resting against the trunk. She hugged her knees close to herself, then buried her head in them and began to cry in earnest.

She wasn't stupid. She knew why all this had happened. She knew that Trundlebot had been on borrowed time for a long while now, and that her father had kept it around to appease her for as long as possible. She knew that this last modification was done entirely with her in mind, as a way to give her a true friend rather than an unthinking, unfeeling automaton who saw the world through primitive stereoscopic cameras.

But she found herself resenting her father for that. He had tried to make Trundlebot better: a better worker; a better robot; a better friend for Lily. But in doing so he had gradually eroded the things that made Trundlebot Trundlebot in Lily's mind, until now there was all but nothing left of the robot she had loved.

She wept for her lost mechanical friend with an intense sadness she hadn't felt since the loss of her mother a year ago. The feelings were all too familiar: a sense of abandonment, of things being beyond her control, of the universe being just so damned unfair all the time. She wept until there were no more tears to cry, then she watched the sun set, the clear blue skies giving way to pinks and golds, and eventually fading away completely to reveal the starry sky. She had never felt more alone and insignificant.

Lily never went back to the factory after that, and she never quite forgave her father; but Trundlebot as he once was lived on in her memory, and would remain there for as long as she lived.

The post 1849: The Factory Floor appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I got home from work about ten minutes ago. I am exhausted. I spend up to three hours of my day travelling to and from work thanks to an absolutely hellish commute that I can't see a way around (aside from just quitting, which isn't a practical or desirable option), which means that on weekdays up to 12 hours of my time is taken up with Stuff I Have To Do rather than Stuff I Want To Do. This makes the few hours I have in the evenings to actually do Stuff I Want To Do extremely precious to me, and churning out 1,500-2,000 words a day in a story where I'm not entirely sure where it's heading eats into that time and is starting to feel a bit like an obligation rather than something fun to do.

I like writing. I really like writing. I wouldn't have been posting this bullshit for 1,823 days if I didn't. But there are days when I need a break, and to relax, and to post something that just vents a bit of steam, or gives thanks to a higher power for an entertaining dog I saw on the street or something like that. I've always said with regard to this blog that the moment it starts feeling like work rather than something I actually want to do, I need to stop. So far that hasn't happened — it's come close a few times, but I've always managed to find something to write about day after day, even if the post ends up being little more than a glorified diary entry. (Still, those posts can often be the ones that spark the most conversations or give you, dear readers, the best insights into what goes on inside the messed-up mind I call my own.)

The stuff I've been writing, though, I need a break. That is feeling like work, and given how tired I am when I get in of an evening, more "work" is the last thing I want to think about. I want to sit down, have some dinner, watch some TV, play some games, go to bed and then repeat the whole hideous process over and over again until it's time for a weekend. (I really like my weekends now, which is one arguably positive thing about life having a proper job with the rest of the normal people.)

So, then, I'm sorry to anyone reading that this disappoints, but I've learned throughout my life that if you keep doing something when you don't really want to, you start to resent it, and any joy it once held for you is lost. I don't want that to happen with writing — creative fiction writing or otherwise — so it's time to take a step back, chill out, relax, and perhaps return to it at some point in the future. Or perhaps do something else entirely! Who knows. That's the joy of being freeform.

Anyway. I need to go and sit on the sofa, lean my head back and groan about how tired I am for a bit. Then eat dinner. Then play some games. Then… well, I went through the routine above.

Thanks for continuing to read!

The post 1823: Pondering Free Time appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

But this time things were different. This time, he was not in full control of what he was doing: this time, he was being pushed on to a destination he did not yet know against his will. This time, he was being controlled.

And he was aware of it, too. But there was nothing he could do about it. He remembered the suspect from the Stacey Barman case showing up, with something terribly wrong about his appearance, and shortly after that he'd become this… husk, this shell, this automaton, albeit an automaton that had consciousness and life behind its eyes, even if it wasn't in control of its own destiny.

The day was just beginning, but Wilkins knew it would be busy in the city. It was the first day of the big sales, and he was supposed to be part of the team ensuring that the crowds didn't get too out of hand. He hadn't expected them to, not in a peaceful city like this, but the force had considered it prudent to have a certain amount of presence in the area just in case anyone did feel like starting something.

He was dressed in his police uniform. He didn't feel like he deserved to wear it in his current state, but that was out of his control. He was being led ever onwards towards the centre of the city, and realised that whatever had him under its control — that Thompson character, he assumed — was sending him towards where the crowds would be.

But why? That was the question that kept rattling around inside his head, and he had no good answer — no good way of finding out, either, save for just letting this experience run its course. He didn't even have sufficient control over himself to speak, so he was unable to ask Thompson before he left, and now there was no-one to ask, no-one to plead with, no way of crying out for help.

He rounded the corner onto the main street, and saw the shopping area ahead of him. Although it was early in the morning, people were already gathering, waiting for the shopping centre to open, milling around, laughing and talking with one another. They had no idea of the Darkness that crept among them.

Wilkins walked into the thick of the crowd, most people moving out of the way respectfully as they saw his uniform. When he was right in the middle of the throng of people, he stopped and did nothing. He just waited: one minute, two minutes, three minutes.

What was he waiting for? The conscious part of his mind found how still his body was standing to be somewhat eerie; he imagined the people milling around him probably felt somewhat similar. In his experience, the average member of the public was somewhat awkward around police officers; under normal circumstances, he'd have found it quite amusing, but today, he felt that their unease with him was more than a little justified.

The doors to the centre opened and people started piling in. There was some good-natured bumping and joshing, but things didn't feel like they were out of control. Wilkins felt himself swept along in the tide of people, moving as part of the group as if it was a single living mass and he was just a cell that made up the organism as a whole.

As he entered the centre, he started to feel a change within his body. He felt an energy rising within him; it was warm, but unsettling. His head began to throb, and, blinking, he saw the world twist and shift before his eyes: what he knew as the "real" world shifting back and forth to the strange, dark world he'd caught a glimpse of before.

The energy continued to rise in him until he felt like he was going to explode. Then he did.

At least, it felt like it.

The energy was released from him in all directions in an explosive rush. Tangible darkness seemed to seep from every part of his body; black clouds billowing out all around him.

Some people gasped; others screamed; others still didn't seem to notice at all. The dark miasma swirled around them and seemed to be absorbed right in to some of the people; as this happened, they stopped what they were doing, became quiet and glassy-eyed, and just waited.

The noise was terrible and indescribable. Then the pain came, and Wilkins found himself suddenly in control of his body again as the dark energy continued to emanate from him. He sank to his knees, letting out a scream — the first noise he'd been able to make of his own free will for what felt like years — and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

The dark miasma gradually stopped swirling and faded from sight. Those who had been touched by it and rooted to the spot found themselves able to move again, with no memory of what had happened before. Those who had witnessed the curious happenings suddenly found themselves unconvinced that they had really seen what they thought they had seen, and then they shrugged, went about their business and left Wilkins just lying on the ground, forgotten.

"Well, that went better than I expected," said the shadowy figure to Magnus. They had been standing nearby, watching the whole thing. Magnus didn't understand what was happening, but he felt that it probably wasn't a good thing. Given the frightening power on display, however, he thought better of acting immediately; he felt he needed to understand the situation a little better first. So he took the direct approach.

"What just happened?" he asked. The shadowy figure laughed.

"Well," she said. "You could maybe think of it as a… recruitment drive."

"Recruitment?" he asked. She did not elaborate. He felt he would probably find out soon — and that it probably related to the strange feeling of something being amiss that he had felt a short while ago.

The post 1822: Untitled, Chapter 13 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Dora was miserable. She didn't think she'd ever been so miserable, and the last person she would have expected to cause such misery would be someone claiming to represent the "Light" and the "greater good" in the world.

But here she was. She wasn't bound and she wasn't a prisoner but she might as well have been: the golden figure had made it abundantly clear that he had a lot of plans for her, and that to go against his will would be a very bad idea indeed.

And so here she was, still holed up in the abandoned church, which appeared to be her companion's main base of operations, although he didn't appear to have any "staff" as such. It appeared to be a solitary operation, or at least it had been until she had come along.

She was still unsure of his endgame. He kept mentioning the "greater good" and "saving" people from the "Darkness", but she still didn't really know what that meant outside of what she had already seen from Magnus. Was she the only other representative of "Light"? Was Magnus, for that matter, the only other representative of "Dark"? Why, for that matter, were they fighting? It all seemed so neat, tidy and utterly clichéd that were the evidence not all around her, she wouldn't have believed any of this were possible for a moment.

She wasn't sure how many days had passed since she had been brought here, but she felt like it had been several. Oddly, she didn't feel at all tired or hungry despite not having slept or eaten; the light within her seemed to sustain and feed her at all times.

What a boring existence, she thought, pondering a life sustained only by the light. Imagine a world without cake, or chocolate, or pie. How awful that must be.

Over the course of her captivity, she had come to learn a little more about the powers she seemingly had. She could fly, much like her companion, and she could move at superhuman speed — the latter she already knew, of course, following her strange experience shortly after all this had begun. But she also had more subtle powers: powers to break and to mend; powers to manipulate both matter and the mind. She hadn't had the opportunity to try the latter as yet, but she could feel the capability within herself; she wasn't in any hurry to find out, however, particularly as she vividly recalled how the golden figure — clearly magnitudes of power stronger than her — had forced her to do things as a demonstration of both his power and what she might be capable of. She hadn't enjoyed the demonstrations.

Under less oppressive circumstances, she might have enjoyed learning about and discovering her new powers, but she knew that she'd never have the freedom to explore them fully, as the golden figure was never far away, and as he'd said to her, she would not be able to just use the Light as she saw fit. She had to think of the greater good, whatever that was, and whoever defined it.

"Soon," said the golden figure suddenly after a long period of silence. Dora hated those long periods of silence, as they made her feel more lonely than ever. The golden figure wasn't someone she could just talk to, after all; he seemed to have no interest whatsoever in her as a person, caring only for whatever his eventual goal was.

"Soon," he said again, turning to her. "The time is almost right. Then you'll see. The world will see. The world will understand. The world will come to know the Light."

"How?" she cried, throwing up her hands in frustration. It wasn't the first time she had asked this question, because it wasn't the first time the golden figure had given a similar speech. Today felt a little different, however: there was more… she wasn't sure if she wanted to say emotion in the speech, but there was certainly a noticeably greater intensity about it.

"The world shall be bathed in a cleansing Light," he said, sounding like an increasingly excited preacher. "All who are touched by it shall be judged. And the righteous shall rule at our side, and the corrupted shall bow down to us and serve us. The world will be a better place, for the greater good."

He turned away from her and faced the sanctuary of the church.

"It begins… now."

The figure clenched its fists, and Dora became dimly aware of what appeared to be a low rumbling sound. She couldn't tell what it was initially, but then she felt the ground begin to shake beneath her feet; a slight vibration at first, a sensation that brought unprompted to her mind the memory of her student flat where the washing machine that belonged to the people downstairs used to make her floor vibrate.

But then it grew, and it was no longer the odd, unexpected source of a memory: it was frightening. The intensity of the tremors grew and grew and grew, and Dora was sure she could feel the very earth shifting beneath her feet. The floor of the church remained intact, though, even as the shaking caused empty candlesticks to fall over and roll down the aisle, vases of long-dead plants to fall from their pedestals and shatter on the floor, and the long-dormant, powerless light fittings in the ceiling to swing violently from side to side.

Oddly, the many candles which had flared to life at the golden figure's command when they had first arrived remained solidly and stubbornly where they had always been, defying the laws of physics — though by now, Dora thought with grim amusement, this was nothing new to her.

"Come," said the golden figure, apparently unperturbed by the violent shaking of the earth and extending his hand to Dora in an uncharacteristic symbol of cooperation. She pointedly refused to take his hand, but did follow him as he started to walk down the aisle towards the large front doors of the church.

"Behold," he said dramatically as he opened the doors. She walked up to the opening, feeling the cool breeze coming in and stirring up the air for what felt like the first time in years.

She had expected to see something peculiar when she peered out of the doors, but she hadn't been quite ready for this.

The church was no longer where it had been, sat in the depths of forgotten countryside. Instead, it now sat atop a huge golden spire that glowed with the same radiance as the golden figure and, indeed, at times, herself. It illuminated the surrounding area for what looked like miles, making the night almost as bright as day.

She stepped out of the door and onto the surface of the golden spire; there was a good few feet between the church doorway and the unprotected edge, so she got as close as she dared and looked down.

The spire was a long way up; she didn't feel she could accurately judge the altitude, but she knew that a fall from here for a normal person would be immediately fatal and probably extremely messy. She started to feel dizzy as she gazed down at the ground far below the spire, so she quickly stepped back from the edge and back into the church doorway.

"It begins," the golden figure said again. "And now we have work to do."

*       *       *       *        *

Magnus felt something amiss the moment it happened, even though he was preoccupied.

A terrified Wilkins gazed up at him, saying nothing. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was incapable of saying anything.

Magnus had not seen himself in a mirror for a while now, and he indeed cut an imposing, intimidating, even terrifying figure. His features were twisted by the darkness that flowed through him, and as his powers had grown he had begun to emanate what appeared to be a dark miasma. And, as he had grown in strength, he had become less able to shut his powers off and appear "normal". The shadowy figure had described this phenomenon as the Embrace: allowing the Darkness into his body and mind so completely that he was becoming one with it.

Magnus found himself surprised at how unafraid he was with this situation. He welcomed the Darkness; it had been a friend to him when he had no-one else, and now it was rewarding him with these powers.

But how was he supposed to use them? Why was he here, really? The shadowy figure had told him to protect Wilkins, but there had been no sign of any threats to his wellbeing — although Wilkins clearly interpreted Magnus' presence as a threat to his wellbeing.

That is, there had been no sign of any threats until now. He couldn't tell what was different — what was wrong — but he knew as soon as it had happened. And he knew that bad times were coming.

He looked Wilkins in the eyes and frowned. The world seemed to bend and shift around the two of them, and Wilkins gave a low groan, slumping back in his chair as he did so. His head lolled back limply as he groaned and moaned again, then it rolled forwards again. Then Wilkins looked up at Magnus, this time with a blank, glassy stare, all trace of the previous terror gone.

"Master," he said.

Now it was Magnus' turn to be terrified. Had he done this? He hadn't meant to. What did it mean? How did he undo it? Should he undo it?

"Shit," he said to himself. "Did I mess this up?"

"No," said the shadowy figure, stepping out of a nearby wall. "No, you're doing just fine."

She clapped her hands once, twice, three times; a slow, sarcastic clap. Magnus had the feeling that he was being played, but he couldn't tell how. He had trusted the shadowy figure up until this point, but he was starting to have second thoughts. Who was she? What did she want with him? And why had he, of all the people in the world, been chosen for… whatever task she had in mind for him?

The post 1820: Untitled, Chapter 12 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Several days passed. Wilkins had not gone back into work the day after his strange encounter; he had not gone back to work at all since, in fact. So concerned was he for his own mental wellbeing — seeing things that clearly could not be true was probably, after all, a sign that something was very wrong indeed — that he'd taken himself straight to his doctor and demanded to be signed off work with stress.

As he sat in his bed, staring at the wall, he wasn't sure that taking himself out of situations involving other human beings had been quite the right thing to do. He found himself alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts, it turned out, weren't overly friendly. They seemingly wanted him to suffer, to recall bad things that had happened in the past — and to worry about bad things happening in the present. He knew that even as he sat there, motionless, the enquiry into the disappearance of Thompson would be doing its best to trawl up any evidence of negligence on the part of Wilkins, and Wilkins knew full well that there was plenty of it, given his general feeling of detachment and disillusionment that he'd been feeling recently.

He'd lost count of the days since he'd last been in to work; he reckoned maybe a week or more. His house had been well-stocked with food and other supplies, though, so he hadn't needed to leave once, and so he hadn't. Now, though, he was starting to get down to the food at the back of the cupboard — things that had been bought and forgotten about months, even years ago, but which were designed to see people through an apocalypse with at least a bare minimum of nutrition.

He got up and walked to his kitchen, boiled the kettle and prepared a cup full of noodles for himself. The smell that emanated from the mug was less than appetising, but at least it was something to eat, and Wilkins had found, ever since delving into the food at the back of the cupboard, that the artificial flavourings in these instant "meal in a pouch" things were surprisingly tasty and satisfying, at least in the short term; he felt hungry less than an hour later, in most cases, but at least they provided something to do, if nothing else.

He hadn't had a repeat of the encounter in his bedroom since it had happened, and he struggled to understand its implications. Who was the strange, shadowy figure? What happened to his room? What did it all mean? Was it real, or was it just a manifestation of the pressure his brain was feeling at the moment?

It wouldn't be long before he'd get an answer.

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus deftly hopped from rooftop to rooftop noiselessly, breaking his fall each time with wings of darkness. He'd been surprised and delighted at how quickly he'd come to understand the peculiar changes that had come across him, and he was starting to enjoy using them. The shadowy figure, which occasionally showed up and suggested that he maybe try doing things a little bit differently, had helped him on his path, but for the most part he had explored his capabilities for himself and come to realise that he was, in human terms, virtually indestructible and capable of numerous physics-defying feats.

The strange black tendrils that could now erupt from his hands to order proved to be his most versatile assets. In just the last few days, he'd used them to climb up a seemingly unscalable wall, to give a mugger — and, for that matter, his victim — the fright of his life, and as a somewhat self-satisfied demonstration to the shadowy figure one evening, to retrieve a coffee cup from the kitchen without leaving his seat.

One thing had bothered Magnus initially. Although his new powers were exciting — not to mention a little bit frightening — they did have one impact on his life that he wasn't sure what to make of: they served to distance himself further from normal existence. There was no way around this, of course, and he knew this: there is no way that one can become capable of superhuman leaps between buildings, physics-defying stunts and the ability to summon dark tendrils to do one's bidding and in any way hope that one's life would remain in any way "normal". But still it bothered him a little, at least to begin with: as time passed and he grew more confident with each of his strange powers, however, it started to bother him less and less; he started to realise that his "normal" existence was nothing but a dark and miserable place where very few people cared about him — Dora being the obvious exception — whereas now, now he had the ability to make a difference, both for good and for ill: his powers gave him the ability to both help and hurt, and, in an attempt to understand the situation better — and at the urging of the shadowy figure — he had done both of these things.

Both the "helping" and the "hurting" had come in the aforementioned case of the mugger. Magnus had been out practising his ability to leap and float between rooftops when he had spotted the unfolding situation in a darkened alley he was familiar with from a few years back: although unlit and rather frightening to walk through late at night, it was a popular thoroughfare for student revellers returning from an evening's debauchery at a local nightclub: it was a quick, direct route between the street which housed both the nightclub and a fine selection of questionable kebab shops, and the main student residential area in the city. Because of its popularity and usual level of activity, it remained surprisingly free of crime; certainly during Magnus' time as a student, he'd never known of anyone getting attacked there. The girl had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She'd been walking home slightly unsteadily; she was tipsy, but not falling-down drunk. She was, however, alone; a disagreement with her friends earlier in the evening had seen her storm off in anger, desiring nothing more than to get back home to her nice warm bed and forget about the silly things alcohol makes people do. A lone, vulnerable girl had proven too tempting a target to resist for her assailant, who had been casually walking back and forth around the area, up and down the alleyway, for the past hour or two. So unremarkable a figure he cut that no-one had paid him any mind; most people passing through the area were on their way somewhere, so had no way of knowing that he had been loitering with intent. But he had.

He'd followed the girl in the alleyway and struck quickly, grabbing her from behind and covering her mouth, threatening her not to scream. Then he shoved her violently against a wall and drew a pocket knife. She couldn't have screamed even if she did think it was a good idea; she was too terrified to even move, let alone make a sound.

Magnus saw all of this, as did the shadowy figure, who had been accompanying him. She urged him on to intervene, to test out his powers and the way in which he should respond to a situation. She encouraged him not to think, just to feel, and to do what felt most natural, to do what his instincts told him to.

Magnus had leapt down into the alleyway, floating noiselessly to the ground a short distance from the confrontation. The lack of lighting in the alleyway meant that his entrance had gone unnoticed; the pair were still far too preoccupied with their own situation.

Before he could let himself think about what was the "right" thing to do, Magnus caused the black tendrils to erupt from his hands, and they charged through the night air until they ensnared the girl's assailant. They wrapped around his legs and around his body, binding him like a constrictor snake traps its prey, and slowly started to squeeze the life out of the mugger. Gasping for breath, his face going pale, the mugger attempted in vain to remove the tendrils from around his body, but they were far too tight, and touching them gave him an indescribable sensation of terror that he had no desire to repeat ever again.

He knew that he was going to die; he resigned himself to it. Magnus felt it, and he knew he had to make a choice, quickly. Without hesitation, he retracted the tendrils, which reversed their course and coiled back into his hands — rather like a vacuum cleaner cord retracting, Magnus thought with detached amusement — to leave the breathless mugger collapsing to his knees, gasping for sweet, sweet air.

The girl, meanwhile, who had been frozen to the spot during this otherworldly display, came to her senses enough to realise that this would be a good opportunity to run far, far away and, perhaps, to never, ever come out from under the covers again.

Tonight, Magnus had come across no such incidents that required his intervention, but he knew now that if he did, he would not hesitate to step in. He had, in his lifetime, read enough superhero comics to know that he needed to use his power responsibly, but he figured that no-one would really object to a few more muggers being taken out of commission.

He wasn't on the hunt for crime tonight, though; he had a greater purpose in mind. The shadowy figure had earlier explained to him the situation of Officer Wilkins, who appeared to be teetering on the cusp of the Darkness. It was Magnus' job to keep him safe and ensure the Light didn't get to him first; it was Magnus' job to ensure that Wilkins didn't end up as another Stacey Barman.

When he thought of the Light, he couldn't help but think of Dora. He hadn't seen her for several days; hadn't even heard from her. Simple, normal things like text messages and phone calls seemed to mundane in the context of his new existence, but he still found himself missing her and worrying about the plans the golden figure had for her; he found himself worrying that they'd end up in a confrontation with one another, and that one would end up having to hurt the other — something that he knew neither of them wanted to do, despite the opposing sides on which they'd found themselves in this otherworldly conflict.

He couldn't get hung up on that now, though; he had more important things to do. He was approaching Wilkins' home — the shadowy figure had known right away where to send Magnus, much to his surprise — and he had a job to do. He hoped that it would be a boring and uneventful job, but he had the sneaking suspicion that, going by the pattern of recent happenings, things were probably not going to be that simple at all.

And he would, it transpired, be right about that.

The post 1819: Untitled, Chapter 11 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Officer James Wilkins slumped back into his sofa and flicked the television on. He hopped through the channels, but as usual, there was nothing interesting to watch; he just wanted some background noise. He eventually settled on some sort of cookery challenge show; it seemed to run with the theme that "celebrities" were not, on average, particularly good at cooking, with some of them even struggling to throw together a convincing omelette.

It had not been a good day. The escape of the suspect Magnus Thompson had raised more than a few eyebrows, particularly as Wilkins had already submitted his report stating that he intended to release him. Thompson apparently still feeling the need to escape despite the fact that he had seemingly been telling the truth in his interviews suggested to Wilkins, Jensen and their superiors that there was perhaps something more to the situation than there had initially appeared; it certainly looked suspicious, anyway.

A big question hung over the case: how on Earth had he done it? The next morning, his cell was empty, but it was locked up just as tight as it had been the previous evening, and there was no evidence that anyone had forced entry — or, indeed, exit. It was simply as if he had never been in there at all, though the paper trail said otherwise, of course. Thompson had been processed just like any other suspect, and there was both written and recorded evidence of his time in the police station; there was just no sign of him whatsoever.

Wilkins sighed and closed his eyes, the dull murmuring of the TV show proving a relaxing backdrop.

He was roused from his almost-slumber by the "ding!" of the bell on the microwave, indicating that his meal for one was ready. He sighed again, pushed himself up out of the soft sofa, which had been threatening to swallow him, and walked through to the kitchen. He emptied the unappetising-looking pasta bake into his last remaining clean bowl, quickly wiped off a fork that was in the sink and took it back into the living room to eat in front of the TV, as was his custom these days.

His heart wasn't really in anything these days. He had once enjoyed his work as a police officer, but nowadays it felt hollow and empty, more like he was enforcing rules for the sake of enforcing them rather than to help make society in any way better. He had actually been excited — and slightly sickened at this admission to himself — to find himself investigating something more interesting than yet another crowd of youths standing on a street corner saying "fuck" a little too loudly for the taste of an old lady who lived close by, or a shoplifting incident whose value added up to less than the price of a packet of cigarettes.

Now, though, this case was proving to be just as troublesome as everything else in his life. The escape of Thompson had, of course, been blamed on him, since he was the last officer to deal with him. There was to be "an enquiry" — the station seemed to launch a thousand of these daily — and he had, for the moment, been temporarily removed from the case pending its findings. He knew that by the time the "enquiry" had finished chewing through the reams of red tape that sustained it, Thompson would be long gone, Barman's body would be in the ground and there would be little hope of ever finding out what the truth really was.

He finished his pasta as the cookery show finished. He put the bowl on the floor and leaned his head back on the sofa, closing his eyes once again. It didn't take him long to drift off to sleep.

*       *       *       *       *

When he awoke, the sun had gone down. The TV was still on; now it seemed to be showing some sort of outdoor survival program, and as Wilkins' eyes came back into focus he was treated to the sight of the presenter gobbling down some sort of beetle-like creature. Wishing he hadn't woken up at that exact moment and wincing, he fumbled around for the remote and flicked the screen off. The room filled with darkness, and he just lay there for a moment, contemplating the silence.

Then he started to think, and he didn't want to do that right now, so he forced himself to stand up, letting out a grunting moan as he did so — he'd been on his feet all day, and his legs were feeling very stiff — and shuffling towards the stairs, intending to head upstairs to bed.

The house was all too quiet now, and far too big for him to live in by himself. This was why he spent the majority of his time when he wasn't working in the living room watching television; it distracted him and kept his mind busy, and prevented him from thinking about why the house was so quiet.

He trudged up the stairs one at a time, pulled off his clothes and got into bed, closing his eyes right away.

"You want to talk about it?" came a voice he'd heard once or twice before. It was soft, feminine, soothing. He knew it wasn't really there, but it brought him comfort nonetheless. He said nothing.

"Uh-huh," said the female voice. "It's been a bad day, I know. And I bet you're thinking that things probably can't get much worse right now, can they?"

His continued his silence.

"Well," said the voice. "What if I told you that the man you're looking for can help you out?"

He opened his eyes and sat up groggily. He blinked a few times, then gave a start. A shadowy female figure seemed to be straddling him, but he felt no weight whatsoever from the figure; she seemed to be completely incorporeal, as if she was made from dark mist. But she was most definitely there; he could see her moving and hear her talking.

As he looked at her, the walls of his room seemed to bend and shift around him; must be my eyes adjusting to the dark, he thought.

Then he considered the strangeness of the situation. There was no way there could be a black, shadowy figure made of mist straddling him, but there seemingly was, so perhaps his walls really were bending and shifting, too?

He reached over to the bedside lamp and tried to switch it on. Nothing happened. The figure did not move, but as his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness — he was at least partly right about what he was experiencing — he started to feel like he could make out things that had not been there before; his walls seemed to be covered in black, scrawled writing: words, phrases, short poems and indecipherable symbols. Everywhere he looked, he saw the strange designs; he didn't know what they were, and they were frightening. But he could not scream; he found himself strangely fascinated, despite the adrenaline of terror rattling around his body.

"What's going on?" he asked in a cracked voice.

"Oh, this?" said the figure, moving off him and gesturing flamboyantly around the room. "It's probably a little early to start getting into the details of it all, but rest assured, all will become very clear very soon indeed. I'm glad that you've seen it, though; that tells me something important that I needed to know. See you soon."

The figure vanished, the room seemed to distort again and suddenly Wilkins was dazzled by the light from his lamp, which apparently he had managed to turn on at some point.

He looked around, his heart racing. His walls were clean, albeit shabby, with the wallpaper peeling here and there, but there was no sign of the strange black scrawl that had been there moments earlier. This was, he was sure, the room he knew very well, but he didn't feel quite so safe and cut off from the rest of the world here any more. Something seemed to be intruding on his sanctuary, and he didn't like it.

Oh how pathetic they'd think I look if they could see me now, he said to himself as he pulled the covers up over his head and hid beneath them, leaving the light on. He closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep, but his mind kept whirling around a cycle of images like a hyperactive slideshow screensaver: first there was his darkened room as he'd seen it a moment ago, then there was Jensen, then Thompson's empty cell, and then there was her face, just for a split second. Then the cycle repeated again, and again, and again.

Wilkins screwed up his face as if this would protect him from the mental assault his own imagination and memories were inflicting on him, but it was to no avail; still the images came, cycling around their sequence faster and faster and faster until, eventually, his exhausted body succumbed to sleep.

The assault continued in his dreams, but this time instead of still images he was reliving those moments. In each instance, he tried as hard as he could to escape, to run away from the things he was seeing, but everywhere he turned, the world seemed to turn with him; he could not get away.

He could just about deal with the simpler images. But then he came to the last situation again, and it was painfully vivid in its detail; he walked up to the gurney with that cold, grey, still body on it, looked up at the medical examiner, nodded his mute agreement that the body was indeed who it was thought she was, and then he found himself just staring down at her face, beautiful even in death, even battered and broken and bloodied as it was. She was still beautiful.

His eyes snapped open and he realised he was covered in sweat and breathing rapidly.

There would be no more sleep tonight.

The post 1818: Untitled, Chapter 10 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

They were flying.

Dora knew that she was in a bad situation, and worried about Magnus, but she couldn't help enjoying the exhilarating experience. The golden figure — whom she had by now met several times before, but was quickly coming to dislike intensely — had snatched her up before she had realised what was going on, and was now carrying her under his arm like a cheap flatscreen TV scored in the January sales; a gift to be taken home as quickly as possible; a prize.

She was insulted by the implications of the way she was being carried, but also knew that were it not for her being carried like this, she might not be able to experience the euphoria of physics-defying flight she was enjoying right now. She felt pulled in two different directions at once; she hated the golden figure for the way he had behaved, but she loved him for the things he was letting her discover.

She had lost track of how long they had been flying or even how far they had travelled; the ground beneath them had flashed by in a blur, and she hadn't been able to make out where they had headed. Abruptly, the flight came to a stop, however; the golden figure slowed and stopped above what appeared to be a country church, then gently lowered himself and his prize to the ground. When his feet touched the ground, he released Dora from beneath his arm, allowing her to stand on her own two feet. She staggered unsteadily; it felt strange both to be on terra firma again, and also to no longer be travelling as fast as they had been.

"Whoa there," said the golden figure. "Take a minute to get your balance back."

Dora frowned. She couldn't understand this bizarre character; as she'd been snatched up, she'd felt like she was being kidnapped, but now he was concerned about her wellbeing? He wasn't restraining her or holding her against her will? What was the deal with him?

Of course, he might as well have been restraining her or holding her against her will, since she had absolutely no idea where they had flown to. She didn't recognise the church, and it appeared to be somewhere in the countryside well outside the city. It was a peaceful, relaxing environment; there wasn't a trace of the perpetual background traffic noise that was everywhere in the city, and instead the only sounds that could be heard were the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze and the occasional hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance.

"Come in," the figure said, approaching the church door and gesturing for her to follow. She hesitated a moment, then followed.

Inside, it was clear that the church wasn't in active use, but it hadn't yet crossed the line into "ruined" territory. It was still fully intact, just abandoned. Rows of pews were covered in a thick layer of dust, sad old candles sitting atop the detachable candlesticks every other row; faded hassocks adorned the backrests of each row. Images of sacred figures gazed down from the stained-glass windows, and the crucified form of Jesus gazed down from his cross that formed the centrepiece of the rood screen dividing the nave from the chancel. It would have been an attractive, quaint little village church had it been in more active use; now, though, it seemed slightly eerie.

"Let there be light!" bellowed the golden figure with exaggerated theatricalism. Instantly, every candle in the church — many of which clearly had not been lit for years — flared to life, filling the church with flickering orange light. It was a spectacular sight, and the golden figure clearly enjoyed every moment of it. Dora couldn't help but be impressed despite her intense dislike of her companion.

"Sorry," he said slyly, turning to her and shrugging. She couldn't see his face, but she could imagine what expression it would have been pulling if she could. It wouldn't be an expression of genuine remorse. "I just can't resist doing that every time. Even when there's no-one else here."

"Okay," she said absently, walking up the aisle. Her bare feet made little sound as she felt the cold tiles beneath them; she knew that if she had come here wearing her favourite shoes, however, that the clopping of the heels would have reverberated for several seconds inside the old building. She paused before the rood screen and gazed up at the crucifix for a moment, contemplating the son of God's sad-looking face as he willingly submitted himself to his "punishment" and supposedly died for the world's sins.

Dora had never really believed in religion, but then if anyone had told her that one night she would be swept away to the middle of nowhere by a radiant golden figure who could fly, she wouldn't have believed them either. She found herself wondering what else was out there that she had taken for granted as not being true — or what strange and wonderful things there might be in the world that she had never even thought of once.

The church was silent for a moment. Then Dora turned from the screen and faced her companion.

"Why am I here?" she asked mildly. Her earlier exhilaration was giving way to irritability, but she did her best not to let that show; she could see from her companion's encounter with Magnus that he was not someone to be trifled with, despite his apparently flippant attitude.

"You're going to help me," he said. He was confident in his statement, even though he hadn't discussed it with her. This annoyed her further; she was her own person, and she didn't exactly relish the thought of taking orders from this… was "person" even the right word?

"What makes you think I want to?" she said. Her facade of calm was quickly fading. "And what am I supposed to be helping you with?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," he said. "And we've already been through this."

It was true: they had. Dora hadn't given the full story to Magnus when they had compared stories shortly after their respective strange experiences had begun. While their experiences had been, for the most part, fairly similar, despite the opposition of the light and dark perspectives, there was one key way in which they had differed: what their apparent objectives were. Magnus had mentioned that his own strange companion figure had said something about the balance between the light and dark being thrown out; what Dora had not shared, meanwhile, was the fact that the golden figure standing before her right now had taken a somewhat different view of the situation: he had informed her that she was going to play a key role in wiping out and destroying the darkness completely and utterly.

"Think about it," her companion continued. "Consider your shadowy friend we saw earlier — Marcus, was it?"

"Magnus," she corrected him, though she had a feeling the error was deliberate rather than based on poor memory.

"Your friend is consumed by Darkness," he continued, ignoring her comment. "Wouldn't you like to help him? Wouldn't you like to stop his pain? Haven't you thought to yourself time after time that you want to save him?"

She said nothing. She couldn't deny any of the things that her companion was saying, but she knew that his interpretation of them differed very much from her own, particularly if the sad case of Stacey Barman was anything to go by. She had little doubt in her mind that her companion genuinely did see his murder of Stacey Barman — for Magnus' story had convinced her beyond question that the golden figure was responsible for the girl's death — as "saving" her; as releasing her from pain.

That, in itself, was frightening, but what frightened her more was the dawning realisation that assumptions and associations she rarely had cause to consciously think about were being proven wrong every moment: she had always made the unconscious mental connection between the concept of "Light" and the concept of "Good", but it was rapidly becoming clear to her that this most certainly was not the case, at least not if her companion was anything to go by. Similarly, despite Magnus' embrace of — or at least being taken in by — the Darkness, did not make him an agent of "Evil".

She knew him too well to think of him as evil. She knew him too well to believe that he could ever commit an evil act, even with his new powers: if he was truly evil, he would have wanted to exact revenge on the one who broke his heart, but instead, despite how deep into the darkness of despair that woman had sent him, he remained contemplative and accepted his own role in the way things had gone; he had taken responsibility for the things he had done as much as he had blamed her for the way in which she had handled things. She admired that, and wasn't sure she could do the same thing, and yet she was the one who found herself infused with light and radiance?

"Well?" said her companion.

"I do," she said defiantly. "But I'm going to do it my way."

He laughed at her. Then he stopped abruptly.

"Oh, you're serious," he said gravely. "How adorable. I'm not sure you quite understand the situation. So let me put it in terms you might be able to comprehend."

He walked slowly up the aisle towards her, his golden radiance seeming to grow as he did so. Although the sight was quite beautiful, she also found it spine-chilling. She didn't know what was going to happen next, but it wasn't long before she found out.

"Kneel," he said, pointing to her. She complied immediately.

"Grovel," he said, his finger still pointing at her in an accusatory manner. She complied again, touching her head to the floor in a gesture of complete supplication.

"I don't think you understand," he said again. "You cannot just use the Light as you see fit. Everything we do is for the greater good. And you need to learn that. You need to learn to put aside selfish concerns and think of the greater good. You need to learn. Stand."

She stood.

His arm still outstretched, her companion opened his hand, palm outwards towards her, and she felt herself lifting off the ground, her bare feet no longer touching the cold, chipped tiles of the old church's floor. She was flying, floating, completely out of control of her own body. She floated until she felt something digging into her back, and realised that she had been pushed up against the rood screen; the sharp thing in her back was, presumably, the crucifix she had contemplated earlier. Now she was the one in the submissive position, but she didn't feel like her sacrifice, unwilling as it was, was going to achieve anything.

Nor, it seemed, did her companion. He clenched his fist and pulled back his elbow. As if yanked by invisible chains, she was pulled to the ground, her whole body slamming to the ground with great force.

Such was the shock of the sudden movement that it took several seconds for the pain to register. Then, suddenly, it was everywhere in her body; she couldn't move; she felt like all her bones had been broken. The agony was so much that she felt like she would pass out — then, as quickly as it had come, the pain was gone again, and she found herself being helped to her feet.

Surprised that she could stand and tears still falling from the corner of her eyes from the agony of just a moment ago, she looked at her assailant, who just nodded.

No, she thought. Light was not Good at all.

The post 1817: Untitled, Chapter 9 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

He wasn't sure where else to go.

He hadn't immediately decided to head for Dora's house; he'd just picked a direction and started running. But it wasn't long before he realised that he'd naturally picked that direction, and it seemed as good a place as any to go.

Quickly he found himself surprised at his own stamina; although he'd occasionally made an effort to try and get some exercise, he still considered himself massively unfit, but tonight was different: he didn't feel the slightest bit out of breath, even after running up the big hill which the police station was at the bottom of, nor did his muscles ache.

Shortly after this thought, he realised that he was moving a lot more quickly than he should have been able to, much to the surprise of the drunken vagrant lying propped up against a crumbling brick wall outside the train station. As Magnus swept past, the vagrant was knocked onto his side, his paper bag-clad bottle of cheap cider skittering away as it fell from his hand; the golden nectar that helped him forget life's troubles dribbling on to the street and down a nearby drain. He did not move to reclaim it; indeed, although he did not know it right now, his last mouthful this evening would turn out to be the last drop of alcohol he ever touched.

Magnus did not concern himself with his surroundings, nor with what anyone who might see him streaking through the city streets at an improbable velocity might think. He simply headed for his destination, following the route he would have taken were he driving his car; his mind strangely clear and focused. This didn't feel the same as when the primal instinct had taken over shortly after he'd discovered Stacey Barman's body; he felt in control, this time; he felt powerful.

But he also felt afraid. It was a dull feeling pushed to the back of his mind by his determination to reach his destination as quickly as possible, but it was there nonetheless. What he was doing should have been completely, physically impossible, but the wind whipping his hair and biting at the skin on his face certainly felt real.

The city streets seemed deserted as they flashed past in a blur. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he guessed it must have been late — or early. He wasn't sure how much time had passed between him being locked in the cell and his strange, unexplainable escape, but he guessed it must have been a few hours at least. Night had already fallen when the officers finished questioning him — they would probably have a few more for him now, if they ever saw him again, that is — and the hour had gotten sufficiently late for the lights to go out, after all.

It didn't matter. He needed to get to Dora. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he reached her, but right now she felt like the only person who could help him deal with the situation, so ever onwards he ran, until he found himself coming into her familiar street. He slowed and eventually stopped in front of her house, unsure of how to announce his presence. He didn't have his phone with him, after all, and he didn't want to raise a commotion if the hour was as late as he thought it probably was.

It turned out he didn't need to worry. Not long after he arrived outside her house, Dora's front door opened, she stepped out and slowly began to walk towards him. Almost imperceptibly at first, she began to glow; as she approached, with each step the radiance seemed to grow within her until her features were all but obscured, and Magnus was reminded, with a certain degree of horror, of the golden figure he had chased away from Stacey Barman's murder scene.

A dark thought entered his mind, but he pushed it out; he knew that Dora hadn't done this, because Stacey Barman's assailant had been, as closely as he could tell, male. Although the brightness of the light emanating from Dora was almost blinding at this point, her form was still recognisably female; although she was still wearing her night clothes, the light bursting forth from her made her figure clearly visible through the material. Magnus' heart ached as he gazed upon the literally radiant figure of the woman he could never have.

"Hi," she said, her voice eerily calm; almost devoid of emotion.

"Hi," he said, equally coldly.

The two just stared at one another for a moment. Silence reigned around them; time seemed to stand still. The world seemed to bend and shift, but it neither became the dark, twisted world that Magnus had come to recognise, and nor did it become the bright but chilling world Dora had come to know. It simply seemed to wobble in a state of not-quite-reality, but neither of the two took their eyes from the other.

Magnus was the first to move. He extended his right arm in front of him; he was unsurprised to notice that it had taken on the battered, gnarled, darkened appearance he had previously seen when his strange powers had previously manifested. The fear was still there in the back of his mind, but he was coming to recognise this strange phenomenon now; it was part of him, whether he liked it or not, so he was going to have to come to accept it.

After a moment, Dora reached out with her right arm, too, her hand outstretched. She moved it slowly towards Magnus' hand until the pair of them were almost touching, the tension between them almost palpable.

Then, a flash of golden light, and Magnus was knocked backwards with great force. He landed on his backside and was winded; the first time he had felt aware of his body's physical limitations since the long run from the city centre. He looked up; standing in front of Dora was the same golden figure he'd seen before. It put its hands on its hips defiantly and looked down at him: the triumphant hunter gazing down at his cornered quarry right before he finished it off for good.

Neither the golden figure nor Magnus said anything, but Dora gave a shout of surprise as the former lunged at the latter, moving so quickly that he simply seemed to be in one place one moment, and another the next. Magnus, still on the ground, rolled out of the way to escape just in time, but he was still at a clear disadvantage, even with his staggered assailant.

The golden figure was angered by his unsuccessful attack and let out a howl of rage.

"Die!" he cried, obviously preparing to lunge again. But this time, Magnus was ready. The tendrils erupted from his hands again; one swept the golden figure's legs out from beneath him, and another knocked him aside, sending him skittering across the street as if he weighed no more than a cardboard box.

Magnus leapt to his feet with agility that surprised himself and turned to face his floored opponent, the situation now reversed from what it had been a moment ago. But the disparity didn't last for long; his attacker rolled backwards and nimbly leapt to his feet, clearly undeterred by how his quarry was proving to be something of a feisty one.

The golden figure swept towards Magnus at lightning velocity once again; once again, Magnus deftly sidestepped, but missed with the dark tendrils this time. The attack came again; his assailant was nothing if not predictable. And again, and again; every time, Magnus dodged the assault, the pair of them indulging in a peculiar dance as Dora looked on.

But Magnus didn't realise that the golden figure very much had a set of steps in mind for the pair of them until it was much too late; with his last lunge he didn't aim for Magnus at all, and instead snatched up Dora's surprised figure, still glowing with an intense radiance, and streaked off into the distance with a chilling laugh.

Magnus was left standing alone. The world, which had been shimmering between light and dark moments ago, began to fade out, and as he sank to his knees all trace of the light and vibrance that had been here a moment ago was gone, and he was once again surrounded by the despairing words and scrawled symbols that seemed to cover every surface.

Was he destined to be alone? Was this how it was always going to be? Was this what the conflict between light and dark really meant?

He didn't know. But he knew that he had to find out — and that even if Dora was, it seemed, on the opposite "side" to him, he had to help her.

"Good," came the now-familiar voice of the shadowy figure as it appeared from nothingness beside him. "I see you're starting to get it."

The post 1816: Untitled, Chapter 8 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

When the following morning came, Magnus was startled awake by a hammering on his flat's front door. It was an urgent, persistent hammering; whoever was doing it clearly wanted to come in right now.

He groaned and unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. He had all but passed out where he had fallen the previous night; he was still wearing the same clothes, and the crumpled bedsheets left an obvious outline of where he had slept. His mind was not fully alert as yet, but he knew two things: he was in a lot of pain, and he very much wanted that noise to stop.

Yawning, groaning and rubbing his face, he staggered to the front door pulled it open a crack without looking through the peephole first. He poked his head around the gap in the door, but kept the rest of his body in the warmth and safety of his home.

"What?" he said, his vision still blurred.

"Mr Magnus Thompson?" said the police officer standing in the hallway; a stocky, stern-faced man with a neatly-trimmed goatee beard. He was accompanied by a female police officer built almost as solidly as he was. Radio chatter burbled in the background, but was indecipherable.

"Yes," said Magnus, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, not fully registering what was going on.

"We were hoping to talk to you about the death of Stacey Barman," he said. "You are the one who reported it, correct?"

Magnus suddenly felt very awake, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him like an electric shock. How did they know?

"The number the one who reported the crime called from was registered to this address," said the female officer, speaking up for the first time. "It was you who called, yes?" she said, echoing her colleague's words.

"Yes," said Magnus in a low voice. "I reported it."

"May we come in?" said the male officer gruffly. Magnus got the impression that despite the polite language, it was not a polite request. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"You're not in trouble, don't worry," said the female officer. Magnus would have smiled at the obvious and clichéd good cop-bad cop routine were it not proving to be one of the more stressful experiences he had lived through to date. "We just want to get a better idea of what might have happened, what you might have seen."

"Okay," said Magnus. He stepped out from behind the door and pulled it open fully. He realised too late that the shirt and jeans he had been wearing since last night — the shirt and jeans he hadn't changed when he had got up in a hurry not five minutes ago — were both streaked with smears of dried blood.

*       *       *       *       *

Dora looked uneasily at the disheveled figure of Magnus visible through the glass, the guard standing mute and still as a statue behind him. She lifted the receiver. Magnus did the same.

"Hi," he said. "Thanks for coming."

Dora had been the person he called when they had brought him in under suspicion of the murder of Stacey Barman. He wasn't thinking straight and didn't know any lawyers, so she was the only person he could think to call. The offers who had brought him in — the man was named Wilkins and the woman was named Jensen — had allowed him to obtain the number from his phone, but the device itself had then been confiscated along with the few other personal belongings he had in his pockets.

Dora didn't know what to make of the situation. She didn't believe for a second that Magnus was capable of murdering anyone, but she was also fully aware of the strange happenings that had been occurring recently — and was certain that if her own strange experience she had had on the way home the previous night was anything to go by, Magnus was probably also in a peculiar situation where he needed to quickly learn how to control an enormous power he didn't understand.

It had happened unexpectedly as she was walking back to her car; a curious urge to run. She obliged the sudden instinct, surprising herself, but quickly found that the instinct was stronger than her conscious, self-aware mind: before long, she felt like she was out of control. She ran, rapidly speeding up until she had reached a velocity that should have been physically impossible for even the most well-trained athletes. She became dimly aware that she was heading straight for a solid-looking wall, and then the world was turned on its side as she simply charged up the side of the building as if it was a flat piece of flooring. Then she was atop the roofs of the city; she bounced and leapt from building to building, feeling an odd — and slightly frightening — sense of euphoria as she did so. It was an addictive, intoxicating feeling; initially, she didn't want it to stop, but as what little remained of her rational mind started to panic over the lack of control over her own body she was exhibiting, she wanted nothing more than to be back on solid ground.

And then she was; walking down the street where she had been before she had started running. Had she imagined it? A daydream? A hallucination? She wasn't sure, but the strange, frightening experience caused her to stop, pinch herself and whisper under her breath "I'm here, everything's fine, everything's fine," without caring if anyone around her heard.

"Hi," she said.

"I didn't do it," he said.

"I know," she said.

The two gazed awkwardly at one another through the glass. All was silent for a moment, and Dora became very conscious of the ticking of the clock on the wall behind her. She glanced around and looked at it. They didn't have long together.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. "How can I help?"

"I don't really know," he said, his face clouded over with abject despair. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it." He indicated his bloody clothes.

He had explained to her on the phone that he had discovered a dead body the previous night, and that due to an unfortunate series of circumstances was now under suspicion of putting it there. He hadn't explained the rooftop fight against his golden assailant or his conversation with the shadowy figure, though he had little doubt, after their conversation, that she would believe him.

"Whatever it is that those… people said was going to happen," he said, resting his chin on the palms of his hands, "it seems to be starting."

She nodded mutely. She didn't really know what to say about it. She didn't understand what was happening to her, and what was happening to Magnus. But she knew that this wasn't something she'd be able to just ignore and hope it would go away. She hadn't chosen this path, but she was on it anyway, and so was Magnus. They just had to follow it and see where it went; she hoped, sincerely, that it didn't simply lead to a life in prison for her friend.

Conscious of the guard standing behind him who, despite remaining stoic and statue-like throughout their conversation, was obviously listening in, Magnus refrained from giving a full account of his confrontation. If he got out of here, he resolved, he'd explain the situation fully. For now, however, he was just comforted by her presence; he felt more at ease than he had done all day.

A buzzer sounded, and the line between the receivers went dead. Magnus saw the door open behind Dora, and a police officer step in. Looking at Magnus for one last time with sadness in her eyes, she replaced the receiver and turned for the door. He watched her leave, waiting a moment before hanging up his own receiver and standing, following the guard back into the darkness.

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus was questioned by several police officers over the course of the rest of the day. By the time they had finished with him, night had fallen. He hoped that his answers had made it abundantly clear that he had no idea what had actually happened to Stacey Barman, and that the dried blood on his clothing was simply a result of him being near her and trying in vain to help her, but he didn't get an answer as to whether or not he had done a good enough job that day. Even if he were to be released, it seemed, it wouldn't be until tomorrow when the appropriate paperwork could be filled out. It looked like he'd be spending the night here, at least.

Eventually, the lights went out. He was the only occupant of the cells right now; although not a small town, crime had never been a big issue here. Between some ambitious and expensive youth projects and a close-knit community of residents who genuinely loved where they lived, faults and all, it was unusual to hear of even a robbery or mugging, let alone a murder case. Magnus was sure that what had happened to Stacey Barman would be all over the newspapers and Internet by the morning, if it wasn't already.

He stared into the darkness, contemplating his situation miserably. If he'd thought things were bad before, they were even worse now. He seemed to be sinking ever further into his own personal pit of darkness; how could he escape?

Did he want to escape?

The thought surprised him for a moment, and then several things started to make a certain degree of sense.

Despite everything, he was enjoying the excitement in a perverse fashion. And he realised, with a combination of fascination, horror and satisfaction, that he had been enjoying the bleakness for a while before this had started happening, too. It made him feel important and special; it gave him something to talk about that made him feel like he mattered; a feeling which he had been sorely lacking for many years prior. He had been wilfully embracing his own darkness for a perverse sense of pleasure; it was a drug to him, and one that he couldn't quit.

He blinked as his eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and was surprised to discover that he appeared to be standing on the other side of the bars to where he had been a moment earlier. He was outside his cell, which was still shut. He tried the door; it rattled slightly, but did not budge.

Was this another manifestation of his new power?

He found himself smiling to himself, even as his skin started to crawl at the prospect of explaining how this had happened should any police officer happen to see him. The adrenaline of both excitement and fear started to course through his veins as he walked towards the door; he reached out for it, but then paused before grasping the handle. It was probably locked anyway.

Instead, he closed his eyes and concentrated on immersing himself in the darkness that was all around him. He willed himself to become part of the night; to blend in; to disappear. He'd always been good at escaping people's notice, after all, though not always intentionally.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on the city streets outside the police station.

However it had happened, however he had escaped, it wasn't over yet. He needed to get away from here. Right now.

The post 1815: Untitled, Chapter 7 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

His eyed darted one way then the other; his awareness heightened, his mind feeling more alert and agile than it had done for months.

He couldn't see his quarry; it seemed that they were long gone… or were they?

He stood up straight and clasped his hands together in front of him. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He reached out with his mind and felt like his consciousness was separating from his body, scanning the area, searching, probing. Then his eyes snapped open, and it was back where it should be.

A flash of golden light. Or, more accurately, a streak. It raced towards him at such a velocity that he nearly didn't have time to leap out of the way, but his heightened reflexes meant that by the time the golden swoosh had reached where his body was standing just a moment ago, he had already leapt high in the air and was gracefully floating down to face his assailant.

During all this, Magnus remained dimly aware of his own self, but at the same time felt as if he was trapped in his own body: his form a prison from which he could only look out and wonder how he could possibly ever perform such physics-defying feats. He could not find a rational explanation for it because there simply wasn't one; whatever was happening was simply ignoring what he had, up until recently, considered the inviolable laws of the universe.

He landed on the rooftop softly; first one foot, then the other, and gazed across at his attacker, who was standing on the next building over, hands on hips in a confident expression of superiority, for it was a humanoid figure — or perhaps even a human figure. It was difficult to tell for sure, since the radiant golden glow that seemed to emanate from within the figure's very skin made making any details out somewhat difficult, but he recognised the outline as a male form; trim, fit and tall, very different from the way he saw himself in his mind's eye.

For a moment, he simply stared at the figure, and it stared back at him; a second later, there was another golden streak, and the figure was standing right in front of him. The golden radiance dazzled him, but he also noticed that the figure appeared to be casting no light on the rooftop beneath his feet; he was simply glowing in an otherworldly manner that, even in his detached state, Magnus found somewhat unsettling.

"Hi," said the figure in a low voice. "I guess you're not happy." Magnus could, from this distance, barely make out a mocking smirk on the figure's face.

"To put it mildly," growled Magnus, the words coming out of his mouth before he was even aware what he was saying. The sensation was frightening; something was in control of him, and he seemingly had no influence over what was being said or done — or what was going to happen next.

Magnus lunged forward, the same dark tendrils that had brought him to the rooftop in the first place once again erupting from his hands, this time desperately seeking the golden figure. But it was too late; the figure had already moved to another rooftop with such rapidity that he may as well have been teleporting.

"Well, tough shit," called the golden figure in a mocking tone. "I got one of yours, and before they even knew what was going on. Oh, it was so sweet seeing the life drain out from behind those desperate, sad eyes; how she finally realised that her embracing of the Dark had brought her to the end of her own existence. Delicious. Anyway, got to dash! Later!"

The figure swept off over the rooftops, and before long was out of sight. Magnus considered giving chase, but even in his current state of consciousness, he knew that was a fruitless effort. Instead, he leapt from the rooftop and floated down into the alleyway, an incorporeal cloak of black flowing from beneath his outstretched arms as he defied the laws of gravity without a second thought. Then, as he touched the ground, the primal feeling was gone; he looked at his hands, and the strange, gnarled, mottled appearance they had taken on was gone, too.

He bit his tongue and winced, and realised that he was once again in full control of his own actions; though the biting of the tongue was accidental, it was a perfectly normal thing for him to do, and certainly a far cry from his unusual descent from atop the building.

He looked up and contemplated quite how high the structure was; not only was there no way he should have been able to get up there, thanks to the broken fire escape, but there was no way he should have been able to survive getting back down in the way he did, either. And yet here he was, without a scratch on him, considering the baffling events that had just transpired.

It took him a moment to remember the prone figure of the girl. She was still lying where he had left her; she was obviously dead, though he couldn't tell how long she had been that way.

"How tragic," came a voice from behind him. He jumped and span around. As he did so, the world seemed to shimmer and twist, and suddenly everything seemed different to how it had done a moment ago; the air was thicker and darker, and the walls seemed to be covered with things that had not been there before: both words and indecipherable symbols, splattered in the same carefree painter's hand he had by now seen several times, though they covered the walls with such thick, overlapping intensity that it was impossible to work out what — if anything — any of them were trying to say.

As fast as his heart was beating, he found himself unsurprised to discover the shadowy, silhouetted female figure standing in the alleyway, her pose making it clear that she was contemplating the situation somewhat philosophically, even as it was impossible to make out any of her facial features. She had obviously appeared out of nowhere, but it was already very apparent to Magnus that whatever he had found himself involved with did not involve rational explanations, so he didn't dwell on it.

"You… knew her?" he asked hesitantly, unsure quite how to address the figure.

"No," she said. "But I — we — could have done. A life cut tragically short before she could realise her potential."

A pause.

"Stacey Barman," said the figure, with the practiced, measured tone of a detective on a crime show. "Twenty-four years old. A wannabe actress, struggling to make ends meet in a scuzzy, cheap, traveller's hotel." Here, the figure gestured to the building on one side of the alleyway, which Stacey had apparently come out of before she met her demise. "She was born in the wrong place at the wrong time and made a lot of the wrong choices. Things were not going well for her."

This sounded alarmingly familiar to Magnus. He felt sorry for Stacey, but he felt that at least part of the empathy he felt towards the dead girl was self-pity because, even from that simple description, he related to her. He may not have been a struggling actor or working in a hotel, but he knew well the feeling of having made a series of poor choices that led to a seemingly inescapable bad situation.

"Our Stacey here may not have been having a lot of luck with life," continued the shadowy figure, by now pacing around the dead girl's corpse as if searching for evidence, "but, as I'm sure you know, that only helped draw her towards our side." She sighed. "She could have been a powerful one. All that dark energy, gone to waste."

Suddenly, the figure was in Magnus' face. He wasn't sure if she had simply moved quickly or had actually vanished from one spot and reappeared in another.

"This is what I was talking about," the figure hissed. "Stacey shouldn't have died here. She should have awoken. She should have been like you. But instead, here she is, and once again the Light mocks our efforts and desires for the world to remain in balance; the delightful chaos and unpredictability of existence, at this rate, will be little more than a memory for those of us who are even alive, or…" — here she paused a moment — "…at least aware enough to remember it."

Magnus wasn't quite sure how to respond. As he'd said to Dora earlier, the shadowy figure had previously explained the nature of the conflict between the Light and the Dark, but he hadn't understood what that meant. Now, the grim reality was starting to sink in to his mind; there was a war on, and he wasn't sure he was on the winning side.

The alleyway was silent for a moment as both Magnus and the shadowy figure continued to contemplate the corpse of Stacey Barman, the warmth of life rapidly leaving her still form as she continued to lie where she had fallen, exposed to the elements, seemingly unwanted and unloved.

Magnus felt an intense surge of pity for her, and seemed to feel something building up inside himself.

"No," said the figure, not turning to face him. "It's too late for her. But there'll be other chances. For now, you should see to it that she is taken care of."

The strange patterns and words on the walls seemed to twist and shift again, then the shadowy figure was gone, and Magnus was left standing alone in the alleyway.

He dropped to his knees in front of Stacey Barman's body and felt himself starting to cry. He wondered if this could have been him — why it wasn't him — and what all this meant. His mind was a jumble of complex emotions and confused interpretations of everything that had happened recently.

He let the tears flow; he knew better than to try and stop his emotions from overflowing when they were bubbling up like this. And, as he'd experienced so many times before, the storm eventually calmed; the pouring of tears slowed; gulping, sobbing gasps gave way to more regular breathing. It was always calm after the storm; he was always at his most rational after he had allowed himself to overflow and explode. He knew what he needed to do.

He pulled out his phone — which had somehow managed to stay in his pocket amid the earlier chaos — and called for the emergency services. He reported Stacey's body, and its location, and that she had already passed away. Then, once he was satisfied he had done his duty, he headed back up the alleyway he had earlier made the ill-fated decision to investigate; before long, he was back on the road, his pace quickening until he broke into a jog, then a full-on run.

He reached the front door of his building as he heard the howling of sirens in the distance.

"I'm sorry, Stacey," he said out loud to himself as he looked up at the moonlit, cloudy sky. "I wish I could have helped you. But I hope wherever you are now that you find happiness and peace."

He opened the door to his building, unlocked his flat's front door, went inside without turning any of the lights on and collapsed face-first onto the bed. He didn't wake up — or even move — until the following morning.

The post 1814: Untitled, Chapter 6 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"So."

"So."

Now the pair of them were here, neither of them were quite sure what to say. They both already knew the pertinent details, having shared them via chat message prior to meeting up. But, given the eerie similarities between their experiences — and the aspects in which they were complete opposites, too — they had both agreed that meeting up to discuss things in person would probably be more productive.

So far it hadn't been, largely because despite the strange happenings, it felt like just a regular, normal day. People were going about their business in the coffee shop; conversation was occasionally drowned out by the enormous coffee machine and its overenthusiastic milk frother; no-one gave Magnus and Dora a second glance. To any passers-by, they would have looked just like two people sitting together, sharing some time with one another, though the more voyeuristic might have mistaken them for a couple, given the amount of time they were spending looking directly at one another.

Eventually, Magnus spoke after swallowing a mouthful of cappuccino.

"There's more," he said. "More than what I told you before, that is."

"Oh?" said Dora, interested. There was more to her experience than what she had shared, too, but she was curious to hear what Magnus said first, so she didn't bring it up.

"Yes," he said. "It feels… kind of silly to be talking about it, though. I mean…" — here he lowered his voice a little — "…magic. Or whatever it is. Energy. Life force. I don't know. She explained it all, but it went over my head a bit."

"She?" asked Dora, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Yes," Magnus said again. "She. After that initial… dream, or whatever it was, I started noticing strange things happening. And eventually, everything seemed to sort of… black out. Though not like it being dark; more like… I don't know. The world felt kind of… wrong. I knew where I was, but things didn't look right. And there she was."

He paused. He wasn't quite sure how to describe the shadowy figure, since she was such an ill-defined presence. But he could tell that she was a woman, or at least a female presence, since he wasn't quite sure if being incorporeal allowed one to continue being called a "woman" or "man".

Dora had heard enough already. She felt comfortable about speaking up now.

"Did she happen to say something about our world, and how it was made?" she asked. She was surprised how confident she sounded asking such a peculiar question. "Did she happen to mention anything about the light…"

"…and the dark?" Magnus concluded for her. "Yes, as a matter of fact." He frowned. "Wait, how do you know that? Did you…"

"Yes," said Dora with a gentle smile. "The same thing happened to me. After a few days of strange happenings — in my case, really weird stuff like the little 'un falling over and scraping both her knees, then there being absolutely no sight of any injury moments later — something similar happened to me. There was… someone. I couldn't quite see them, not clearly, anyway, but there they were. Some sort of presence. A guy… or the ghost of a guy, or something. Hard to explain, really."

"Hmm," said Magnus. The two of them were quiet for a moment, and took the opportunity to have another sip of drink, neither taking their eyes from the other.

"Anyway," said Magnus after a moment. "There was some sort of fantasyland bullshit about the balance between light and dark, and how things looked like being thrown out of balance if things carried on the way they were, and…"

"I'll just stop you there," said Dora with a gentle laugh. "I don't think it's 'bullshit', not if we've both seen weird stuff like this going on. Unless we're both very, very ill indeed and having some sort of shared hallucination. Then that really would be bullshit; the sort of clichéd crap that's straight out of a cheap novel you'd pick up at the airport."

Magnus smiled. It felt good. He felt like he hadn't done it genuinely for a while, but despite the strange — and slightly frightening — situation in which he found himself, it felt good, particularly to have something private that he and Dora could share together. He wondered if she felt the same way.

As a matter of fact, she did; life had been boring lately and, while she hadn't quite had something as grandiose as whatever this was in mind, she was grateful for a little injection of excitement.

"What I don't get," said Magnus after another sip of coffee, "is how things are being thrown out of whack. I mean, have you noticed anything weird about the world lately?"

"You mean despite… everything that we've just talked about?" she said with a laugh. "No, I guess not. But perhaps we weren't in a position to notice. Perhaps whatever is happening to us is something to do with it."

"Mm," said Magnus, his eyes finally looking away from Dora. She realised that she had been tense all the while he had been staring at her, and suddenly relaxed somewhat. "Maybe."

"I wonder," said Dora. "All this light and dark business. I mean, obviously I'm light and you're dark, whatever that means. Are we going to end up fighting?"

"That's how these things tend to go," said Magnus, "at least in clichéd crap that's straight out of a cheap novel you'd pick up at the airport." He chuckled at his own allusion.

"I'm serious!" said Dora, pouting slightly. "I don't want to end up having to do anything weird or nasty to you. Not like that," she corrected herself quickly before Magnus could slip in a quick innuendo. "I mean… kind of seems like we're opposites, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But that doesn't mean we have to go against one another. Opposites attract and all that."

*       *       *       *       *

It was getting dark — and several coffees later — by the time the pair of them went their separate ways. Concluding that they couldn't do much else with their respective strange phenomena until something else odd happened to one or both of them, conversation had turned to all things trivial: what had been on television the previous evening, how much both of them hated Magnus' ex — though Magnus always felt guilty any time he bad-mouthed her, even despite the depression and rage she frequently provoked in him — and the silly things little Alice had done. The socialisation had done them both some good, and they both left the coffee shop with smiles on their faces.

Dora had offered Magnus a lift back to his flat, but he had refused; he'd decided that he wanted some time alone with his thoughts. He often found that if he walked and thought, he could contemplate things more effectively than if he was just shut in his flat all alone, surrounded by memories in physical form.

Of course, there were a lot fewer of these left lying around now that she had been back and collected her things. The flat had felt disturbingly empty after she had been and gone, so Magnus had taken the time to rearrange the furniture as much as possible so it felt like he was in a different place. It had proven mostly effective, but the bedroom which, thanks to its built-in wardrobe, was harder to rearrange, still held potent memories. He found himself sleeping on the sofa rather than the cold bedroom a lot more these days, frequently drifting off to the low drone of inoffensive, mind-numbing late night digital TV.

His footsteps echoed as he paced along the street. He felt like he was walking with purpose, though he was in no hurry to get home; there was very little for him there. After a moment he slowed, then stopped. He wasn't sure why, initially, then he felt an overwhelming surge of curiosity.

There was an alleyway that he walked past every time he went from his flat to the centre of town and back again, and he had always wondered what was down there. He doubted it was anything interesting, so he had never just wandered in to take a look, but for some reason, now he found himself once again walking with a strong sense of purpose, this time towards the alleyway.

It was a narrow passage between two buildings, and in the fading light there wasn't a lot to see, since neither building had many windows on this side. There was the odd frosted glass window that Magnus assumed was a bathroom or similar, and occasionally these cast a small pool of light into the otherwise darkened alleyway, but for the most part the passage was unlit.

It was a dead end, though it opened into what appeared to be a small courtyard rather than simply terminating in a wall. The courtyard had a few dumpsters in it and smelled awful. Both buildings seemingly had back doors here, presumably to allow the occupants to take out their rubbish and throw them in the dumpsters. But there was something else; something lying on the floor.

"Holy fuck," said Magnus as he approached the lump on the ground. It was a person, and they didn't appear to be in a good way. He knelt before the figure and established that it was a woman, probably in her mid-twenties — about his age — clad simply in a T-shirt and jeans. She was lying face-down on the ground, and the area around her head was slick with still-wet blood. It was obviously too late for her, and Magnus started to feel panicked, both about being caught with her, and about whether or not whoever — if anyone — had done this to her was still around.

Then he felt it. He couldn't describe the sensation, but it was there. He looked in the direction he felt it was coming from; up and to his left. There was what appeared to be a fire escape on the side of the building, but it abruptly terminated two floors up from the ground and there was seemingly no ladder allowing anyone to get up — or, for that matter, down.

A primal feeling in his brain told him that he really needed to get up there right now, but the rational part of his mind — which, he felt, was rapidly losing influence in this situation — said that there was absolutely no way that he could possibly–

Before he knew it, he felt the strange sensation of energy surging through his hands. They took on the curiously odd appearance they had done any time the strange events had happened recently, but this time there was something more; it felt like energy was focusing in them, and the more it did so, the more mottled and marked they became, until eventually they looked like an old man's hands; gnarled and covered with varicose veins. A high-pitched whining sound assaulted his ears, and his head began to ache, as if it was about to explode. Was this the power that the shadowy figure had talked about? And if so, how on Earth was he supposed to control it?

Unsure of anything else to do, he clenched his fists and pointed them both at the fire escape high above him. Tendrils as black as night erupted from the back of his hands and laced themselves around the bars of the fire escape's guard rail, and before he could register his intense surprise at what he had apparently just done, he felt himself being yanked violently into the air, his heart in his mouth as if he was riding a theme park attraction. Almost before he knew it, he was standing on the platform of the fire escape, some two storeys off the ground.

And that primal feeling was still there; he needed to continue on upwards, to chase down whoever had done this, and to punish them.

His rational mind finally gave up trying and just slipped away quietly, and the primal urge took over as he raced up the steps to the rooftop.

The post 1813: Untitled, Chapter 5 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Dora couldn't sleep; a situation exacerbated by the usual thunderous snoring of her husband Donald on the other side of the bed. Every night, she found herself surprised that the racket didn't disturb their eight-year-old daughter Alice, but it never did: Alice was a heavy sleeper, a trait which she had apparently inherited from her father.

She sighed to herself and tapped on her phone, its screen springing to life at her touch. She frowned at the sight of the clock on the screen: two in the morning; she had to be up in four hours to make sure Alice was ready for school, that breakfast was ready for everyone and that she was in a position to go out to work straight after dropping Alice off.

For the most part, Dora enjoyed being what she thought of as a "traditional" mother figure, albeit one who held down a job as well as effectively running the household. Donald would be the first to describe himself as "useless" around the house, and she didn't mind too much; he was the one with the high-paying job, after all, so it was largely his money coming in that allowed the Miller family to continue to live in the manner which they had become accustomed to. Her income was a bonus on top of that; Donald had been initially resistant to the idea of her going back to work after Alice was old enough to go to school, but Dora had found herself so bored each day that she craved the opportunity to get out of the house and speak to other human beings that her office job offered, even if the work itself was considerably beneath her intellectual capacity. She eventually managed to convince Donald that it was the best for everybody involved.

At least the downtime in her job — and there was a lot of it — afforded her the opportunity to catch up with friends via text message and email; after an initial run-in with the company's IT department over the use of company equipment to send personal messages, she'd confined these activities to her phone, and no-one seemed to mind that too much.

She'd known Magnus for a short while; they'd met by chance through a social networking website, and quickly become friends. Magnus didn't seem to her like the type who made friends easily, but there was something about him that interested her; she knew quickly that he was someone who carried great sadness with him, but he often managed to push that aside and demonstrate a touch of cheeky humour of just the type she responded well to.

She could tell that he was attracted to her, and during some of the "down" periods of her occasionally rocky relationship with Donald, she'd contemplated seeing just what might happen if she allowed things to progress in the way he wanted. But she held back, even though she knew this might hurt him in the short term; he was going through a relationship breakup of his own, after all, and for her to be the "other woman" even as he suspected he had been cheated on would be somewhat hypocritical, to say the least. She didn't want to put him in a difficult situation, and she didn't want to break up her family life, either; it wasn't perfect, not by a considerable margin, but it was holding together for now.

She was worried about Magnus, though. He had not taken the break-up well, and their meeting the other day had only confirmed to her what she had suspected: he was starting to lose his grip on rationality. She didn't begrudge him his anger and sadness, of course — they'd had some long talks about how things had got to the state they were in, and she'd come to understand him perhaps even better than his partner had — but she was still worried, particularly after the strange things he'd described and asked her about.

The snoring was momentarily interrupted as Donald's imposing figure rolled over in the bed, but quickly resumed. Dora sighed, resigning herself to the fact that she probably wasn't going to be getting to sleep any time soon, stood up, walked out of her room and headed downstairs to the kitchen to fix herself a drink.

Decaffeinated coffee in hand — she had a weakness for it, particularly since Donald had bought her a capsule coffee machine a short while ago — she wandered into the living room and opened the curtains. Their house was right at the end of a cul-de-sac, and had a good view up the rest of the road. It made her feel like the lady of the manor, and she often enjoyed just standing here, looking out from behind the house's net curtains, surveying the rest of the street and seeing what everyone else was up to.

Tonight, though, things were different; as she pulled back the curtains she paused and drew a sharp intake of breath, because she was really not expecting what she saw.

It was light. But it couldn't be. She tapped on her phone and checked the clock again; sure enough, the hour digit still read "2". There was no way that the street outside should be lit in such a way, but the evidence was right there in front of her.

She guzzled the last of her coffee, not caring that it was still a little bit too hot and burned her tongue, and put the cup down on the windowsill. She was confused and a little disturbed by whatever the strange phenomenon was outside her front window, but she was surprised to find herself more curious than frightened. So curious that, before she knew it, and as if something else was in control of her body, she was pulling on her coat over the top of her nightgown and squeezing her bare feet into a pair of shoes that she'd left by the door.

She opened the front door and looked out into the street. It was light, but there was something very different about this light to regular daylight. The sky wasn't blue, for a start; it was pure, brilliant white and seemed to glow. This wasn't the white of an overcast sky, either; it was as if the sky itself was glowing, bathing the whole street in a soft light that felt calm, but cold.

It was cold, too; there didn't seem to be a breeze, but Dora could still feel a chill on her face as she stepped over the threshold of her house and into the front garden. She wasn't sure where she was going to go, but something was pushing her onwards, out into this peculiar soft light. There was something out there; something beyond what she could see, and she needed to know what it was.

The thoughts in her head surprised her; she wasn't usually the type to seek out mysteries or strange happenings like this, but there was something irresistible about this one. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was a change from the drudgery of everyday life, or perhaps there was something more; she didn't know.

She was halfway up the street by now, and she noticed that the end of the road seemed to fade into a pale haze, like a thick, impenetrable fog that was glowing from within. Still she continued to walk towards it; answers were inside that strange cloud, she felt, and she wanted to know what they were.

She approached the haze; it almost appeared like a wall, but she knew that there was nothing to it, and that she could walk right through it, should she so desire. And she did desire; she took a step forward and was instantly surrounded on all sides by the soft but cold white light that had been illuminating her street.

The fog — whatever it was — was so thick that she could no longer even see her arms in front of her, and it didn't take long for her to feel disoriented. She could no longer feel the solidity of the ground beneath her feet; it was as if she had left her body and was simply floating in a void filled with light.

Perhaps she was; she couldn't explain it, but she felt completely at ease here. It felt natural and good, though still cold. It didn't feel like the warm, benevolent glow she had come to associate with the concept of "heaven" during her formative years; it was just light. A strange, calming light that seemed to be encouraging her to relax, to let it flow through her, to just…

Her eyes snapped open, and she blinked a few times. She couldn't see anything at all. Had she gone blind? No; it was just the darkness of her bedroom. She recognised the sound of Donald snoring beside her, the softness of the mattress beneath her body, the warmth of the duvet she was snuggled under. All was as it should be. Her eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and she made out familiar shapes, and she felt at ease.

A dream, then, she thought, but a very strange one. Then she paused, her mind slowly recalling some of the things Magnus had said to her regarding his peculiar dream. Her experience — for the memory was still fresh and vivid in her mind — felt eerily familiar as she recalled the details Magnus had described, only in her case, it felt as if she had had almost the complete opposite experience. Darkness was replaced by light; fear by calm. What did it mean?

She rolled over onto her side, trying to get comfortable again. She felt tired and wanted to sleep; she could think about this more when the morning come, and perhaps even talk it over with Magnus. For now, she just wanted to…

She froze as her eyes alighted on the wall occupied by her dressing table.

Written on the wall, in letters that seemed to glow without illuminating the room itself, and in a beautiful, elegant cursive hand, was a single word: "HELLO."

Suddenly, she felt afraid. The strange dream and the eerie, cold light didn't feel quite so calming any more; now, they felt like a symptom of something that was very, very wrong indeed — with her mind, or with the world, she couldn't tell. But it was frightening, and she wasn't sure what to make of it right now in her all-but-exhausted state.

So she curled up into a foetal position, screwed her eyes up and tried as best she could to put the strange happenings out of her mind. It was not something she'd ever been particularly good at: her mind was particularly active at night, and whenever she tried to send a signal to herself not to think about something, her mind usually interpreted this as a request to think about it as much as possible. Sure enough, after a moment, she couldn't hold herself back any longer; still curled up, she opened her eyes and looked at the spot on the wall where the beautifully written word had been.

Of course, there was nothing there; the wall was bare, and all she could make out was the rough silhouette of her dressing table.

Of course there's nothing there, she thought. It's just the last remnants of a dream. That's all it is.

The post 1812: Untitled, Chapter 4 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Over the course of the next couple of days, strange things continued to happen around Magnus. There was nothing so outrageous that the happening itself frightened him — indeed, in many cases, much like when the door had seemingly unlocked itself without him using the key a few days earlier, he failed to notice that anything unusual had gone on until after the fact — but the strange, scrawled and apparently hallucinatory messages that had continued appearing troubled him.

They hadn't added up to anything coherent as yet. So far there had been a "WELCOME", a "GOOD", a "KEEP GOING" and a simple "YES". The messages seemed to approve of what was happening, though Magnus still didn't understand what it all meant. He had become concerned for his mental health; he already knew that his emotions were in a somewhat fragile state following the collapse of his personal life, but had this crossed some sort of line into his brain actually not working properly, interpreting things that weren't really there?

The messages most certainly weren't really there. Sometimes they lingered longer than others, but usually they vanished as if they had never been there at all after just a single blink of his eyes. They were vivid enough that they certainly looked real, but if that were the case why weren't his walls, by now, covered in graffiti?

He flopped into bed, exhausted. He hadn't done much that day, but he had at least left the house and spent some time in a coffee shop in an attempt to feel like a normal human being. It wasn't the most productive use of his time, of course, but it beat sitting by himself and letting the darkness of his depression close in on him.

Now, of course, it was night, and as he flipped the bedside light off he was surrounded by literal darkness; for once he had remembered to close the curtains, so the usual glare of the street lamps from outside was just a faint glow through the material. The only real light in the room now was the glowing red numbers of the clock-radio, ever-present by his bed, a relic of a forgotten age when he had a reason to wake up early in the morning.

"Hi."

His heart immediately started racing. There had been no-one in the room when he had got into bed and turned the light off, but that was unmistakably the sound of someone's voice. It seemed to be a woman's voice; strong, but feminine, and not one he recognised.

"How's the darkness treating you?"

Panicked, he fumbled for the bedside lamp and ended up knocking it — and a coffee cup from a couple of days ago — to the floor. Eventually he managed to pick it up and, wielding it like a lantern, he flicked the switch.

Instantly his room was bathed in light, and there was no sign of anyone. He looked around and gave a momentary start at the sight of his own enlarged shadow on the wall as he pointed the lamp around like a torch, but it was clear to him that he was the only occupant of the room. The voice — if indeed there ever was one — was silent.

He replaced the lamp on the bedside table and switched it off again. He lay down, his heart still thumping in his chest, took a deep breath and tried to relax, eyes closed.

"Don't try to find me," the voice came again, this time feeling like it was whispering in his ear. "You won't be able to. Not yet, at least."

He kept his eyes closed — tightly, now — as fear gripped his body and his pulse quickened once more. He swore he felt a chill wind move across his body, and then the voice was in his other ear.

"You're making a good start, though," it said. "Really good. But I can see you're not quite ready for this yet, so for now I'll bid you farewell."

The breeze blew once again, but Magnus dared not open his eyes, even though he knew all he would see — even if there really was someone in his room — was darkness. It was several minutes that felt like hours before he felt his body starting to relax again, the adrenaline slowly draining and his muscles gradually switching out of "fight or flight" mode.

Still keeping his eyes closed, he rolled onto his front and buried his head in his pillow. It didn't take him long to succumb to sleep.

*       *       *       *       *

The following day was uneventful. Nothing strange happened around him, and none of the peculiar messages appeared. It was the same the day after, and the day after that, too. He began to think that whatever strange illness had been clouding his mind had somehow passed, and that he was over the worst, so he gradually let the weird incidents of the last few days slide from the front of his mind.

He had been grateful for the distraction, if nothing else; having the odd happenings to concentrate on had taken his mind off the other things that had been going on in his life. He was brought back into the cold light of reality by a simple text message, though: she was coming by to pick up her things, and recommended that he wasn't there while he did so.

The rational part of his brain knew that she was right, that it would be healthiest and safest for both of them if he were elsewhere while she went about her grim business of sorting out the things that belonged to her, packing them away and taking them with her, never to be seen again. That very act was definitively final; up until that point, he'd always carried the hope that she might reconsider and come back, even though she'd already taken a lot of her possessions — daily life things like clothes and toiletries — with her quite some time ago now.

He responded with a simple, blunt "OK" to her proposed time, which was later that day, and knew that he needed to make himself scarce as quickly as possible. But he could not bring himself to leave just yet; he could feel the emotions bubbling up inside him. A corrosive cocktail of intense sadness and burning rage, the toxic feelings quickly overcame him, and he found himself stamping around the empty flat, looking for something to release the anger on.

He settled on a pair of glasses that she'd left behind and had, until now, been avoiding. He knew she didn't wear them often — she'd have taken them with her, otherwise — but they were still hers. And, right now, they made as good a target as any for his ire.

He took them from the shelf where they had sat, untouched, since she had walked out of the door. He threw them to the ground petulantly, then stamped on them one, two, three times. He picked them up and squeezed them tightly between his hands, bending the frames and making them useless as a facial adornment. To his intense dissatisfaction, though, nothing broke; the lenses didn't crack, the frames didn't snap. All he was left with was a mangled, twisted mass of wire and glass that was still recognisable as having been a pair of glasses once, but which wouldn't be fitting atop anyone's nose any time soon.

He fell to his knees and started to cry. The tears came quickly and flowed down his cheeks, plopping quietly onto the carpet as they fell from his face. He collapsed forward, his forehead hitting the floor with enough force to make him slightly dizzy, but the physical pain didn't matter compared to the mental anguish he was currently in.

He didn't even really know why he was crying or what he was upset about. It was just everything about the situation coming to a head. He scrunched up his face as he sobbed and gasped: he'd done this before, and would probably do it again; he just had to ride it out. That rational part of the brain speaking again, even amid the most chaotic outbursts of emotion like this one.

Eventually, the tears subsided and the sobbing stopped. He felt exhausted, and it was all he could do to pull his head up off the floor and get back to a kneeling position.

He wiped the last few tears from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks, sniffed and opened his eyes.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw.

He was in his flat, but it was not as he knew it. The strange words that had occasionally been appearing on his walls were now everywhere, and the room seemed shrouded in a black mist, lighter than smoke but heavier than fog. Everything about this was wrong, but he still recognised it. Why? What was going on.

A patch of the black mist ahead of him coalesced into a humanoid figure, though it was nothing more than a silhouette; he couldn't make any features out, save for the fact that the figure was probably female.

"Oh, hi," said a voice he recognised immediately as that which he'd heard in his bedroom a few days earlier. "Wasn't expecting you quite so soon."

He didn't hear the last sentence, because he'd toppled backwards, the shock too much for his consciousness to take right now. He had passed out.

*       *       *       *       *

"There you are."

He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but he knew that he didn't want to open his eyes. The voice — the strange figure — was still there, and that presumably meant that he was in that terribly wrong version of his living room.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you," said the voice, sounding a little put out by his lack of response. "I just need to talk. And you need to listen, otherwise you're going to be stuck here, and I don't think you want that. Sit up."

Eyes still closed, he uneasily raised himself up onto his elbows, then pushed his back up off the floor. His body felt stiff, heavy and uncooperative, but he complied with the voice's request nonetheless, even though his body was shaking with every movement. Then, he grit his teeth and let his eyes open.

The shadowy figure appeared to be crouched on the floor near him, and he could have sworn that if it had a face it would be looking concerned. Something about the way it carried itself and the attitude it was displaying towards him made him feel a little more at ease than he had been: maybe the voice really had meant what it had said, and that it didn't want to hurt him?

"There we go," came the female voice, somewhat softer in tone than it had been before. "That wasn't so difficult, now, was it?"

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice cracking as he did so. He felt like he hadn't drunk any water for weeks.

The voice chuckled. "Well, aren't you straight to the point. I like that. But before we talk about me, we should probably talk about…" — here the figure gestured flamboyantly about the distorted version of his living room — "…this place, and what you're doing here."

He blinked. The nightmarish vision before him didn't go away. He was really here. For some reason, though, he could feel his fear dissipating and being replaced with curiosity.

The crouching figure seemed to rock back onto where its knees would be if it was a normal human body. It looked like it was relaxing.

"Good," it said. "Welcome."

The post 1811: Untitled, Chapter 3 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Magnus wasn't sure when it was he finally got back to sleep, but it must have happened at some point, because before he knew it he was opening his eyes and immediately squinting at the bright sunlight coming in through the bedroom window.

He groaned, rolled over, wiped his mouth — apparently he had drooled in his sleep, which he added to his increasingly long mental checklist of things that disgusted him about himself — and blinked a few times, trying to get used to the light.

As the room came back into focus, he glanced at the clock-radio. It was just before 9 in the morning. He'd woken up at a normal time for once.

He groaned again, sat up, stretched and unsteadily got out of bed. As he turned to look at the wall that had been emblazoned with the strange, dark letters last night — or had that been a dream, too? — he paused, looking it over as if willing the letters to appear again. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. The fear he had felt last night was all but gone: now, the strange happenings were nothing more than the fading memories of a confused subconscious, and he attributed them to the fact that he quite literally wasn't feeling in his right mind at the moment.

He retrieved his phone from on top of the chest of drawers, where it had been charging all night, and pressed the power button. The screen sprang to life, the large numbers of the clock informing him once again that yes, he really had managed to get up at a normal person's time today. Not only that, but it was Saturday; a day where he always felt significantly less guilty about not working or, he felt, contributing to society in any meaningful way.

He tapped the "Messages" icon, then on the recent conversation he'd had with his friend Dora. He hadn't spoken with her in a few days, and he felt like he needed to talk. He knew that she worked, though, and didn't like disturbing her in the week, even though he couldn't remember the last time she had turned him down for an invitation to do something together, even if it was just hanging out watching a movie.

"Hey," he typed clumsily, fumbling for a moment over the auto-correct function. "Are you up to anything today?"

The message sent, and his phone informed him that it had been delivered, but not read. It was entirely possible, he figured, that Dora was still asleep; it was quite early in the morning on a Saturday, after all, and he certainly didn't begrudge her a lie-in after a week of juggling working and taking care of her family.

He'd thought off and on that he might be in love with Dora. He'd even considered confessing it to her at some point, before the rational part of his brain took over and told the irrational part — which held an increasingly large dominion over his overall consciousness these days — that he was being silly, that he didn't really love her, that all he was trying to do was replace that which he had lost, and that, given she was happily married with children, she almost certainly didn't feel the same way. The rational brain won that particular argument, but the irrational side often felt to him like it was biding its time to flare up again at the most inconvenient moment.

His phone buzzed, interrupting his wandering thoughts.

"Nothing much," came the reply. "Want to come over?"

"Actually," he wrote back quickly. "Would you mind coming over here? I need to ask you…" he paused, and deleted the last sentence. "I need your help with something."

He waited. Dora always took several minutes to reply, whereas he was inclined to treat text messages like online instant messaging conversations, feeling guilty if he didn't respond immediately. It frustrated him at times, but he was also conscious that not everyone out there had quite as much time on their hands as he did. He sighed dejectedly as he once again found himself contemplating his life situation; today was an upbeat day by his own standards, but there was still that background noise of hopelessness, that feeling that things were never going to just neatly work out like he hoped they might.

"All right," came the reply eventually. "I'll be over in an hour or so. That ok?"

*       *       *       *       *

Dora Miller was a pretty woman, blessed with a youthful face and shapely figure that had not yet begun to succumb to the ravages of time despite the fact that she was just the wrong side of thirty years old. She always made an effort with her appearance; her straight, golden-blonde hair falling around her face and down her back without a single strand out of place, her light touch of makeup complementing her natural attractiveness without seeming artificial.

Magnus always felt inferior when he was next to her, like they were polar opposites in almost every way. He was the scruffy, unkempt, no-hope male loser that, he feared, no-one would ever find attractive ever again; she was, he felt, radiant. He didn't know why she hung out with him or why she allowed him to call her "friend", but he appreciated it nonetheless.

He handed her a cup of coffee and sat down next to her on the sofa. He didn't look her in the eye; he'd always found eye contact difficult, but even more so since the events of the last couple of months.

"So," she said taking a sip of the coffee. "Ow, that's as hot as the sun, let me put that down a minute." She put it down and smacked her lips before speaking again. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

He thought for a moment. He wasn't quite sure how to put it.

"I, uh," he began, trying to think how he could express the things he was thinking about. "I've been feeling a bit weird."

Her eyes softened. "Well, we both know that," she said. "Is this something different? What do you mean?"

Her questions weren't helping. He still wasn't sure how to put it across.

He stood up, and looked down at his hands. While he was waiting for her to arrive, he'd noticed that his hands looked a little different to how he was used to them looking — at least he believed so, anyway. He couldn't quite pin down what it was that was wrong, but they certainly didn't quite seem right.

"I need you to have a look at something," he said seriously.

"Oh, God," she said, chuckling, obviously trying to lighten the somewhat heavy mood that appeared to be falling over the room. "You're not going to make me look at your balls, are you? I mean, if you're really, genuinely worried, I will, but,"

He laughed despite himself; a weak laugh that even he found unconvincing. "No," he said softly. He held out his hand to her. "Does anything look… strange about my hand to you?"

She gave him a quizzical look, complete with exaggerated raised eyebrow as if to emphasise how strange his question was, but she looked down at his outstretched hand nonetheless.

"No," she said after a moment. "Looks like… well, a hand. Your hand."

He blinked and looked down. They looked, as she said, like his own hands, just as they always did. Had he been imagining what he saw earlier? A trick of the dim light inside the flat, perhaps?

He sat down again, and began to tell her the tale of his strange experiences the previous night. Once he started, he found that he could not stop. Dora's eyes widened as he explained in great detail — the specificity of which surprised even Magnus — the sensations he had felt, the things he had seen, what he had been thinking. For a dream, he thought, it felt decidedly real; eerily so.

The feeling of dread he'd experienced the previous night started to creep up his spine again, but he tried his best to banish it from his thoughts. He finished his story.

"Wow," said Dora. "That's… quite a dream. What did that word on the wall say? 'Welcome'? Welcome to what?"

"I don't know," Magnus said with a shrug. "Probably nothing."

There was a momentary silence between the two of them. Then Magnus spoke again.

"I'm sorry to bring you out here for some bullshit dream," he said. "I feel a bit stupid now."

"It's all right," said Dora, smiling that warm smile she smiled when he knew she was being genuine rather than jokey. "I'm guessing you were feeling a bit lonely and could do with someone to talk to anyway, huh."

"Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry to keep bugging you like this."

"It's fine," she said. "What are friends for?"

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus and Dora spent a couple of hours together, heading to a local coffee shop for a change of scenery, before Dora had to head home and back to her family. As Magnus walked back in the direction of his flat, the grey clouds that had been gathering overhead as the morning had progressed finally started to spill their load of rainwater: gently at first, but quickly progressing to a strong shower that didn't take long to soak right through his clothes.

"Shit." It didn't help his mood, and much of the good that Dora's visit had done him was undone by the weather; it wasn't long before he was feeling bleak again, and by the time he reached his front door he wasn't sure he actually wanted to go inside. Although this place was still home, it also housed all manner of memories, many of which he didn't feel like he could particularly deal with.

As he reached out for the door, he noticed his hands again and paused. Something seemed "off" once again; was it really a trick of the light, or had they actually changed colour? Perhaps it was the cold of the rain; his soaking clothes were making him feel somewhat chilly, after all, so it's possible that it was just his body responding to the low temperatures.

Banishing thoughts of the memories floating around inside the flat, he decided that he wanted nothing more than to get inside and into the warm, perhaps even back into bed. As he reached out for the door, there was a soft "click" as it unlocked, and he pushed it open, reaching around the frame to find the hallway light switch as he did so and clicking the lights on so he didn't have to walk in to thick darkness.

It wasn't until the door slammed shut behind him that the fact he had never taken his keys out of his pocket registered to him. And yet here he was.

He glanced around the hallway, confused. Everything looked normal. Nothing seemed out of place.

That is, until he turned around to face the other end of the hallway, and there it was. Another word, scrawled in large, dark letters on the wall, plain to see.

"GOOD." it said.

The post 1810: Untitled, Chapter 2 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

As usual, the creative writing for this project will be unedited and unplanned, since "improvising" is the means through which I enjoy writing the most. Expect unstructured, nonsensical occasionally inconsistent stuff to happen, though I'll try to keep it to a minimum. Normal business will resume on February 1, assuming everything is neatly wrapped up by then! Let's begin.]

The night was dark and almost silent, but Magnus Thompson could not for the life of him get to sleep.

He'd tried everything. He'd tried exhausting himself to the point where he felt he could barely keep his eyes open. He'd tried lighting candles with relaxing smells. He'd tried reading. He'd even tried an app on his phone that featured a selection of sounds designed to soothe the listener off to sleep — rain on canvas, muted traffic noise, wind in the mountains, even pure white noise.

None of it worked, however. Tonight, as with every other night, he found himself, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Moments ago, he had glanced over to his bedside table to look at the aggressively glowing red digits of his distinctly retro clock-radio, and was unsurprised to discover that it was after three o' clock in the morning.

He knew that his body would eventually succumb to total exhaustion, but he could never predict when. And consequently, he could never predict at what time he'd be able to rise the following day. His worst ever day had seen him dropping off to sleep just as the dawn was starting to break around five in the morning, and him waking up just as everyone else's working day was coming to a close at five in the afternoon. That day, he'd felt particularly bad as he'd dragged his unkempt form into the convenience store across the road and had had to respond to the clerk's cheerful enquiry as to whether he'd had a "good day". He couldn't bring himself to admit that his day had only begun five minutes earlier and consequently hadn't been all that bad as yet, nor did he particularly feel like sharing his recent life story with the cashier, who was still pretty much a stranger despite how often Magnus saw him.

He'd lost track of the time since she'd gone. Days blurred into weeks and possibly even months; nothing felt like it mattered any more. He was alone, miserable and gradually sliding towards a situation where he would be unable to support himself any longer, and he did not want that to happen. He did not know what would happen should things get that far, so he tried his best to push it out of his mind whenever these dark thoughts started sneaking up on him.

But still they came, and at night they were the worst. The darkness felt oppressive, like it was a physical manifestation surrounding him, suffocating him and pulling him ever deeper into despair, making hope seem perpetually out of reach, and slipping further and further away with each passing day. He didn't know how to deal with it, so he just lay there.

At least, that's what he usually did. Tonight was different. He felt more awake, more alert than usual. His eyelids didn't feel like they had weights attached to them; his body didn't resist his brain's messages to move.

He sat up on the side of his bed and looked out of the window into the deserted street outside. There was no-one around — not even the drunken louts that occasionally staggered past at ungodly hours in the morning on the way back from an evening of drinking and clubbing — and all the lights in the other flats and houses that lined the road were extinguished. The only light came from the orange-tinted street lamps, bathing everything in a monochromatic glow and giving the vista from his window a curious, otherworldly, stylised feel.

He stood, pulled on the clothes he'd discarded before he got into bed — crumpled and worn, as he hadn't changed them for days by this point — and walked out into the hallway.

Something definitely didn't feel quite right. But what was it?

He picked up his keys from the small table by the door, stuffed them in his pocket and opened the front door of his flat. Before long, he was outside the building and on the street. The air was still, but cold. He couldn't hear a sound. But the feeling of "wrongness" was getting stronger and stronger. It almost felt like he could pinpoint the source of the disturbance, like a homing beacon in his head.

Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself following the invisible trail, walking down his street, down the middle of the narrow road. Although he'd lived here a while, he'd never really gone further than his own building, which just happened to be the first on the road. The residential buildings rose on either side of him; blocks of flats on the left, terraces of houses on the right. They made a wall against the sounds of the city around him and ensured that the street was, most of the time, pretty quiet and secluded-feeling, despite its rather central location. Tonight, of course, there was no sound at all; he could tell that even here. No cars were passing; no-one was walking down the street; not even a dog was barking. Nothing.

The curious sensation started to grow stronger as he continued to walk. He felt his skin crawling, though he didn't know what it was that he feared. There was just… something out there, and even though he suspected that it wished him ill, still he continued on his way towards it, following the beacon that was starting to throb inside his mind.

He reached the end of the road. Before him was a ramp leading down into a car park that occupied the space beneath one of the blocks of flats. There was one much like it underneath his own building, but he'd never seen this particular one before. He'd had no reason to, of course, but he felt like the dark signal was drawing him inside, willing him to come closer — perhaps even daring him to venture within.

He silently accepted the challenge and walked down the ramp. The car park smelled somewhat musty, and the electric lighting inside appeared to be broken. Just beyond the entrance, a faulty fluorescent light flickered a frustratingly inconsistent rhythm, making it clear to Magnus that the car park was, at least, occupied by a few cars. On the right of the entrance, a wall. On the left, the car park continued into darkness so thick that he could barely see beyond the small, flickering pool of light created by the faulty light fitting.

Undeterred, he turned left and walked in that direction. It wasn't long before the darkness surrounded him. It was a familiar sensation; the same he felt as he tried to get to sleep. The air felt thick, and the further he went, the more effort it was to breathe. It didn't feel like there was pressure on his body, but he felt like he was starting to suffocate nonetheless. But still he proceeded onwards, ever deeper into the blackness.

After several minutes of walking in silence, during which his echoing footsteps on the concrete floor of the car park felt like they'd faded out to almost nothing, he paused. He stopped walking, and he turned around to glance behind him.

He suddenly became aware of how long he'd been walking, and of the fact that the car park couldn't possibly be that big; it was a physical impossibility, surely. By now, he should have reached the far wall, or a row of cars, or something. But he couldn't see anything in front of him, and now, it transpired, he couldn't see anything behind him, either. All trace of the flickering fluorescent light appeared to have vanished, and he was totally surrounded by black on all sides.

He felt disoriented. He couldn't tell which way he was facing any longer. He span around desperately, the calm he'd been feeling a moment ago rapidly fading and being replaced by panic as his pulse quickened and his palms became sweaty. He became dizzy, his disorientation now extending to not being sure which way was up and which way was down, too. He felt like he was falling, but at the moment he thought he should have hit the ground, he felt nothing; he just stopped. There was no pain, no sensation, nothing.

He became aware of his quickening pulse and his ragged breathing, but he didn't know how to stand up any more, if indeed he was, as he thought, lying on the ground. His body no longer appeared to be obeying his commands; he wasn't even sure he had a body any more, because he couldn't see it to make sure. The darkness was everywhere, all around him. And now it felt like it was starting to bind him, as well: holding him down, preventing him from moving, making it harder and harder to breathe. He wanted to call out, to cry for help, to scream, but no sound came out. It was hopeless. This was the end. This was how he was going to die: in a way he didn't understand.

And as he started to feel like the life was fading from him, his soul departing where he thought his body was, the strange calm returned once again. This wasn't so bad, he thought. There would be worse ways to go. And at least this would mark an end to the pain. He wouldn't have to worry any more. And, he thought grimly, no-one would have to worry about him, either.

His eyes snapped open, and he found himself gazing at the ceiling. Orange light was coming in through the window, the curtains for which he'd forgotten to close as usual.

How long had he been asleep? He didn't remember passing out, but then he never did. He always awoke the next day, not exactly feeling refreshed but at least in a state where he could get up and do things again.

He glanced over at the clock-radio once again. The first digit still read "3", but he couldn't remember what the minutes had said the last time he'd looked. Regardless, it had apparently been less than an hour that he had been asleep, but after the strange dream he felt surprisingly awake, and certainly in no hurry to close his eyes again.

He sat up in bed and shuffled over to the side, dropping his legs to the carpeted floor softly. The air had something of a chill to it: he had been trying to avoid running the expensive electric heating as much as possible, and had, by now, reached a stage where he didn't really feel the cold any more.

Clad only in his boxer shorts, he stood and stretched, then looked out of the window. The street was as deserted as it had been in his dream, but he wasn't surprised at this, given the hour. Then he turned to face the door, intending to head to his kitchen to fix himself a warm drink. Before he could start walking, though, he froze.

Emblazoned in dark letters across the wall of his bedroom was a single word: "WELCOME." It looked like it had been hastily scrawled across the wall in black or dark blue paint, completely disregarding the furniture and decorations, and the word itself, though normally a friendly utterance, seemed to radiate malice and menace. It made him more scared than he thought he'd ever been in his life, and the fear froze him to the spot, simply staring at the dark letters, for what felt like several minutes.

Then he blinked. And the word was gone.

The post 1809: Untitled, Chapter 1 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Previous installments have varied somewhat in quality. This is at least partly due to the fact that I tend not to plan out pieces of creative writing in advance, and in all these cases made a deliberate attempt to "improvise" the plot as I went along. The philosophy of "just write" in other words; pretty much the guiding principle of this blog in general, only with rather more of a focus than usual. And that's pretty much the guiding principle of NaNoWriMo, too; to get some creativity flowing, and to do the initial hard work of getting something out of your brain and onto the page in a structurally complete form. You're a lucky person indeed to come out of something like that with something you're 100% happy with, but it provides a good starting point to then go on and edit, polish and refine if you want to — or simply move on secure in the knowledge that if nothing else you've practiced and refined your craft a little.

Those of you who have been following this blog for a while will have likely noticed that we're well into November and no new work of fiction is forthcoming. I'd like to apologise for that. It wasn't entirely intentional; in fact, I was actually quite looking forward to firing up the fiction-writing engine in my brain — it's been a while; about a year, in fact — and seeing what on Earth I could possibly come up with this time around. I'd even had a few concepts I'd been kicking around inside my head, but hadn't decided on which one I really wanted to pursue.

So what happened? Well, largely a lack of awareness on my own part, to be honest; the first of November came during that period when Andie and I were doing a whole bunch of things — firstly, we went up to Scotland for Cat's wedding, then came back again; then Andie had a delightful day in hospital (nothing life-threatening, I might add); then we went to London for the Final Fantasy concert Distant Worlds. At some point during that week, I completely lost track of what day it was — November 1 was the night of Distant Worlds, and much of our day was spent travelling, so starting a brand-new creative project was unfortunately top of my list of priorities.

But never fear! (At least, not about this! Sometimes fear is justified, like when you lift your toilet seat and find a man-eating spider.) I'm still going to do "this year's" writing; it'll just be a bit late. Quite a bit late, in fact; so late, in fact, that referring to it as "this year's" might be a bit of a stretch: I'm intending to start it on January 1, 2015.

Why? Well, largely because I have "one of those things" in my brain — somewhat exacerbated by Andie, who is much the same — where I like dealing with nice round numbers (we both turn the volume up and down in increments of 5, and God help you if you set the temperature in your car to something ridiculous like 23.5°C) and starting things at natural starting points. Consequently, starting a month-long project on November 12 is absolutely unthinkable to me, and thus I can't possibly start until the beginning of a new month.

So why January and not December? Well, December is that irritating month with Christmas in it, and such festivities have a habit of proving somewhat distracting to the creative process in my experience, so I figured probably safest to leave it for now and kick off the new year in style with a month-long creative writing project. New year, new beginning and all that; what better month than January to start something like this, really, when you think about it?

Anyway. That's the situation, if you were wondering. If you weren't wondering, well, now you know, and if you're particularly curious about what I've done in the past, you may well now have three novel-length pieces of unedited prose queued up and ready to read from previous years' projects. I hope you enjoy them as much as it is possible to enjoy something so rough around the edges.

The post 1760: The Storyteller will be Late appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Freewriting has, for me, led to a number of interesting compositions over the years. I don't know if I still have the pieces I composed as part of my Creative Writing module at university, but they were intriguing. Some were purely fantastic. Some were reflective. Some were very literal. All of them came out of my head relatively unprompted, just by sitting down in front of a page — handwritten in this case — and writing. What I'm doing with today's entry — and have done a couple of times in the past — is exactly the same. (Six minutes and fifty seconds to go.)

Tomorrow, I'm picking up my new car. I haven't owned a car for a while, so it will be nice to have one again, albeit a "nice thing" that comes with a lot of expenses attached. It was pleasant to be able to go through life without worrying about the cost of car insurance and the like, so I'm not relishing the prospect of a return to that world, but I am particularly looking forward to the ability to get out and about a bit more easily when Andie isn't here (and, by extension, has the car that we currently share between us.) I'm hoping that having easy transport — and by "easy" I mean "not the bus" — I will be more inclined to do things that involve getting out of the house, like going to the gym, going for a swim or, hell, just going to town for a wander around or something. As I've mentioned in previous entries, spending all day every day at home can cause you to go a bit "stir crazy" after a while — I'm sure anyone who has spent any length of time either un- or self-employed will be able to empathise with this.

Four minutes thirty seconds to go and my brain is telling me I need something new to talk about. So what should it be? Umm… maybe the music I downloaded and printed recently? Regular readers will know that I'm a big fan of Square Enix's MMO Final Fantasy XIV, and I was delighted to discover that a nice chap on YouTube had done some piano arrangements of selected pieces from the soundtrack. I have a good collection of other Final Fantasy piano collection albums that I very much enjoy playing, but as far as I'm aware there's no "official" one for XIV, so I was interested to come across this chap's work. Turns out it's very high quality, so I was more than happy to fling him $40 (about £25) for his hard work in arranging and transcribing 36 tracks over 140 pages of music. I shall look forward to getting stuck into learning and playing some of those in the next few days and weeks — perhaps I'll even record some for the enjoyment of you, readers. Yes, you. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? (That wasn't meant to sound sarcastic, but as I was typing it I realised that it probably does. Oh well. No turning back now.)

I've also set up the keyboard amp that my parents dumped on me last time they came. This hulking piece of extremely heavy audio equipment is something I've been trying to avoid coming back into possession of for a while, mostly because I didn't really need it, but also because audio equipment scares me a bit when it makes loud popping and buzzing noises, which this amp has something of a tendency to do. However, now I've let it "warm up" and used it a little over the last couple of days, it seems to have calmed down a little bit, and it actually produces a somewhat more satisfying sound than my previous keyboard solution, which involved a MIDI connection to my Mac and using Logic Studio to produce the instrument sounds. Logic's instrument sounds are high-quality, for sure, but the Mac's speakers are a bit weedy and subsequently it wasn't quite as impressive as it could be. (In our new house, there's also the minor issue that the MIDI cable doesn't reach from the keyboard to the Mac, but that doesn't really matter now.)

Anyway. My ten minutes are up, so that's that. Sorry for the abrupt ending. Apparently I tried to cram too much into such a short space of time, but them's the breaks. Technically I'm breaking the rules here by going past the time limit, but whatever. Anyway. Now I'm finishing. Good night.

The post 1663: Freewriting appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Christmas had come and gone, and she'd gone back to the doctor in the new year to review her situation, but found herself in tears before she'd even started speaking. Taking this as a sign that she wasn't ready to go back to the classroom, Dr. James had no qualms about signing her off for a longer period. When she got home, she'd immediately drafted her resignation, and gone back and forth between a simple, to the point letter and a lengthy one explaining in great detail why she was leaving.

Eventually she settled on the latter, and when she received an email from Thompson on the same day explaining that he completely understood how she felt and certainly didn't begrudge her wanting to get out and do something that didn't have such a negative impact on her mental health, she felt like she'd done the right thing.

Time passed. Her sick note had signed her off until the end of her notice period, so she took some time to rest, recuperate and recover, and gradually began the process of looking for work. It was hard going; her specialist qualifications made her overqualified for a lot of entry-level positions, but the only job they would really help her jump into would be another teaching job, which was the last thing she wanted to do.

The business with Mark resolved, Kristina had been using her new-found freedom to hang out with Maxine much more than she had been able to in the past. Maxine, meanwhile, was doing her best to find Kristina a position in her office; it took some time, but she eventually managed to convince her bosses to bring her on for a probationary period.

Kristina took to the work quickly, and began picking up new skills easily. The work was deathly dull, but it paid reasonably well and, most importantly, she could just leave it behind at the end of the day and not have to think about it again until she got into the office. In comparison to the nights of anxiety and nightmares, it was heaven.

Winter changed to spring, and the days got longer and hotter as summer arrived.

Kristina hadn't seen much of Sian for about a month, since her young friend had been busily preparing for her exams. An occasional text message revealed that she was getting on well, though, and had even managed to repair the rift between herself and her friends. She didn't mention Edward though; Kristina found herself wondering how he was doing.

*  *  *  *

"Hi, you made it!" Sian exclaimed, running up to Kristina and throwing her arms around her. "Sorry I haven't been around much. Busy, you know!"

"It's okay," said Kristina. "Thanks for inviting me. Are you ready?"

Sian glanced down at the envelope in her hands.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I think so. But hold on a minute. Wait there. I'll be right back."

She disappeared inside the school for a moment. Kristina looked around at the other Year 11 students milling around, talking to one another. Some looked ecstatic; others less so. One girl over there was in tears; another was comforting her and clearly trying not to grin too broadly.

School's a boiling, simmering pot of emotions and hormones, thought Kristina. It's no wonder it was difficult to deal with. Everything's so intense; everyone's forced together to work on things they might not want to do; emotions run high. For these kids, it must feel like they've got their whole lives ahead of them. They have, I guess.

She sighed at the thought. Oh, to be young again.

Sian came back out pulling a familiar figure with her.

"Hello," said Edward, smiling. There was no trace of the anger and resentment Kristina had seen in his eyes the last time she'd seen him. "How are you, Miss?"

"You don't have to call me that any more, Edward," said Kristina with a laugh. "Just Kristina or Kris is fine."

Edward looked her in the eye and his smile broadened, then he looked over at Sian.

"You ready?" Sian asked, holding up her envelope.

"Ready," he said, holding up his own, identical envelope.

"Then… go!" she cried, tearing into it before she'd finished speaking. She withdrew several sheets of paper and made an exaggerated show of reading them. Edward, meanwhile, tore the envelope open more methodically, withdrew the papers and glanced them over.

"Well?" said Kristina. "Don't keep me in suspense any more. How did you do?"

"Take a look," said both Edward and Sian together, offering their respective pieces of paper to Kristina. She looked down at the sheets.

A moment later, a spot of water plopped onto the top page on Edward's stack. Kristina handed them back and turned away from her former students.

"Congratulations," she said. "I'm really happy for you both."

She felt an arm around her waist from her right, then another from her left. As she blinked away the tears that had sprung suddenly to her eyes, she looked down either side of herself and realised that both Edward and Sian were hugging her.

"We couldn't have done it without you," Sian said.

"Thank you," said Edward. "Thank you."

The post 1414: Epilogue appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Kristina had never been a sickly person, but she had oddly fond memories of going to the doctors as a young child. It was a simpler time, when she felt she got along better with her parents, and felt like she could trust "adults" to do the right thing to help her.

Now she was an adult herself, and she knew all too well that adults' motivations weren't always particularly simple, nor did everyone just want to help each other and make a better world. But neither was it so simple that some people were just outright evil, either; Mark was clear and living proof of that. She'd grown to think of him as a monster, but it had become apparent that he was a broken man responding poorly to an unfortunate hand that life had dealt him more than anything else. She still wanted nothing to do with him, mind, but she at least pitied him rather than hated him now.

Kristina looked around the waiting room. No-one was talking to one another. The atmosphere felt awkward.

Behind the reception desk, the receptionist was chatting to a nurse who was rifling through some files. Kristina couldn't make out the details of the conversation, but the pair of them seemed to be getting along well with each other, laughing and joking as they went about their workday. She felt suddenly envious that she had never really felt that way about her own job; she'd always felt isolated, even though she was supposedly part of a team.

Still, it wouldn't matter much longer. Today, she hoped, would be the first steps towards a new beginning. She knew it was probably going to be a tough road ahead, but it was for the best. The alternative didn't bear thinking about.

"Miss… Kristina Charles?" called the receptionist. Kristina raised her hand politely and stood up, then walked over to the desk. "Dr. James is ready for you. Room 3. Do you know the way?"

"Yes, thank you," said Kristina. She hadn't spent much time in this surgery, but she had seen Dr. James several times in the past, and knew the way to his room. She passed through the double doors next to the reception desk, followed the corridor around the corner to the left, and came to the door of room number 3.

This is it, she thought. Are you ready?

She rapped three times on the door, heard a cheerful-sounding voice call "Come in!" from within, then pushed it open.

Dr. James was sitting in his large leather chair at his computer. He motioned for Kristina to sit down in the chair across the room from him.

"Hello, Kristina," he said with a familiar tone. "What can I do for you today?"

"Um," said Kristina. "I'm not quite sure how to bring this up, really."

She'd been running over and over in her mind how she was going to explain her situation to the doctor, but now she was here, she felt embarrassed; like she was committing some sort of fraud. Did she have any right to do what she was about to do? Wasn't she just letting everyone down, giving up?

"It's okay," said Dr. James with a sympathetic smile. "I can see that you're distressed. In your own time."

Kristina closed her eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath. She suddenly felt like she was about to start crying, but held back the tears, because she knew if she started, it would be very difficult to stop.

"I am… having some trouble," she said. "A lot of trouble, in fact."

The floodgates opened. She explained how she had been feeling; how it was difficult to motivate herself to get up in the morning, how it was hard to summon up the enthusiasm to do her job, how she felt guilty that she didn't feel better about what she did for a living.

She talked about how she suffered nightmares; how she was kept awake most nights by images of things that had happened in the day.

She talked about the times she'd suffered nosebleeds when she felt she couldn't take any more pressure; how she felt constantly overwhelmed and unable to cope with everything that was going on around her, even the most mundane things.

She started to explain her breakdown in front of the science class, but the doctor stopped her.

"I get the picture," he said gently. "And it's okay. I understand how this sort of thing can be embarrassing to admit. It's not easy to contemplate the fact that the course you thought your life was on might not be the right one, and it's even harder to admit that something you once clearly felt passionately about is now causing you real problems. Because these are real problems; it's not all in your head, if that's what you're worried about.

"What you're describing to me, Kristina, is stress. Serious stress, likely coupled with depression. Now, I could prescribe you some medication and send you on your way, but I'm hesitant to do that right now. Instead, what I'm going to do — and what I suspect you were hoping I might do — is get you some time off to collect your thoughts and determine what it is you might want to do, because I feel it's something you're struggling with right now. The year is getting on, and Christmas is coming up; I'll sign you off until the end of the year, and when the New Year is coming up I'd like you to make another appointment, come and see me and determine what you're going to do. Does that sound good?"

"Yes," said Kristina meekly. "Thank you."

"All right, then," said Dr. James. He turned to his desk, pulled out a pad of paper with red lines on it from his desk drawer, then began to write. A moment later, he was done.

"Give this to your employer," he said. "And then get some rest. Lots of rest."

*  *  *  *

She'd done it. She'd admitted that she'd had a problem, and she'd bought herself some time to deal with it. But now she had to determine how she was going to handle it.

She didn't feel like she could really face going in to school right now — not while all the children were still there — but she felt it was probably better to give the note in sooner rather than later.

For the rest of the day she sat watching the clock, wondering if now would be a good time to go, but she still worried that there would be people hanging about. She wanted to be sure the school would still be open, but minimise the risk of actually running into someone, because now she had gone through with this, she was starting to feel scared and ashamed again.

She watched some television to take her mind off clockwatching, but her thoughts were too preoccupied to take anything in. She was grateful for the noise if nothing else, though; it proved to be distraction from her anxiety.

Nearly there, she thought, as the time approached six o' clock in the evening. And then I can be free.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, sighed, then stood up. She opened her eyes and felt resolved. This was for her own good. This was the right thing to do.

She threw on her coat and left her home before she could convince herself to do otherwise.

*  *  *  *

She was happy to see that the school was still open when she arrived there, but the number of cars in the car park had thinned out somewhat. A few lights were still on, and she could see a couple of her colleagues in their rooms, probably getting things ready for the following week. Friday afternoon was a good time to tidy up and get things ready, but it was also the time when a lot of people — Kristina included — just wanted to get out and leave the work behind for a couple of days.

Kristina grimaced as she thought that it was more than a couple of days she'd be leaving the work behind for; it was, in all likelihood, forever.

She pushed open the front door of the school and looked around. The corridor was quiet — no children, no staff, and no-one on the reception desk. Kristina tried the door to the reception booth and found it unlocked; she fished the doctor's note out of her pocket, left it prominently in the middle of the desk, and then made to leave.

As she put her hand on the handle, though, she had a sudden crisis of confidence; she reached for the receptionist's pad of sticky notes, scribbled a quick note that read "Sorry — Kristina" on it, then stuck it to the doctor's note. Then she removed it and stuck it to the desk next to the doctor's note. She wanted to ensure that it was seen, and that she wouldn't have to talk to anyone about it, even though she felt sure that would probably be unavoidable in the long term.

Then she departed the reception booth, trotted out to the school's front door and broke into a run as soon as she was outside again.

She didn't look back.

The post 1413: Part 27 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She didn't bring friends home often, and she hadn't brought many different people home. Jasmine and Nicola had both been over a few times, of course, but with them still not talking to her, it looked unlikely that they would be coming over again any time soon.

She had certainly never brought a boy home. And while she knew that there was nothing going on between her and Edward beyond simple friendship, she also knew how her mother liked to take things out of context and blow them out of proportion. But Sian was putting her own distaste at being interrogated by her mother aside for now, because her friend needed her.

The day after Parents Evening at school had been a peculiar one. Sian knew that Kristina wouldn't be there, because she had received a text to that effect, though Kristina hadn't gone into detail as to what had happened. When she met up with Edward at breaktime, however, things started to become a little more clear.

Edward explained the awkward situation that had occurred, but managed to remain calm while he was doing so. He sounded frustrated, but for once he didn't seem to be outright angry. Sian wondered if she had had anything to do with that, but doubted it; she wasn't so confident in herself as to believe she could "fix" emotional scars as deep as those Edward had in such a short space of time.

She wanted to help, though, so that's where the invitation had come from. It had come out of her mouth before she could stop herself; she'd invited Edward over at the weekend. As soon as she said it, she realised she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do with him once he was there, but she felt it was important for him to get out of his house for a while. She couldn't even begin to imagine what his situation at home must have been like after the confrontation at Parents Evening; she didn't even know if he was staying at home, given the revelations that had come out.

"What time's he coming?" asked her mother with a wry grin. Sian could tell she had already misunderstood the situation.

"Mum, listen," she said. "I need to explain some things." She could feel her hands shaking as she spoke up. She normally tried to avoid difficult conversations like this, but she felt it wouldn't be a good idea to bring Edward into her house without warning her mother about what the stakes were.

She took a deep breath and explained everything: who Edward was, what his background was, why he needed to be treated with a certain degree of care, particularly after last night. By the time she had finished, her mother's face didn't look anywhere near as cheerful as it was before.

"Oh," she said. "Um, is he going to be… all right?"

"I think so," said Sian. "Just… don't provoke him, okay?"

"I wasn't planning on it!" said her mother. Then she smiled. "But I'll be careful."

*  *  *  *

A couple of hours later, the doorbell went. Sian, who had been sitting in the living room, raced to the door to be the first to answer it, though she could hear her mother heading to the hallway.

"I got it," called Sian.

She opened the door. There was Edward, standing on her doorstep. He'd brushed his hair, making him look a little tidier than usual, though he appeared to be wearing his white school shirt and trousers beneath his usual coat. He'd left the tie off, at least. Sian looked him up and down.

"Hello," said Sian, who now felt rather underdressed in her jeans and t-shirt. "You look very smart."

"I, uh, don't have that many smart clothes," said Edward. "This is the best I could do."

"You didn't have to dress up!" said Sian with a gentle laugh. Edward looked a little embarrassed. "It's okay though. I'm happy you made an effort."

He looked up at her, and smiled. It was still such a rare sight, it made Sian's heart flutter to see it. She was glad that she was someone who could make him smile, but it made her a little sad to think that she was probably one of the few people in the world who was able to do so.

They paused like that for a moment, neither moving. Then Sian caught herself, stood aside and motioned for him to come through the door.

"Come in," she said. "Please. Oh, would you mind taking your shoes off?"

"Sure," he said, stepping into the house. He removed his shoes, and Sian noticed that his socks were threadbare, with a couple of prominent holes.

"Sorry," he said, looking sheepish. "Like I said, I don't have many smart clothes."

"It's fine," said Sian. "Here, let me take your coat." He removed it and Sian took it from him, hanging it up in the cupboard beneath the stairs. "Come on through."

She led him to the living room, where the television was still on. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, and her father was sitting upstairs browsing the Internet, as usual. She was grateful to them both for knowing to stay out of the way; perhaps they had a bit more sensitivity and consideration than she gave them credit for, she thought.

Edward sat down on the couch; Sian sat in one of the armchairs. They both stared at the television for a few minutes.

"Is there anything you want to watch?" said Sian, indicating the TV.

"Not really," said Edward. Then he sat forward. "We could watch a movie or something?"

"Okay," said Sian. "What do you want to watch?"

"What have you got?" he asked.

Sian smiled, and switched the channel on the TV, then pulled up her favourite video-on-demand service. "Pretty much anything you want," she said. Her smile widened at Edward's open-mouthed expression of wonderment. Apparently he had never encountered this sort of service before.

"That one," he said, indicating a movie starring a popular action her. It looked like a distinctly testosterone-fuelled movie to Sian, which wasn't normally her sort of thing, but she was willing to give it a shot. Today was about Edward, after all, so if sitting through some blood-splattered action movie would make him happy, that's what they'd do.

She set the movie playing and moved onto the couch next to him so she could see the screen better. Edward looked like he didn't quite know where to put his hands, or whether he could relax. Sian just sank back into the soft cushions of the couch with a sigh.

Five minutes into the movie, there was a tap at the living room door, and Sian's mother poked her head around.

"Would you two like a drink?" she asked quietly.

"Please," said Sian. "Edward, do you want anything?"

"Yes," he said. "Please," he added, correcting himself. "Whatever you have."

Sian's mother disappeared, then returned a moment later with two large glasses of Coke. She passed one to Sian and one to Edward, then quietly left the room, closing the door behind her. Sian was grateful for her keeping out of the way, but felt slightly embarrassed at the assumptions her mother was probably making about her right now. She was probably going to go upstairs and have a good laugh about this with Sian's father right now.

Sian shook her head and took a sip of the Coke. It was cold and still super-fizzy, so it tasted good. It had obviously come from a new bottle. Edward followed suit and took a big gulp, then belched thunderously.

"Sorry," he said, looking faintly embarrassed. Sian just laughed.

"It's fine," she said. Impulsively, she took a big gulp, felt the bubbles rise up inside her, then burped and giggled.

"Heh," said Edward, not quite laughing, but that smile coming to his face again. "Don't think I've ever heard a girl burp."

"We're full of surprises," said Sian. "Hey, do you want anything to eat? I can make some popcorn if you want."

"Sure," said Edward. He turned his attention back to the movie. Sian wasn't really following it, but Edward seemed to be enjoying himself, and she was glad about that.

She went into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard and drew out one of the bags of microwave popcorn. She placed it into the microwave, set the timer and waited. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then pop… pop… pop pop pop. She listened carefully until the popping slowed down again, then took the bag out and emptied its hot, popped contents into a bowl and took it back into the living room.

Edward was right where she'd left him. She sat down next to him and laid the bowl of popcorn between them, then reached in and grabbed a handful. Then she turned back to the movie.

This isn't so bad, she thought. This almost feels like a normal life. I wonder what Edward's thinking right now?

The post 1412: Part 26 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She was sitting in a small chair next to the Head's large, comfortable-looking swivel chair. Across the room from her was Edward, Mark and Edward's mother, whose name Kristina didn't know. The Head had stepped out for a moment, leaving the four in uncomfortable silence. Mark still looked as if he might snap at any moment, though he was leaning more towards "emotional breakdown" than "jealous rage" right now, and Edward's mother's face was unreadable. Edward, meanwhile, stared at the floor, his cheeks flushed.

Eventually, the Head walked back in, relieving some of Kristina's tension. She was just starting to think she ought to say something to break the silence, but had come to the conclusion that she really had nothing to say right now.

"Hello," said the Head. "I'm Mr Thompson, the headteacher here."

Thompson was only a year older than Rhodes, but he looked about twenty years older. While Rhodes looked like a kindly uncle coming gracefully into middle age, Thompson's worn face and greying hair made him look more like a world-weary grandfather. Right now, he looked particularly tired. Kristina found herself wondering what he spent his days doing, since his door was usually closed and it was pretty rare the staff would see him at all; most matters of school business, be they discipline or dealing with parents, went through Rhodes rather than Thompson.

This must be serious to involve the Head, thought Kristina. She shook her head. Of course it's serious. A man burst in to Parents Evening yelling and screaming, and collapsed on the floor in tears. What a silly thing to think, Kristina.

She felt oddly detached from this whole situation now she wasn't the centre of attention. She almost felt like she could float right out of her body and watch the meeting unfold from outside; she wasn't even sure what she was doing here. Although the incident in the main hall had involved her, she didn't quite know how she could contribute to this meeting, whatever it was.

"We have a problem," said Thompson. "There is obviously some sort of… history here." He gesticulated in the general direction of Mark and Kristina, then continued. "I take care not to involve myself in the private lives of my staff, but when something spills over into the professional space, I cannot help but pay attention. Would anyone care to explain the situation, please?"

Silence. Kristina felt like she was a naughty child being admonished for a major misdemeanour, even though she knew she hadn't really done anything wrong. She glanced over at Mark, who didn't look in any fit state to talk right now.

Eventually Edward's mother spoke up.

"There's a bit of background we need to talk about," she said. She looked from Edward, to Mark, to Kristina. "And then we need to figure out how we're going to resolve this."

Thompson nodded. No-one else said anything.

"As I'm sure you know, Mark and I are no longer together," she began. "We tried to stay together for the sake of Edward, but it simply wasn't working." She sighed. "I knew that Mark wouldn't be capable of taking care of Edward by himself, but he insisted. He insisted so much he spent more money and time than he had fighting me for legal custody of Edward. There was nothing I could do; even though I knew the situation wouldn't be good for anyone, Mark was too stubborn to give up."

Kristina looked over at Mark as Edward's mother said these things. He was tapping his feet and wringing his hands, but still he said nothing.

"Edward occasionally contacted me in secret," she continued. "He told me how Mark was neglecting him; how he was angry and frustrated; how Mark would hit him in anger; how Mark would lock him in his room when he didn't want to deal with him. I wanted to help him, but the first legal battle against Mark had cost me almost all the money I had; I couldn't afford to fight him again.

"But Edward kept contacting me. He wouldn't give up. He wanted to escape so badly, and I felt so bad for not being able to help him. But I was living in a one-bedroom flat and struggling to get by, so my situation would have barely been better than what Mark could offer, though I would have at least treated him better."

"I'm confused," said Thompson. "If the situation at home was so bad, why didn't this get reported to Child Protection?"

"It was an irrational fear on my part," continued Edward's mother. "I worried that if they took Edward away from Mark, they'd look at my living situation and deem me unfit to take care of him, either. I didn't want him to end up with some foster family he didn't know; that would just make his emotional problems even worse than they already are. At least in my mind. I know now that I should have done something sooner, and I regret that I didn't." She turned to her son. "I'm sorry, Edward."

Thompson turned to Kristina, who was shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

"And I'm not clear how you're involved, Miss Charles. Would you care to explain?"

"I—" Kristina began, but before she could start mumbling her way through an explanation, she was interrupted.

"It's my fault," said Mark with a cracked voice, sounding utterly defeated. "I… used to work with her friend. We had been flirting at work for a long time, and eventually we agreed to go out. But I had been such a mess ever since she left…" – here he gestured to his ex-partner – "…that I was having trouble dealing with… being normal." He took a deep breath and continued. "I thought things were going well. I craved intimacy, both emotional and physical, and I thought I had found it in Maxine. But I went too far, and when she resisted, I became angry and… did some things I regret."

Kristina was surprised he was being so open about what had happened. She had expected him to lie, cheat and become aggressive, but seemingly the simple presence of the woman he had once loved had reduced him to little more than a shell of a man. His voice was cold and emotionless; there was no sadness, no anger, no bitterness; nothing.

"Very well," said Thompson. "Can I please ask you to wait outside for a moment? I need to speak with Miss Charles privately for a moment."

Edward's mother nodded, and was first to stand. She ushered Mark out of the room ahead of her. Edward trailed along, still staring at his shoes, his feet kicking the floor as he walked.

Thompson closed the door after them.

"Anything else you can tell me?" he said, standing in front of the door with his arms folded.

Kristina felt a little uncomfortable.

"Not about this situation," she said. "I can tell you that Edward seems to have been responding well to music lessons, and has actually been doing quite well." She hesitated a moment before continuing. "He has also been getting on well with Sian Beaumont in the music class. She's been helping him out a lot, and they seem to have made quite a friendship out of it. Unfortunately that seems to have had a negative impact on Sian's own friendships, as we've seen recently."

"Hm," said Thompson, stroking his chin. "Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so," she said. She paused. "Err," she began. She considered whether or not now would be the right time to reveal her plan.

"Yes?" he said.

"N-no, nothing," she said. "Would you mind if I… if I just went home now, please? It's been a difficult day."

"Of course," he said. He stepped aside from the door and opened it. She passed through, not stopping to speak to Edward and his parents on the way past. She just wanted out, right now.

*  *  *  *

The following morning, Kristina woke up late. She could have probably made it in to school if she threw on her clothes and ran, but all motivation had left her.

She fumbled around on her bedside table for her phone, but when she pressed the button to wake it from sleep, it became apparent its battery had gone flat. Groaning, she reached down beside the bed to grab the charger cable — why did they make them so damn short? — and plug it into the phone. Then she lay back and closed her eyes for a moment, hoping she wouldn't fall asleep.

A few minutes later, after successfully remaining awake, she grabbed her phone, which now had enough charge in it to wake up. She dialled the school's number; she knew that, given how late it was, she'd have to actually speak to someone rather than leave an answerphone message, but it was better than leaving them high and dry.

"Hello," she said with a cracked voice. She didn't clear her throat to fix it; the more ill she sounded, the better. "It's Kristina, I'm afraid I'm not very well today so I won't be coming in."

It was technically a lie, but she really didn't feel like she had the energy to face school today. She tried to avoid pulling a sickie if she could possibly avoid it, but today she felt like she had earned it.

The inevitable question came. Did she have any cover work for her classes?

"I'll email some through to Martin," she said. She had no intention of doing so, but it was easier to say that she was going to send something. Then she hung up before there could be any more questions.

She lay back, closed her eyes and this time allowed sleep to claim her once again.

*  *  *  *

She wasn't sure how long she'd slept when she awoke again; her mind had been bounced around by some truly peculiar dreams. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling for a while, not wanting to move. All her joints ached, and she just wanted to lie still for hours.

She stared at the ceiling for a while, closed her eyes and felt herself falling asleep again. But she forced herself awake again, rolled over and pulled one leg out of bed, then the other, sitting up groggily as her feet hit the floor.

She grabbed her phone. There was a missed call from school on it, and another from a mobile number she didn't recognise. Probably Martin asking where the cover work she promised was.

She dismissed the notifications and opened up her contact list. She scrolled through until she found the number for her local doctor's surgery.

"Hello," she said as the receptionist answered on the other end. "I was wondering if you had any appointments today."

There was a pause as the receptionist checked.

"There is?" Kristina said. "Okay, I'd like to make an appointment, please. Thank you."

This was it. There was no turning back from here, but she no longer felt any regrets or hesitation; this was the right thing to do.

The post 1411: Part 25 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

This one hadn't, though. Jasmine and Nicola had barely said a word to Sian since the incident, and had pointedly moved away from her in the classes they had together, leaving her to sit by herself. It made her feel bad.

The only person she felt gave her any meaningful interaction any more was Edward, and despite her good intentions to be positive towards him, she was wary of being seen with him for fear of either or both of them being harassed — and worse, it causing Edward to fly into one of his rages. She didn't want that, and she knew Edward didn't either; it just happened. It was part of who he was, and Sian felt like she was one of the only people in the school — staff of the Unit aside, whom she'd got to know quite well over the last few days — who could look past the angry exterior to the person within.

Sian had discovered through her conversations with him that Edward was actually quite an intelligent person, with a particularly natural flair for the creative. The fact that his difficulties had caused him to miss a lot of lessons meant that he was lacking in certain basic skills, particularly when it came to literacy and numeracy, but when he could communicate his feelings and articulate his thoughts coherently, it was clear to her that there was quite a clever young man struggling to get out from beneath all the resentment, bitterness and anger.

Sian had paid Kristina a few visits over the course of the week, but had found her friend increasingly distant, distracted and unwilling to talk. She often had a far-off look in her eyes, like she was seeing something Sian couldn't, and she rarely had time to spend more than five minutes talking.

Sian knew the reason, of course; it was abundantly clear. Kristina had given up. She had had good intentions to try her best for one last shot when they had met in the coffee shop, but her attempts had obviously been unsuccessful, because now she looked utterly defeated. Sian recognised the feelings, and felt for her teacher, but didn't know what else she could do.

She thought back to the story Sian had told her about her friend at university, the one who had suffered from depression and had regularly shut herself away from anyone who wanted to help or comfort her. She couldn't help but draw comparisons to Kristina; she was starting to show much the same symptoms, and Sian recognised her own feelings of helplessness as what Kristina must have gone through several years previously.

Thursday morning came around; the day of Year 11's Parents Evening. Sian tried her best to maintain her focus over the course of the day, but knew that most of her teachers had already noticed how distracted she had been for the rest of the week and would almost certainly tell her parents about it. She really wasn't looking forward to the inevitable conversation in the car on the way home; her mother in particular would ask probing questions that she wouldn't want to answer, and her father would get increasingly frustrated as she refused to answer them. She predicted the evening would more than likely end in a huge argument between her and them.

When lunchtime came, Sian decided to go and see Kristina again. When she arrived at the classroom, Edward was already there waiting outside the door, peering through the small window.

"Hello," she said.

"Hey," he said quietly, not turning to look at her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I wanted to see Miss," he said. "But she looks… well, take a look."

He moved away from the door and gestured for Sian to take a look through the small window. She did so.

Inside, she could see Kristina sitting at the piano, but she wasn't playing. No, she was crying. Her head was in her hands, and she was crying; judging by the heaving of her shoulders, it was a particularly intense bout.

"Should we go talk to her?" Edward asked. "I, uh, don't really know how to deal with this."

Sian didn't either.

"I…" she began, turning to him, then turned back to look through the window again. Kristina was right where they had left her. "Yeah. Yeah, we should."

She pushed the door open assertively without knocking. Kristina looked up, startled, tears sparkling on her cheeks and makeup running down her face.

"Oh God," she said. "I'm sorry, was I supposed to…"

"No," said Sian as calmly as she could manage. "No, there's nothing to worry about. We just wanted to…"

She wanted to say "see if you were all right," but that seemed like a silly thing to say right now. Of course she wasn't all right.

"We just wanted to come and see you," said Edward. "We're worried about you."

Sian looked at Edward in surprise. It wasn't like him to show such open empathy.

"Yeah," said Sian. She fumbled around in her pocket to find the packet of tissues her mother pushed onto her every few days. She drew one out and handed it to Kristina, who took it with a weak smile.

"Yeah, you should be," said Kristina. "I know I'm being completely unprofessional by being like this, but, you know, fuck it. I can't take this any more."

Both Sian and Edward bristled as they heard Kristina hiss the profanity bitterly, but they didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she continued. "I'm sorry to you both. But…" she hesitated and took a deep breath, which was interrupted by the remnants of a sob. "I don't think I'm going to be your teacher for much longer."

Sian nodded.

"I understand," she said. Edward said nothing; he just looked at the floor.

The room was silent for a moment.

"It's my fault, isn't it?" said Edward quietly, still looking at his shoes.

"No," said Kristina. "No, Edward, why would you say that?"

"I don't know," he said. "But I feel like everything's my fault. I fuck everything up."

Sian placed a hand on his shoulder, and heard him take a sharp intake of breath as she made contact with him.

"You don't," she said quietly. "You can't blame yourself for everything. There are things you could do better, sure, but that's true for all of us. But this; this isn't your fault."

"No," said Kristina. "It's not. It's not you. It's me. I'm not cut out for this job. I thought I was, but I'm not. It's taken me quite some time to admit that to myself, but this really isn't me. This isn't the person I used to be. I don't like the person that this job is turning me into, and if I carry on I'm not only going to be letting myself down, I'm going to be letting the rest of you down, too."

Sian took her hand off Edward's shoulder and walked towards Kristina. She put her arms around her teacher's shoulders and hugged her.

Kristina started crying again, but the tears didn't have quite so much sadness in them this time.

*  *  *  *

Finally, the end of the day came around. Kristina somehow managed to survive her afternoon lessons without having an emotional breakdown, and knew that she only had to make it through Parents Evening, and then she would be free.

Between the end of school and her first appointment, she took a moment to wash her face, reapply her makeup and make sure she looked presentable and professional.

Might as well go out on a high note, she thought.

She walked back to her classroom, picked up her mark book and headed to the table assigned to her in the hall; tucked away in the back corner, much like the music department as a whole.

She only had a few appointments; a number of her students' parents had apparently decided that music wasn't important enough to check their progress in, and so she spent much of the evening drinking the staffroom's horrible instant coffee and eating cheap biscuits.

As the light faded outside, she couldn't help but look at the last entry on her list: Edward's parents. She wasn't sure how she was going to deal with Edward's father, and Edward hadn't said whether or not his estranged mother would be coming along, either. But time was ticking down, and she knew that there was no escape.

She went and sat back at her desk, feeling her heart rate gradually increasing as she watched the clock gradually work its way ever-closer to seven o' clock.

As she saw Edward's father approaching, she felt like her heart had stopped and time was standing still.

"Holy shit," she said to herself. "Mark."

There was no mistake; it wasn't the clean-cut, well-dressed Mark she'd seen before, however; he had shaggy, unkempt hair and he obviously hadn't shaved for a while. But it was still him.

She made eye contact, and she knew it was too late to get away; he was storming towards her, striding with furious purpose down the aisles between the tables.

The rest of the world became a blur, darkening at the edges; all she could see right now was him, with Edward following closely behind him, looking more scared than she had ever seen him.

"Bitch!" hissed Mark as she reached Kristina's table. He slammed his fist down on her desk and said it again, louder. "Bitch!"

The noise of the other meetings going on in the room subsided, and Kristina could feel all eyes turning to her. She wanted out, now.

"Uh-uh-uh-uh," she stammered, unable to get any words out. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

"You and your little friend ruined my life!" he yelled, pushing her table aside as if it were nothing more than a light curtain. Kristina stood up and moved behind her chair, though she knew it would offer little protection if he did decide to become violent.

"You ruined my life!" he said again, but this time he wasn't screaming with anger; it was said with agonising frustration and sadness. He sank to his knees and clutched at his temples; tears formed in his eyes and he started to sob.

He let out a bloodcurdling howl and sank to the ground. Kristina looked at him in astonishment, and could tell the rest of the room was doing the same.

The room fell silent for a moment, then the noiselessness was broken by the sound of high-heeled footsteps on the wooden floor, echoing through the high-ceilinged hall.

They came closer and closer; Kristina didn't recognise the woman, but as soon as Edward turned around, looked at her and smiled, she understood.

"Have I come at a bad time?" said Edward's mother.

The post 1410: Part 24 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Kristina had reached an agreement with herself; she would return to school on Monday, stick it out until Parents Evening, and only then decide what to do next. She was trying very hard not to decide beforehand what she was going to do; she was determined that it would be a considered decision, but not one she had made her mind up about days beforehand.

Parents Evening was Thursday; today was Monday. That gave her three full days and most of a fourth to prepare herself and figure out what was going on — whether she could continue surviving the way she had been, or whether it was time to bow out gracefully and try to do something else.

Kristina couldn't help but see the second option as a failure somehow, but in a long conversation with Maxine, she had learned to at least entertain the possibility that it might, in fact, be the right thing to do. Regardless of whatever sense of "duty" she had; regardless of whether or not it meant that all that time she'd spent training had somehow been wasted; if it was the right thing to do, it was the right thing to do.

But no. She wasn't going to decide one way or another until after she had made it through Parents Evening, at which point she would make her mind up once and for all, and then try her best at whatever she decided to do next.

It felt like an attainable goal. It was just three and a bit days, after all — perfectly doable.

She stepped into the school grounds on Monday morning feeling oddly positive and detached. She dimly heard a few children jeering at her as they saw her, but she successfully ignored it and walked into the building, through the corridors and down to her classroom.

The room was just as she'd left it. The papers were still on the desk, though in her absence at least the piles hadn't grown any more. The book of music was still on the piano, so she took a moment and indulged herself in flamboyantly performing a couple of favourite pieces to no-one in particular. She looked at the clock; it was time for the staff briefing, but she didn't feel like going today. Instead, she just waited for the inevitable.

There was the bell for registration; the gradual calming of the noise outside. There was the second bell for the end of registration; the gradual crescendo of talking, laughing and shouting as the children returned to the hallways of the school, then the diminuendo of them entering the classrooms and beginning their lessons.

She noticed that the noise she expected outside her own door was nowhere to be seen. Where was 7C?

She stood up from the piano and walked outside; no-one was in the open area outside her room. How odd. Had she missed something important?

She returned to her room and rummaged through the papers on her desk. Eventually she found her answer: year 7 was on a field trip today, and as such their normal lessons would not be taking place. All teachers who would normally teach year 7 were expected to be available for cover lessons.

Kristina looked at the date on the memo; it had gone out last week, and had seemingly just got buried amid all the other piles of paper on her desk. Fortunately, it didn't appear to matter too much; no-one had come to fetch her for cover today, and so she smiled at the prospect of a free period, and resolved to get up to date on marking some of the books she'd neglected for so long.

She'd had good intentions for marking, but had somehow never managed to stick to them. The school had rather exacting standards as to how books should be marked, with particular attention paid to things like spelling and punctuation, and an overly complicated system of marks to denote various things about the things students had written. In her first few weeks, Kristina had stuck to the marking scheme rigorously, but over time had determined that whatever she wrote, whatever she pointed out with her pens — red or green, she'd tried both — it was, more often than not, summarily ignored by students, so much so that there were children in year 9 who were still writing answers to questions in textspeak and completing homework with printouts from Wikipedia.

She opened the first of a stack and sighed at the sight of the owner's clumsy handwriting and poor spelling. She flicked through the pages, admiring her seeming dedication to the job in the early days of the term, spotting the cut-off point where she'd simply stopped marking books and begun the path she was on now — the path of never being able to get caught up, ever.

She closed the book and returned it to the stack, then returned the stack to its customary spot on the windowsill. Marking had waited this long; it could wait for another day, and besides, the attainment levels for music were so poorly defined that she had proven on several occasions already that she could pretty much make up the results for her students based on what she knew of their personalities and work ethics and still be complimented on her rigorous marking and solid tracking of their attainment — just so long as they didn't take a random sample of her exercise books, of course.

Oh God, she thought, sitting down at her desk. I really am an unsatisfactory teacher. I can't be bothered with any of this shit.

But did it matter? That's what she wasn't sure of. She still held the somewhat idealistic view that teachers should be people who inspired and imparted knowledge, not people who filled out forms. It shouldn't matter that she hadn't used the school's secret code for showing when someone had misspelled something or failed to put a comma in the right place, because she had it where it counted — she had heart and soul, and she wanted these kids to learn about music.

It wasn't that simple, of course. Her mind drifted back through numerous lessons, and it naturally fixated on all the times where she'd spent more time shouting at the class than actually imparting knowledge or helping them out. She saw the faces of the few industrious, committed children in even the most unpleasant classes, and worried that they felt disappointed in her.

Then she saw Sian's face, looking at her supportively. If Sian understood what she was going through, didn't it follow that other students would too? Not necessarily, she thought, since Sian was a special case; she was far more mature than many of her peers, and she was rare in that she clearly saw her teachers as real people rather than automatons purely designed to make the life of teenagers difficult.

Kristina sighed and laid her head down on the piles of paper on her desk. The positivity with which she had arrived at school this morning was draining out of her by the second, and she was becoming more and more convinced of what her decision would be come the end of Thursday.

Her door opened, and a child she didn't recognise walked in.

"Miss?" she said. "Um, I think you're supposed to be covering our class?"

Shit, Kristina said to herself. They must have doled out cover assignments during briefing. Bollocks. Fuck. Shit.

"All right," she said. "I'll, uh, be right there. What class is it?"

"8A," said the girl. "We're doing Maths."

"Okay," said Kristina. "I'm sorry, no-one told me, I…" She stopped herself, realising that the child probably didn't care, and that the class probably welcomed the fact they had been without a teacher for twenty minutes.

She gathered her things and turned to the girl.

"All right," she said. "Ready to go."

"Uh, miss?" said the girl. "Your nose…"

Kristina put her hand to her nose, which she now noticed was feeling a bit strange. When she looked down at her hand, it was covered in blood.

Oh shit, she thought. Great timing. Just perfect.

"Let me get you a tissue," said the girl, running out of the door.

Kristina tipped her head back and pinched the bridge of her nose, unsure of what else to do; it had been a long time since she'd had a nosebleed, and she couldn't for the life of her remember how to fix it. When the girl came back, Kristina took the sheet of paper towel from her and held it under her nose. Before long, it was stained a deep crimson with her blood; the girl passed her another as Kristina tossed it aside.

"Can you go to Reception, please," said Kristina from behind the tissue. "I… don't think I'm very well. I'm going to need someone else to cover your class."

"Okay," said the girl. "Get better soon, Miss."

Then she was gone.

Eventually the bleeding stopped, and Kristina looked down at the bloody tissue in her hand.

"Nothing is worth this," she said out loud. "I've got to get out of here."

The post 1409: Part 23 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Sian looked at the message again, feeling a great sense of sorrow.

She had heard about the incident where Kristina had run out of the science lesson — how could she not? The school was abuzz with it.

The way people were talking about it disgusted Sian. A number of people whom she knew for a fact had never had a lesson with Kristina seemed to be seeing the fall of a teacher as a "victory" — for whom, she couldn't really determine. She certainly didn't feel it was something to be celebrated when the teacher of one of the subjects she was going to be examined in come the summer had been driven out of her job, perhaps never to return. She knew that music was hardly the most popular subject in school, but that was no reason to celebrate.

The injustice of it all frustrated her. She knew that Kristina was trying her best, struggling against difficult odds made even harder by the school's own woes. And Sian thought she was doing a good job, too; she always came away from her music lessons feeling like she'd learned something and that her life was somehow richer — even in those sessions where she'd done little more than play the piano or sing. Kristina just helped her feel like she was doing something good and worthwhile.

Now she had lost Jasmine and Nicola to the mob, too, she wasn't sure what to do with herself. She got on well enough with her peers in her music class, but not well enough to feel confident hanging out with them. And she felt sure that by now, if Jasmine and Nicola had judged her for her supposed "sins," the rest of her peers were likely thinking much the same thing.

She felt very alone.

I can understand how you feel, replied Sian. I'm feeling that way too.

She rolled over and faced the wall. She felt comfortable inside her duvet; safe and peaceful. At least until her mother came in on one of her regular visits to see if she was "all right".

Sian had successfully managed to convince her parents that she wasn't feeling well enough to go into school today. It was a lie, of course, but she felt like she needed some time to recuperate and gather her thoughts.

She hadn't told her parents anything of what had transpired, nor had she told them of her worries about Kristina. She'd made an appointment for them to see Kristina at Parents Evening earlier in the week, and as far as they were concerned, that was going to go ahead as normal next week. Sian found herself doubting that was an appointment that would be kept, however.

There was a tap on her door, and she heard it open.

"Hello," said her mother in an overly cheerful voice. "I brought you a cup of coffee. How are you feeling now?"

"Not great," said Sian, faking a croaky voice and continuing to face the wall. "I'm really tired. I think I'd like to try and sleep for a bit."

"That sounds like a good idea," said her mother. She leaned over and stroked her daughter's hair. "You should put that phone away if you're trying to get some sleep."

Sian realised she was still clutching her phone in her hands, and hoped that her mother hadn't seen the message exchange on the screen. She looked down at the device and saw that it had automatically gone to sleep. Suddenly, it buzzed in her hand and lit up.

"Oh, you've got a message," said her mother. "Is it your friends checking up on you?"

"Something like that," said Sian, silently urging her mother to please just leave her alone.

Eventually, she did, and Sian was left to review the message. It was, of course, from Kristina.

How do we pick ourselves up after this? she'd written. How do we get back to normal?

I don't know, Sian typed back immediately. I wish I knew. I wish life was easy.

Moments later, Kristina replied again. You sound like me. You're a bit young to start talking like that, aren't you?

Apparently you're never too young, responded Sian. We'll work it out. We have to. There's no other option, is there?

There are other options, replied Kristina. But none of them are particularly desirable or helpful. So I guess you're right.

Sian paused, unsure of what to say next.

Do you want to meet for a coffee later? came another message from Kristina, moments later.

Yes, said Sian. Only my Mum thinks I'm sick, so I doubt she'll let me out.

Are you skiving off? came the reply. I didn't think you had it in you.

Sian smiled weakly. I could say the same to you.

*  *  *  *

Later in the day, well after the school day had ended, Sian successfully convinced her mother that she was feeling better, and that a walk in the fresh air would do her more good than sitting around the house.

Her "walk" was actually to the bus stop, and onward into town, where she would meet Kristina and the pair of them would commiserate with one another.

The bus ride seemed to pass very quickly, since Sian was lost in her thoughts. She got off and walked down the street to the coffee shop, which wasn't far away. Kristina was already in there waiting for her. She looked very tired, with bags under her eyes, unkempt hair and no makeup.

"Hello," she said as brightly as she could manage.

"Hey," said Kristina with a dry, cracked voice.

Sian sat down opposite her defeated teacher, and the pair just looked at the table in silence for a moment, then Sian got up, fumbled around in her pocket for her purse and went to the counter.

"What are you doing?" Kristina called.

"I owe you one," said Sian. "Let's indulge."

Sian returned a moment later with two large lattes and two big slices of chocolate cake, much like the ones they'd had at the supermarket a few days earlier. The pair of them dug in, and Sian found herself immediately feeling a little better.

"This is so weird," said Sian. "These feelings, I mean. It's like… I feel really sad, but there doesn't feel like there's anything causing it. I mean, I know shitty things have happened recently, but it's not those things I'm sad about; it's just a general feeling of, you know, meh."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Kristina. "That's depression, Sian. And it happens to the best people."

The pair of them took another mouthful of cake. Kristina continued.

"I had a friend at university while I was training," she said. "A really close friend. We got on really well. But she had depression. So much so that there were times when she just couldn't deal with being around people. I felt terrible when that happened, because there was just nothing I could do; I couldn't comfort her, I couldn't tell her everything was going to be all right — she'd just push me away and want to hide. As difficult as it is to admit now, I think I finally understand where she was coming from. There isn't always a cause. There isn't always a cure. It just… is. And you sort of have to learn to deal with it."

"Well, you're handling it better than she did," said Sian.

"Really?" said Kristina with a weak laugh. "Have you seen me? I've seen me. I look like a tramp. And I just don't care right now."

"No," said Sian. "You haven't locked yourself away though. You're not hiding. You're here now, aren't you? You're talking to me about it."

"Hm," said Kristina, pondering. "I guess you're right." She smiled. "Kindred spirits or something, perhaps."

Sian took a gulp of coffee, and Kristina put another piece of cake in her mouth. She chewed it a few times, swallowed and then sighed.

"Oh, Sian," she said. "What are we going to do?"

"Well, I don't have much of an option," said Sian. "You, on the other hand, I think…"

"Miss?"

The third voice interrupted Sian. The pair of them hadn't noticed him approach, but now Edward was standing by their table, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Edward," said Kristina weakly. "Hello."

"You all right, Miss?" said Edward. "You look like shit."

Sian smirked. Kristina looked at her, then back to Edward with a slight smile.

"Yes, well, I feel like shit," said Kristina. Sian couldn't help but feel a ripple of excitement at hearing a teacher swear. "But Sian here is helping. And perhaps you'd like to join us, too?" She looked to Sian for approval; Sian gave her a nod.

"Okay," said Edward. "Will someone buy me a drink?"

Sian reached into her pocket but Kristina stopped her.

"I got this," she said. "What do you want, Edward?"

"Hot chocolate," he said. "Extra cream. And marshmallows."

Kristina walked off to the counter to order Edward's drink. He turned to Sian.

"You weren't at school today," he said.

"No," she said.

"I, umm," he said, his cheeks flushing somewhat. "I, err, missed you."

Sian was surprised at what he was saying, but that surprise soon gave way to a pleasant feeling of warmth inside.

"Thanks," she said. "Since the other day I was… wondering if anyone would care if I wasn't there."

"I, err, I do," he said awkwardly, his face now bright red. "You've been really nice to me, so I… I don't know, I…"

At this point, Kristina returned with Edward's hot chocolate and rescued him from his stammering. Sian was intrigued; was he simply expressing friendship or preparing to confess deeper feelings? She was surprised to find herself not entirely repulsed by the idea, but knew anything more than friendship with Edward would almost certainly be more trouble than it was worth.

Kristina put the big glass of hot chocolate in front of Edward, who received it gratefully and immediately dug in, a moustache of whipped cream forming on his top lip. He turned to Kristina.

"Miss," he said. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for being a dick in the past. And I wanted to say thanks, too." He turned to Sian. "You two are the only people outside the Unit who take me seriously."

"That's my job, Edward," said Kristina, passing him a napkin and indicating his top lip. "It's a teacher's job to take her students seriously and try and do what she can for them."

Sian smiled. She knew that Kristina's words were for her own benefit as much as Edward's, but Edward seemed to appreciate them.

"Well," he said. "I'm going to try. I'm going to try harder, and make my Mum proud. Then I can tell my Dad to stick it."

Sian raised her eyebrows. She knew that Edward didn't talk a lot about his family or his troubles with his father, so was both surprised and pleased to hear him being so open with Kristina.

"That's good, Edward," said Kristina. "I've seen how hard you've been trying, and I think it would make your Mum proud." She hesitated a moment. "Edward, your Mum and Dad aren't together any more, isn't that right?"

"Yes," he said, looking at the floor. "I live with my Dad."

Sian unconsciously grit her teeth, but said nothing.

"Why don't you ask your Mum to come along to Parents Evening?" she asked. "It'd be good for her to find out how you're doing, and I don't know how well you're getting on in other classes, but I'll be more than happy to give you a good report, given how hard you've been trying."

Edward smiled.

"I don't know if she'll say yes," he said. "But I'll try."

The post 1408: Part 22 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

The TV was still mumbling something in the background, but her mind was too hazy to even contemplate what was on right now. It had been on all night, but she hadn't paid any attention to it, nor had she got a wink of sleep. She kept replaying the incident with the year 9 class over and over again.

She felt ashamed; she had utterly overreacted to the situation, and she had lost her cool. She doubted she'd ever be able to recover her credibility from what had happened — at least among that class, and probably now among the rest of Year 9, too — and knew that she had made a huge mistake. But there was no turning back now.

The stress had been gradually building in her head for some time now. How much she noticed it depended on how good a day she had had, but it was always there in the background, rumbling away like the noise from the TV in her living room right now. It never truly left; the feelings of inadequacy, of worrying that she couldn't match up to people who did her job far better than she did; the feeling of panic that she would be somehow letting her young charges down through her own incompetence.

She screwed her eyes up and rolled onto her side, burying her head in the couch cushions. It was a futile gesture, of course, since anxious thoughts are not something you can blot out like unpleasant noises, but it made her feel momentarily better to try and escape from her own feelings. Then they caught up with her and she felt like she wanted to cry, but instead she just rolled onto her back again and stared at the ceiling. No tears came; she simply didn't have the energy to do anything.

She heard her phone buzzing on the table where she left it, but didn't move to answer it. She had no idea what time it was or who might be calling her, and right now she didn't care. She just wanted to sink into the couch and disappear, never to be seen again.

I've failed, she thought. I've failed utterly. This is the one thing everything in my life up until this point has been leading towards, and I've ruined it.

Finally, a tear spilled from the corner of her right eye and rolled down her cheek, but she still couldn't muster the strength to actually cry properly. It frustrated her, because she felt it would probably help to release all the tension currently wracking her body, but it wasn't happening.

She closed her eyes and was immediately confronted with the image of what had happened again, replaying over and over. She could hear herself screaming, could see the sneering face of the boy she'd sent out, could feel the mocking looks of the children she was being paid to look after and educate. She had let them down.

*  *  *  *

There was a banging on her door, and it happened to coincide with one of the rare instances where she had got off the couch — this time to get herself a drink to soothe her parched throat.

She had spent most of the day on the couch with the curtains drawn, so she had no idea what time it was — nor did she know who might be banging on her door at this hour. She had a feeling she didn't want to know, either, but despite part of her brain urging her to just return to the couch and continue to wallow in her own depression, she walked to the door and opened it.

She was relieved to see it was Maxine — the one person she felt like she could be reasonably comfortable with right now.

"Hey, you," began Maxine, before looking Kristina up and down. "Man, you look like hell. What happened?"

Kristina was clad in her pyjamas — a rather immature, girlish pink top with a picture of a rabbit on the chest, and some ill-matching striped bottoms that weren't at all flattering to her figure. Her hair was bedraggled, her eyes were puffy from sporadic bouts of crying, and her lips were dry and cracked.

"I…" said Kristina. "I'll tell you in a bit. Come in. I'll put some coffee on. I need it. Now."

Maxine followed Kristina inside, a concerned expression on her face. Kristina wordlessly walked into the kitchen and began preparing the coffee. Maxine sat down on the couch, moving Kristina's blanket aside and turning the television off. The familiar loud buzzing of the coffee machine emanated from the kitchen.

Kristina returned a moment later with two steaming cups of coffee and sat down on the couch. She handed one of the cups to Maxine, sat down and wrapped her legs in the blanket.

"I was going to tell you some stuff," said Maxine. "But you haven't been answering your phone all day and… well, you look like you might need to talk first."

Kristina sighed.

"No," she said. "You go first. I think I need to work up to mine."

"All right," said Maxine. "I went back to work today. Mark was there, but I steered well clear of him."

"He was there?" said Kristina. "I'm surprised he wasn't locked up."

"No," said Maxine. "By the time the police got there, he'd long gone, and there was nothing I could do to prove what had happened. At least, not then. But while I was away he sent me a ton of threatening messages. Messages that proved more than adequate evidence to show to work."

"Oh!" said Kristina. She could feel her anxiety and depression lifting — temporarily at least — and was grateful to Maxine for providing a distraction. "So you…"

"Yep," said Maxine. "First thing I did today was go see my boss, explain what had been happening and show her those messages. By the time I got back to my desk, Mark was nowhere to be seen in the office, and I somehow don't think he'll be back."

"Well, that's good," said Kristina. "Just be careful. He strikes me as the sort of person who will probably hold a grudge for something like that."

"Well, if he does, I have plenty of ammunition to give to the police now, too," said Maxine. "I'd like to think that he's not so stupid as to jeopardise his wellbeing further, particularly as I discovered he's got a kid he's supposed to be taking care of, too."

"A kid?" asked Kristina, suddenly curious. "You never mentioned that."

"Neither did he," said Maxine. "And I never saw any sign of them, either. But apparently it's true."

"Huh," said Kristina. "Well, I can't judge his parenting, but if he behaves anything like he does towards you towards his kids, then…"

"Yeah," said Maxine. "I'm not sure what the deal is. And frankly I'm not sure I want to know any more."

The pair took the opportunity presented by the natural break in the conversation to sip their coffee. Kristina leaned back, exhausted, after she swallowed.

"Oh, gosh," she said. "I needed that. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night."

"Yeah," said Maxine. "Come on, spill it. What's going on with you?"

Kristina took a deep breath and recounted the story of what had happened the previous day. Maxine's face alternated between horrified and sympathetic towards her friend.

"Man, you've got to get out of there," said Maxine after Kristina had finished. "It's killing you. Possibly literally."

Kristina shivered. She'd never actually gone so far as to seriously contemplate suicide, but had found her thoughts wandering to dark places in particularly stressful times; last night had been particularly bad.

"Yeah," she said. "But it's not quite that simple, unfortunately. I can't just quit. I'd be letting everybody down. I'd be letting the kids down, letting the staff down—"

"Fuck those guys," said Maxine. "Right now, you're the most important one. You need to take care of yourself. And do you really think you won't be letting them down if you collapse in the middle of a lesson from a heart attack or, I don't know, fly into a crazy violent rage or something?"

Kristina knew that Maxine was joking, but shuddered at the possibility of actually hurting one of her young charges in anger. Sometimes it was so, so frustrating, and in her mind's eye she saw herself dealing with the problems with force. She was ashamed of those thoughts, but she knew at the same time they were nothing but fantasies that no-one really needed to know about.

"Yeah," said Kristina. "I'm… going to take the rest of this week off, then see how next week goes. It's Parents Evening, so I really need to be there to talk to these kids' folks on how they're doing. I'll decide what to do once that's all dealt with."

"Jeez," said Maxine. "You have a twisted sense of duty to that place."

"It's how we're trained to be," said Kristina sadly. "However shit it gets, you're supposed to just deal with it and keep on carrying on."

"That's no way to live," said Maxine.

"No," said Kristina. "It's not."

Internally, she had already made her mind up and knew what she was going to do, but had decided to maintain the appearance that she was going to "try" going back next week to see what would happen. She knew that she had already given up, though; there was no going back. She needed a clean break, though, and Parents Evening felt like a good time to cut the cord and escape.

*  *  *  *

Kristina invited Maxine to stay the night. She wanted her friend to be safe from any potential repercussions of her reporting Mark earlier, and also wanted to not be alone, though she didn't admit the latter part. Maxine immediately saw through her, though, and agreed to stay.

Later that evening, while Maxine was in the bathroom, Kristina looked at her phone for the first time that day. She had heard it buzzing off and on as the hours had passed, but had deliberately stayed away from it. She didn't want to know.

Now, she picked it up. It was down to 5% battery, so she knew it wouldn't last much longer, but she also saw that there were ten missed calls, some from the school's number, others from mobile numbers she didn't recognise. There were three voicemails, too, but she didn't feel up to listening to those right now.

She started feeling the grip of anxiety around her stomach again. She felt like she'd done something really wrong, and that she'd have to somehow make up for it.

But then the rational part of her brain kicked in, and thought of her plan. Not much longer to go, she thought. Then I can escape.

She hadn't thought of what she would do after she escaped, of course, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

The post 1407: Part 21 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Kristina had been trying all evening to get through to Maxine, but had still had no luck. Her phone was on, because it was ringing — she just wasn't answering for whatever reason.

The ringing cut out and went to Maxine's voicemail. Kristina hadn't left a message yet — she hated voicemail because she never quite knew what to say. But calling her obviously wasn't helping — perhaps she should leave a message?

She hung up before the announcement finished. If she was going to leave a message for Maxine, she wanted to make sure she knew what she was going to say before she said it. Then she realised how ridiculous that sounded, and tapped on the screen to once again dial Maxine's number, telling herself that she'd leave some sort of casual, breezy message even though she was feeling anything but casual and breezy right now.

Ring, ring.

Okay, she thought. Here we go.

Ring, ring.

I can do this.

Ring, ring.

I hope she gets this.

Ring, ri—

"Hello?"

To Kristina's surprise, Maxine finally answered the phone. Her voice was soft and sounded extremely tired.

"Maxine?" Kristina said.

"Yeah," she said.

"What… where the hell have you been?"

"I told you," she said. "I went up to my mother's for a bit. I needed to get away." She yawned.

"I've been worried about you," Kristina said. "You weren't replying."

"Yeah, sorry," said Maxine. "Signal's shit out here in the country."

Kristina paused for a moment. She didn't know if her friend was telling the truth or not, but they'd always trusted one another, and she didn't want to start wondering if she was lying now.

"Oh," she said eventually. "Okay. When are you coming back?"

"Tomorrow," said Maxine. "Listen," she hissed, her voice suddenly a whisper. "Has Mark given you any grief since the other night?"

"No," said Kristina. "I haven't heard a peep from him. Has he given you any trouble?"

There was a pause.

"A couple of abusive messages," said Maxine. "I binned 'em. If I can just stay away from him, he'll get over it. I'm going to talk to work about him when I go back. They need to know what kind of person he is."

"Yeah," said Kristina. "Yeah, they do."

*  *  *  *

The next morning, the inspectors were present for the school's staff briefing once again. Apparently they were setting aside some time to give feedback to those teachers they'd observed over the past few days. Kristina felt the familiar knot of nervousness in her stomach, and didn't relish the prospect of hearing what the team thought of her lesson on Monday. But it couldn't be helped; as much as she wanted to just run out and never come back right now, she knew that ultimately that wouldn't solve anything — she'd just have to suck it up, deal with it and perhaps have a good cry later.

Yes, that sounded about right.

Jesus, she thought to herself. When did that become my life?

She didn't listen to a word of the briefing, until some familiar names came up.

"It seems that there was something of an altercation between Edward Jennings, Sian Beaumont, Jasmine Naper and Nicola Janes in Year 11 yesterday," said Mr Rhodes. "Edward has been placed in internal exclusion over in the Unit for the next few days to try and calm down. We're trying to get to the bottom of what caused the incident, but in the meantime please keep an eye on all four students if you happen to see them around."

Kristina, of course, knew Sian's side of the story and, even though she knew there was probably at least one other side to it, she felt inclined to side with her friend. Sian had always been a trustworthy student in her experience, and the things she'd heard her peers say about her in the staffroom and at the pub after school certainly seemed to back that up. She found it hard to believe that Sian would have instigated any problems; her only experience of Jasmine and Nicola was a cover English lesson she'd taken a few weeks ago in which she'd found them to be chatty, but otherwise pleasant enough.

Lost in thought, she stretched and grunted noisily before realising she was surrounded by her peers. Thankfully, the briefing had finished, but she got one or two funny looks from her peers. She blushed and stood up, taking care not to meet anyone's eyes, then walked out of the classroom quickly.

"Miss Charles," came a familiar voice she couldn't quite place, just as she was passing through the door. She turned around to see the middle-aged woman who had inspected her lesson with 7C on Monday, and she knew what was coming next. "I understand you don't have a tutor group, so would you be free to talk about your lesson?"

Kristina momentarily contemplated giving an excuse about having something urgent to do with the music department's stock cupboard, but since Martin was passing by just as this exchange was taking place she thought better of lying.

"Sure," she said meekly. She cleared her throat. "Okay."

"Lead the way, please," said the inspector. Kristina felt like the woman had never expressed joy in her life, then immediately felt bad for thinking that.

She's just doing her job, she thought. I'm sure she's a nice person really.

Right now, though, she was the enemy, and Kristina could feel her defences going up. She didn't want to talk to this woman, but she could see no way of avoiding the inevitable.

Feeling like a prisoner on Death Row, she led the way to her classroom.

*  *  *  *

As the woman left, Kristina looked after her in astonishment. One word had stuck out in her mind; the rest were all a blur.

"Good."

The lesson she'd been observed on — the one where Edward had come in and interrupted, bellowing expletives and ready to break things, was "good", apparently. Not "unsatisfactory" like last time, not even "satisfactory"; "good". She knew, of course, that she could also have been "outstanding", but she didn't consider herself to be an outstanding teacher even on her very best, most confident days, which didn't come around very often.

But "Good"… she didn't know what to make of that. It was certainly the last thing she'd expected to hear, especially given what happened, but she wasn't sure if she should be satisfied with it or concerned that it was so different to what had come before.

She started second-guessing herself. Was it only "Good" because it was 7C, by far her most pleasant, well-behaved class? Or had she actually done something that was particularly noteworthy?

Her mind started going in circles, but before she could get too engrossed in her own anxiety, the bell went and she knew it was time to start the day's work.

*  *  *  *

The temporary buzz-cum-anxiety from her "Good" rating didn't last long, because not only did she start the day with a particularly poorly-behaved Year 8 class, she was then called upon to cover a Year 9 science lesson.

She hated covering science lessons. She didn't feel at all confident in the subject, and she hated working in the laboratories — there was too much dangerous equipment around, and she knew that the Year 9 class she was lumbered with would be the sort to play with the gas taps, have water fights with the sinks and generally cause trouble.

She was already dreading the lesson, but then things got worse: as she finally quietened the class down and led them into the room, she saw an inspector sitting in the corner.

It wasn't the same inspector she'd had before; this time it was a wiry older man with grey hair and a toothbrush moustache. He looked just as joyless as his comrades, and he did not look impressed that it had taken Kristina nearly ten minutes of the lesson to get the class settled down and sat in their places.

Kristina took the register with a shaking voice. Several of the students asked if she was all right, but she ignored them.

A pair of boys sat at the back of the class started fiddling with the taps on the sink. She had no idea what their names were.

"You," she said, clicking her fingers as she'd seen some of her peers do to great effect. "Stop that."

"Fuck you," said one of the boys and laughed. "You can't tell us what to do. You're, like, the worst teacher in this school."

Kristina knew that the boy probably didn't mean what he said — how could he know how well she taught, given that she had never seen this class before? — but it still stung. She felt her brain pulling in two separate directions, neither of them desirable. She needed to—

"Get out! NOW!" she screeched, pointing at the boy and then at the door. "And don't come back!"

The boy gave her a sneer as he walked out of the door and stood in the corridor. The rest of the class was staring at her, and she felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life. She wanted to run away, to hide, to cry.

Normally, she kept these feelings in check, but this time she couldn't. Tears starting to fall from her eyes, she ran out of the room, past the cocky-looking boy, who was leaning nonchalantly against the wall outside the classroom, and through the corridors of the school back to her classroom. She shut herself in and locked the door, then looked around in a panic.

She felt unsafe. The rational part of her brain — which, at this moment, was being somewhat muffled by the adrenaline — told her that she was not only overreacting and being ridiculous, but that she had probably just done some serious damage to her career. But right now, she didn't care; she just wanted to calm down, to get rid of these feelings of panic.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply; her breaths were ragged and uneven, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She became aware that she was clenching her fists, and that within them her palms were sweaty. Her legs were shaking and she felt unsteady; she opened her eyes and leaned on one of the desks that adorned the perimeter of her classroom.

"Fuck," she said to herself. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

She heard someone try to open her door, but of course she had locked it. She didn't want to know who it was; it could be no-one good, but she was trapped here right now and the only way out was either through that door or out of the window. She didn't fancy her chances with the latter option; not only were her sills cluttered with various music scores and other books, the window only opened onto the school's sad-looking "garden", which was supposed to be maintained by an extracurricular group, but which hadn't been touched for several years by the look of things. There was no obvious way out of the garden, so the door it was.

Still breathing heavily, she unlocked the door with shaking hands, and saw it was Mr Rhodes — Tom.

As she opened the door and let him in, she stepped back from him every time he approached.

"Kristina," he said. "I won't insult you by asking if you're all right. What can we do to help?"

"Let me out of here," she said weakly. "I need to get out of here."

"Okay," he said gently. "We'll arrange for someone else to cover your classes. Do you have any work we can give them?"

"No," she said.

"That's okay," said Rhodes. "You get yourself home and try and calm down, and we'll talk tomorrow."

Inwardly, Kristina thought herself unlikely to be in tomorrow, but she decided to cross that bridge when she came to it. Without saying goodbye, she ducked past Rhodes and ran out of the classroom, out through the hallways and out through the front door of the school.

She wasn't sure if she'd ever be back.

The post 1405: Part 20 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"Oh, hey," she said , with a smile. Jasmine didn't return it, and neither did Nicola, who was standing next to her.

"We know what you've been up to," said Jasmine. "We've seen you."

Sian didn't know what they were referring to.

"What?" she asked. "Um, what?"

"You're going out with Edward, aren't you?" said Jasmine, pointing an accusatory finger at Sian. "Don't try to deny it."

Sian raised her eyebrows in surprise. She didn't quite know how to respond to that.

"We've seen you!" said Nicola, chiming in. "We saw you walking together with him and going back to his house. And we saw you coming out."

Something broke in Sian's mind.

"What is this, are you stalking me or something?" she snapped. "Why is it any of your business what I'm doing?"

"So you don't deny it?" said Jasmine, a triumphant expression on her face, her finger still pointed at Sian.

"I won't deny I've been talking to him," said Sian. "But I'm not going out with him. Are you really that shallow?" She was getting angry now. She didn't get angry often, but things she perceived as injustices pushed her buttons more than anything else, and Jasmine and Nicola were the last people in the world she expected to be the source of them.

"What's it like?" said Nicola, a mocking tone in her voice. "How is he?"

Sian turned to her.

"What?" she said, wanting very much for this conversation to be over as soon as possible, but knowing there was nowhere it could go from here but an escalation into a full-on argument. She knew she should just walk away and be the bigger person here, but she also knew what Jasmine and Nicola could be like once they got started. She'd occasionally found it funny in the past, but then their ire had never been directed at her before. Now it was scary.

"How is he?" Nicola repeated. "Come on, tell us. What's it like shagging a crazy person? You have done it, haven't you? Bet that's what you were doing in his house."

"No!" screamed Sian. "What the fuck is wrong with you two? Why are you suddenly doing this to me? Do you hate him that much?"

"He's a fucking psycho!" yelled Jasmine back at her. By now, people were stopping and staring, and Sian wished Jasmine hadn't picked the middle of one of the busiest corridors in school at lunchtimes to have this particular confrontation. "He's scum! The worst kind of scum! And you're sticking up for him?"

"I…" began Sian, but she knew it was no use. They'd made their minds up based on circumstantial evidence, and there was no way she was going to convince them; no way that they were going to listen to her explain the situation. And besides, she'd promised Edward not to tell anyone anyway.

She'd told Kristina, of course, but that was a different situation. It was unlikely that Kristina would tell Edward that Sian had spilled his secrets. It was–

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted. Everything happened in a flash.

First, there was the shout; a dreadful, otherworldly yell of pure rage. Then, there was the blur of movement; it knocked Sian aside and toppled the two other girls to the floor. Dazed, Sian took a moment to come to her senses and realise what was going on.

It was Edward; he'd knocked Jasmine and Nicola to the ground  and was now sitting astride them on the floor. He looked furious; they looked terrified.

"Leave her alone!" he screamed in their faces, and raised his fist as if he was about to punch them.

Sian stepped forward and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. He hesitated — just in time, Sian thought — and turned to look at her, red-faced, his eyes brimming over with tears.

"Leave her alone," he said in a much weaker voice. "Leave her alone," he said again, rolling to one side to release his captives. He slumped back against the lockers that adorned one side of the corridor walls and suddenly looked utterly defeated, all trace of the anger that had fuelled him a moment ago suddenly dissipating.

Jasmine and Nicola stumbled to their feet and ran away. Sian knew it wouldn't be long before they were back with a teacher in tow.

*  *  *  *

Sian glanced around at the walls of the office. She'd been in here before a number of times, but never in the circumstances she was here right now. She knew that she'd done nothing wrong and felt that she was, at least to a certain degree, something of a victim here. But she couldn't help herself worrying that she'd get into trouble for this — the first strike against her in eleven years of school.

The door opened behind her and Rhodes entered carrying several sheets of paper. He sat down behind his desk, stacked them carefully then took out an expensive-looking pen.

"Okay, Sian," he said with that familiar kindly old uncle tone. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Sian proceeded to explain everything — how she had, against all odds, befriended Edward; how he had confided in her; how Jasmine and Nicola had seen her and apparently misinterpreted the situation, then attacked her for something that wasn't true. She left out anything involving Kristina; she couldn't help but feel that bringing that up would add a whole other layer of complication to the a situation that really didn't need it.

When she finished, she looked at Rhodes' face to try and determine what he thought of it all. He remained inscrutable.

"Okay," he said, writing something on one of the sheets of paper. "Thank you. You can go."

Was that it? She was expecting some sort of admonishment, but it sounded like he had either believed her story, or was waiting to hear from the others before there were any consequences. She blinked and stood up.

"Sorry," she said as she walked away, opened the door and passed into the corridor. She felt she had let him down.

Out in the corridor, Jasmine and Nicola were sitting on the chairs outside Rhodes' office. Edward was nowhere to be seen; he'd been taken down to the Unit after the incident. He was in no state to give a coherent account of what had happened, anyway, thought Sian.

Jasmine and Nicola glared and Sian, but she pointedly ignored looking at them and passed back out into the main corridor of the school, and headed for the music room. She knew that Kristina normally spent her lunchtimes in her room rather than the staffroom, and she really needed to talk to someone right now.

Sure enough, there she was, sitting at her desk, eating a sandwich. Although her desk had briefly been clear, there were already new stacks of paper starting to build up on top of it. Sian smiled despite the grim feelings bouncing around inside her head; some things could always be relied upon.

She walked in without knocking.

"Oh," said Kristina, putting down her sandwich hastily. "Sian! Hello." She paused. "Are you all right? You look upset."

Sian was about to respond when she suddenly, without warning, found herself bursting into tears. She ran over to Kristina and hugged her — a completely inappropriate gesture, she knew, but right now she didn't care. She just wanted comfort, and the only place she felt she could find it was here.

She felt Kristina's hand on the top of her head; hesitantly at first, but then it started gently stroking her hair. The tender gesture made her want to cry even harder; she let out huge, gulping sobs and would have found the whole situation terribly embarrassing were it not for the swathe of other emotions that were bubbling up right now.

Eventually, Kristina gently but assertively pushed Sian away and held her at arm's length. Sian felt utterly wretched and stood like a limp rag doll; she looked as if she might collapse the moment Kristina released her hand.

"What's going on?" said Kristina. "This isn't like you at all."

"No," said Sian, sniffing. "It's been… a bad day. A really bad day. And I don't think I can deal with it right now."

"I know the feeling," said Kristina. "I have days like that all the time. I won't insult you by saying things will get better because they don't always, but I want you to know you can talk to me any time you feel like you need to."

"I…" began Sian, then stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm not quite sure where to begin right now."

"Perhaps we should talk about it after school," said Kristina.

*  *  *  *

Sian somehow made it through the afternoon classes without bursting into tears or anything else of note happening. Once the bell went, she headed straight for Kristina's classroom. Kristina already had her coat on and was ready to leave.

"Come on," said Kristina. "Let's get out of here. I have work to do, but between you and me it's the last thing I want to do right now. Coffee?"

The pair of them headed out of the school gates and to the nearby supermarket, and went straight to the café. Sian sat down and waited while Kristina ordered; a moment later, she came back with two tall lattes and two gigantic slabs of chocolate cake.

"You looked like you could do with it," said Kristina with a smile. "Oh, you're not allergic or anything, are you?"

"No," said Sian with a weak chuckle. "Thanks."

"Don't get used to this," said Kristina. "We teachers don't earn all that much. At least not newbies like me."

"I'll make it up to you," said Sian. "One day, anyway."

"All right," said Kristina, her face turning serious. "Now why don't you tell me what happened?"

Sian reiterated the same story she'd told Rhodes earlier in the day. She could feel the tears welling up again as she recounted what had happened, but fought them back and pressed on. When she finished, Kristina reached out her hand and took Sian's in her own.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Kids can be complete shits. Present company excepted, of course."

Sian chuckled and sobbed at the same time.

"Yeah," she said. "We can. I just thought I was doing something good, you know? I thought I was actually helping him out. But am I just making it worse?"

"Believe me," said Kristina, sipping on her coffee, "I ask myself the same thing most days. My job is about helping people, and yet an awful lot of days I find myself wondering why I'm bothering."

She suddenly looked very deflated, and Sian felt guilty at having brought it up.

"Don't feel bad," said Kristina. "I've been feeling this way for a while. It's worse when I see one of the good ones like you suffering. It either makes me want to try harder, or just give up altogether."

"I hope you don't give up," said Sian.

"Me neither," said Kristina with a sigh.

The pair of them started eating their chocolate cake. Not a word passed between them for several minutes.

The post 1404: Part 19 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

A stack of appointment sheets was passed from one teacher to another in the staffroom. Kristina took her copy and passed the stack on, then looked down at it glumly.

She hated Parents Evening. She always felt afraid that the parents were going to accuse her of not doing her job properly, or that her students had been telling them what a bad job she'd been doing. She knew from past experience that this was an irrational fear, and that, for the most part, parents seemed to like her, but she still couldn't help thinking those things.

At least in the case of her GCSE group, there weren't that many sets of parents to see given the relatively small size of the class. And she felt pretty confident about what she was going to say to most of them — all except one, in fact.

*  *  *  *

"Miss," said Edward. Kristina looked up from her desk with a start. She hadn't heard him come in.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, quickly composing herself. "Sorry, Edward, I didn't hear you come in. What can I do for you?"

"I need an appointment," he said, sullenly thrusting a sheet similar to Kristina's own in front of her. "My Dad wants to talk to you."

Kristina felt the familiar, anxious knot in her stomach. After what Sian had told her the previous night, she was curious to meet Edward's father, too, but she was also wary of what sort of person he might be. She didn't know whether or not what Edward had said to Sian should be taken seriously — or even if she should know it at all. She decided not to broach the topic right now, and instead to seek advice from the team down at the special educational needs unit. After all, it was their job to know what to do in situations like this.

"Okay," she said. "What time would you like?"

"Seven," he said.

"All right," said Kristina, writing his name in the appropriate slot. It was just her luck — Parents Evening ran from immediately after school until 8 in the evening, and all the other appointments she'd made so far had been much earlier in the day. Still, she thought, a big gap in the middle would give her the opportunity to drink some coffee and mentally prepare herself for whatever might happen with Edward and his father — assuming they showed up at all, of course.

"Edward, is everything all right?" she said.

"Yes," he said bluntly, then turned and walked out without another word. She was growing accustomed to his peculiar behaviour, and was glad that he, for the most part, seemed to be responding to her in a much more positive way than he had done in the past. There had been no angry outbursts, no threats of violence, nothing that had made her feel scared.

Of course, a lot of this was because — she freely admitted this — she had been pandering to his whims somewhat by allowing him to come and work in the classroom when he had been kicked out of other lessons, but she figured it was better that way for a quiet life than running the risk of further confrontation. He was, at least, getting the work done for her class, after all.

After Edward left, Kristina looked at the clock. There was still a good 30 minutes of the lunch break left, so she decided to walk down to the special educational needs unit to get some advice.

A few students milling around the hallways greeted her as she walked past them, and she nodded politely in response. She found herself wondering where Sian was and what she was up to; she'd seen her earlier to make a Parents Evening appointment, but aside from that, she'd seen no sign of her.

As she pondered, she ended up at the unassuming door to "the Unit" as most people on staff called it. She knocked on the door and waited for someone to come and answer; as it happened, it was the kindly teaching assistant who had helped her out with Edward on those couple of previous occasions.

"Oh," said Kristina. "Hello."

"Hello, Miss Charles," said the teaching assistant.

"Kristina, please," said Kristina. "I'm so sorry, you've been in my classroom several times and I'm completely unsure of your name."

The teaching assistant laughed.

"Millie," she said. "Millie Miller. And yes, I know."

Kristina smirked, then remembered that she was here on serious business.

"May I come in?" she asked politely. "I need to talk to someone about a few things, if that's all right."

"Of course," said Millie. "Please, come on in. I'll put the kettle on."

Kristina had never been inside the Unit before. Behind the door was a corridor with two doors on either side. On the right, large windows looked into rooms that each had a few chairs and tables, plus a selection of cushions, soft toys and boxes of games and activities. On the left, the wall was decorated with what Kristina assumed was the work of the children who came to work in the Unit on a regular basis.

Longmore was unusually well-equipped to deal with children who had special educational needs thanks to the Unit, so the proportion of children who came there with such needs was significantly higher than the national average. A lot of these children were significantly behind in terms of attainment and would more than likely struggle to attain the same qualifications as their peers, but the Unit provided them with a supportive environment in which they could feel safe and supported.

The Unit didn't just cater to children with disabilities; it also dealt with children who were struggling with difficult personal circumstances or emotional and behavioural difficulties such as Edward. Kristina greatly respected the work that the staff of the Unit did, even if she didn't quite understand how they put up with what they had to put up with every day.

Millie led Kristina through one of the doors on the left wall, which led into a spacious office-cum-staffroom. Several other teaching assistants were sitting back in chairs drinking coffee, and one staff member was typing something up on the computer.

Millie sat down and gestured for Kristina to do the same.

"I wanted to talk about Edward Jennings," said Kristina. "I have a few concerns."

"Oh, don't we all," said one of the other assistants with a jocular tone. "That poor boy."

"Um," said Kristina, looking around. "Is it all right to talk here like this?"

"We all know the deal here," said Millie. "We wouldn't be able to do our jobs if we didn't know what was going on with the kids we have to work with."

Kristina nodded. "Okay, um, so. Can I ask what you know about Edward already?"

"Specifics are on a need-to-know basis," said Millie, "But what was said in the staff meeting was accurate; he's having some trouble at home, which might be reflected in his behaviour. When he wasn't showing up to school, that was less of an issue — truancy is a different matter to deal with — but now he's seemingly coming along a bit more regularly, we have to be careful."

"Okay," said Kristina. "Well, I'm not entirely sure how to bring this up, so I'll just say what I've heard."

Kristina explained what Sian had told her, taking care to leave out the fact that she had done so via text message and instead making up a little white lie that Sian had just come to tell her after school one day. She explained how Sian was worried about Edward, and that she had promised not to tell anyone his "secret" but had felt like she had to inform someone. She explained the fears that they both had that Edward's father might be hurting Edward, and Kristina admitted that she was feeling somewhat nervous about the prospect of meeting Edward's father at the upcoming Parents Evening.

After Kristina finished talking, Millie chewed thoughtfully on the lid of a pen she had pulled out of her pocket.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, this is a concern, and something we'll have to take very seriously. As for Parents Evening, you'll be in the hall with all the other teachers, so you should be safe. I doubt that he'll do anything — assuming he wants to try anything, that is — while that many other people are around."

"What should I do in the meantime?" asked Kristina.

"Keep doing what you've been doing," said Millie. Edward's told me in private that he feels like he's safe in your classroom, and that he likes to come there when he feels like he can't cope. If you don't mind him coming in and doing what he's been doing on the computer, then keep doing that."

"What about the inspectors?" said Kristina. "Edward barged into my Year 7 lesson yesterday, and I was being observed."

"You should be fine," said Millie. "In my experience, they're mostly interested in you delivering a good lesson without interruptions, so if you can get him straight in with minimal disruption, that should be fine."

"Okay," said Kristina. She started to feel a little better — more confident, even.

Then the bell went for the start of afternoon classes, and that confidence instantly dissipated as she remembered she had her worst year 9 class to cap off the day with.

The post 1403: Part 18 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Longmore had its share of disruptive kids, sure, but even the very worst-behaved students wouldn't want to see their school close down after a poor inspection — though very few of them would actually admit that. Even Edward probably doesn't want the school to close down, Sian thought to herself with a slight smile.

She'd found herself thinking about Edward quite a lot over the last few days. It wasn't that she was developing romantic feelings for him — she'd never been in a proper relationship, and somehow felt that jumping into such an entanglement with someone as volatile as Edward probably wouldn't be a good idea — but she did acknowledge that, in spite of everything, she cared about him and wanted to see him succeed, or at least not to fail.

She knew that Edward didn't really have any friends. On the rare occasions when he was in school, he was always by himself; occasionally his peers would egg him on when he got into a rage, but this was more for their own amusement than offering him actual encouragement. In fact, more often than not such confrontations tended to end with Edward getting into trouble as his peers just laughed and jeered at him, and Sian always found herself pitying him when such incidents occurred.

She put up her hood against the chill wind that was blowing outside. She was waiting for Jasmine and Nicola, but had seen no sign of them as yet. Where could they be?

"Uh, Sian?" came a voice behind her. She instantly recognised it, and turned around to face the person who had addressed her.

"Edward," she said with a smile. "How are you doing?"

"Not bad," he said, a sullen expression on his face. "I nearly finished my music composition."

"That's great," she said. "You got that done quickly."

He looked a little embarrassed.

"I spent most of the day working on it," he said. "Miss let me use the computer after I got kicked out of lessons in the morning. I got bollocked at lunchtime for wandering off, but I don't really care."

Sian smiled.

"Well, I'm glad you managed to get some work done," she said. "I've nearly finished mine, too. I've been working on this one for ages, I'll be glad to get it over and done with."

Silence fell between them. Edward gazed at the floor. Sian wasn't sure where to look.

"Uh," he grunted after a moment. "Would you mind coming home with me again? I need to talk about some stuff."

Sian raised her eyebrow quizzically, but didn't object.

"Sure," she said. "I was waiting for my friends, but they don't seem to be coming. Are you ready to go now?"

"Yeah," he said, and immediately started walking. Sian quickly caught up with him and walked alongside him.

"So what did you want to talk about?" she asked as they left the school gates and began walking up the road.

"It's… sort of a bit weird and embarrassing," he said. "But you've been nice to me, so I think I can talk to you about it. I need to talk to someone about it because it's just been building up and building up inside my head and — augh! You know what happens when I get frustrated."

Sian nodded grimly, but said nothing. The pair continued walking up the road in silence for a moment, the only sounds the crunching of their feet on the pavement and the distant sounds of their peers laughing and shouting.

"You mustn't tell anyone about this," he said eventually. "You mustn't. Will you promise me?"

"Sure," said Sian, though she already felt wary of what secret she was about to burden herself with.

"Okay," he said. He took a deep breath, then began to speak.

"It's my Dad," he began. "Ever since my Mum left, he's been a real mess. He doesn't know how to deal with being by himself, and he doesn't know how to deal with me or talk to me. He gets angry at me all the time and treats me like shit, and that's what makes me angry. But because I get so angry, no-one believes me that it's all because of him; they just think it's me being an arsehole. And maybe I am. Everyone hates me, so I must be a complete dick, right?"

"No," said Sian. "I don't think you're a dick. I wouldn't be here right now if I did, would I?"

Edward contemplated this for a moment as the pair continued to walk up the road.

"No, I guess not," he said. "Anyway, when he gets angry, he kind of takes it out on me a bit. He—" Edward paused here for a moment, apparently collecting himself. "He hurts me. He always makes sure never to leave a mark or do anything that people might notice, but sometimes he really hurts me. Some days I just can't face coming into school, the pain's so bad. I'm not just skiving — I mean, sometimes I am — but sometimes there's just no way I can get out to school after he's done a number on me."

"I'd have thought you'd want to get out of the house if something like that happened," said Sian, shocked at what she was hearing. "I'd want to run away."

"I've got nowhere to go," he said. "And besides, by the morning he's either gone out to work, or he's forgotten everything that happened the night before."

"Forgotten?" said Sian. "How?"

"He drinks," said Edward, looking at the ground as he walked. "He drinks a lot. He doesn't know when to stop. He just comes home, chugs it back and then he gets angry and aggressive, and I can't do anything. I've got nowhere to go and nothing I can do."

"Haven't you called the police or something?" Sian asked. "Surely they could help?"

"He's my Dad," said Edward. "He may treat me like shit but he's all I've got. What kind of shit would I be if I dobbed in my own old man?"

Sian wasn't sure what to say to that. It sounded like Edward was caught in a very difficult situation.

Presently, they arrived at Edward's house. As before, no-one was at home, and Edward led Sian into the kitchen, pouring her a drink without asking.

"I don't know what to do," he said. "I know I can't keep doing this. I get so angry. I'm surprised I haven't hurt anyone or got kicked out of school yet. I don't know why they put up with me."

"Edward," said Sian. "It's not your fault. Listen! It's not your fault. Your Dad's dealing badly with something in his own life, and that's something he's going to have to learn to deal with on his own — especially if he wants to keep you around. But you can't keep just taking this. It's not fair to you. I really think you should say something to someone."

"They wouldn't believe me," he said.

"They have to listen," said Sian. "You should really try it."

"No!" said Edward forcefully, putting his glass down on the counter with a "bang". Sian said nothing further.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually. "I just don't know how to deal with this. He's been behaving really weirdly lately, particularly in the last week or so. He's up to something. I don't know what, but he is. He even locked me in my room a couple of times, and I could hear something going on downstairs, but I couldn't hear what. I don't know what he was doing."

"He locked you in your room?" said Sian. "That's…" But she held her tongue. Edward had made it clear that he didn't want to tell anyone — except her, apparently — and so she didn't push the matter.

"He's going to be home soon," he said, looking at his watch — a battered, retro-looking digital affair. "You should get out of here before he comes back."

"Okay," said Sian. "And Edward, if I can do anything to help, just let me know."

She took out a pen and tore a strip from a notebook she had in her bag. She wrote her phone number down on the scrap of paper and handed it to him.

"I don't have a mobile," he said. "But thanks."

Sian blinked, and there was an awkward silence for a moment. She was the one to break it.

"I'd better go," she said. "I hope things aren't too bad tonight."

"I hope not," he said. "See you tomorrow."

Sian turned away from him and headed for the front door, smiling. That "see you tomorrow" was the most positive thing she'd ever heard him say.

*  *  *  *

When Sian eventually got home, she went straight up to her room to do her homework. It was mostly catch-up work today, and quite a bit of it due to the fact she had been distracted by the inspectors. Once she put on some music and got into a good groove with it, however, she found that most of it didn't take long to complete at all.

Tossing her pen aside as she finished writing her answer to the last question, her thoughts turned back to her earlier conversation with Edward. Her stomach churned at the thought of his father abusing him, and in such a careful, calculated way as to hide the signs of abuse from prying eyes, too. The thought that people such as that existed in this world made her feel a little sick, and she noticed her hands were trembling at the thought.

She had to talk to someone about this. She knew she'd promised Edward she wouldn't, but there was no way she could bottle this up inside.

She didn't think Jasmine and Nicola would handle the situation with any degree of maturity, and she didn't feel comfortable talking to her parents about it; she felt pretty sure they'd misunderstand the situation and assume she was in a relationship with Edward, which would lead to all sorts of what they thought were light-hearted mocking comments, but which Sian found intensely frustrating. It had happened before.

That left Kristina, really, and she didn't know if she should share something like that with her teacher. Or her friend. What was she to Sian?

They'd agreed to be friends, with an implicit agreement that they'd help each other through tough times. Kristina had already opened up to Sian and shared her worried about her friend, so why shouldn't she reciprocate? After all, Kristina was an adult, and might know what Sian should do, if anything.

Kristina, Sian typed, then stared at the screen for several minutes wondering what to say next. I'm sorry to bother you, but I need your help. She deleted the word "help" and replaced it with "advice". Then she deleted the words "your advice" and replaced them with "to talk to you".

I need to talk to you, she continued. Is it all right to share some stuff with you?

Vague enough, she thought. I don't want to jump straight into it.

A few moments later, the response came through with a beep.

What's up? it said.

Well… Sian paused before she continued, as if she was speaking the words aloud. I've been talking to Edward like I told you the other day, and he finally told me some… stuff.

She sent the message. She didn't want to give away too much detail at once. She wanted to give Kristina the option to back out of this conversation if she wanted to.

What sort of stuff? came the response.

He's having problems with his Dad, Sian wrote. Really bad problems, I think. It sounds like his Dad's hurting him. I don't know what to do or how to help him. Is there anything I can do?

Sian waited for the response. There was none for several minutes. Sian's stomach was in knots.

I'm not sure, replied Kristina eventually. But we'll figure something out, I promise.

The post 1401: Part 17 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She'd been meaning to retune her bedside radio for months now — ever since her favourite morning DJ had moved on to pastures new — but had somehow never gotten around to it. It was one of those things that, while very simple and straightforward to do in terms of effort required, she never quite felt the inclination or motivation to do.

Besides, if the last few weeks were anything to go by, it was rare she'd actually make it to her bed; she'd been sleeping on the sofa almost as much as she had slept in her own bed recently. The sofa was comfortable, and it allowed her to fall asleep to the quiet background noise of the TV, whereas the bedroom was often eerily quiet — an unwelcome atmosphere while she had so much anxiety racing around inside her head.

It was likely to get worse before it got better, too; after all, this was the week that the inspectors were due to come back. It felt like they had only just left, but Kristina knew that was what the Special Measures badge of shame meant; the inspectors would keep coming back, ostensibly to help the school get back on track, but she couldn't help seeing them as "the enemy", regardless of their supposedly good intentions.

She lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a little while, letting the irritating noise from the radio just wash over her. She wasn't listening to the new DJ's words; it was just a mumbling in the background that was having a faintly soporific effect on her.

Her eyes gradually started to close again. Just another few minutes, she thought. Just a…

*  *  *  *

Kristina's eyes snapped open, and she sat up. The radio was no longer blaring, and she had a sudden, horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Shit," she said. "Shit, shit, shit, shit."

She looked at the glaring red numbers on her bedside radio and it took her a moment to process them. As her brain gradually kicked into gear, she realised that she wasn't late for work — yet — but it would be a close-run thing, and there would certainly be no time whatsoever to get coffee or anything on the way. She'd arrive, and she'd be thrown straight into work. At least 7C offered a relatively gentle introduction to the week.

Her thoughts turned to Maxine. After she'd called the police at the weekend, all she'd heard from her friend was a brief phone call thanking her, and telling her that she was going to go and stay with her mother for a few days. Since then, she hadn't picked up her phone, hadn't returned any of Kristina's messages and, to all intents and purposes, appeared to have disappeared off the face of the planet.

She didn't have time to worry about Maxine right now, though, as harsh as it seemed. She didn't even really have time to sort her bird's nest of hair out, nor to have a shower.

She clambered out of bed, her joints aching and making her feel about twenty years older than she actually was. She surveyed herself in the mirror on her dressing table and pouted; she looked a complete mess, but there was no time to do anything about it right now. She quickly ran a brush through her hair to get the worst of the tangles out and threw on some clothes that weren't too wrinkled and didn't appear to smell too bad.

*  *  *  *

As Kristina had suspected, the inspectors were back in school when she arrived. The team of them were in attendance at the staff briefing just before registration, glaring at the teaching staff with their all-seeing eyes. Kristina couldn't stop stealing glances at them — so much so that she didn't hear a word the Head said in the briefing.

The inspectors filed out of the staff room first, followed by the rest of the teaching staff. Kristina waited until most of them had departed before getting up from her chair.

"Are you all right?" said Martin. "You look really tired."

Kristina was still feeling bitter towards Martin for his behaviour towards her the previous week, but he appeared to have forgotten all about it. She grit her teeth and tried to be mature.

"I am," she said. "Sorry, just a rough weekend. I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," he said. "But let me know if I can do anything."

That was more like the Martin she had come to know when she had first arrived at the school. Just recently, she felt like their relationship had soured somewhat, though now that she thought about it, that feeling coincided somewhat with her growing sense of anxiety and that she was somehow an "impostor" that would be found out at any minute.

She shook her head and stood up fully.

"Thanks," she said, and walked out of the room, picking up a few papers from her pigeonhole on the way.

The papers immediately went onto her desk as soon as she got into her classroom, but then she caught herself and examined them closely. None of them appeared to be particularly important until they reached the last one, which was a memo from the special educational needs unit.

"Edward Jennings is having some difficulties at home," it read. "We ask that all members of staff be especially understanding towards Edward at this time. Please report any inappropriate behaviour directly to us, and do not attempt to get into a confrontation with Edward as he has been known to become violent."

Great, thought Kristina.

She crumpled up the pieces of paper and threw them straight in the bin, then sat down at her desk and rested her head on her hands. She sighed. She really did not want to be here today, but knew that she needed to do her part in order to try and help the school through its difficult time.

It's not fair, she thought. I know it's childish to think that, but I don't care. I'm trying my best, but it's not good enough. I feel like whatever I do, it turns to shit; how am I going to make it through this?

She exhaled a long breath, then stood up, walked to her classroom's piano and sat down. She fumbled through the stacks of music laid atop the battered old instrument, and selected a book of popular song arrangements that she always enjoyed playing pieces from.

There were probably more productive ways that she could spend her time, but she didn't care right now; she wanted to relieve some stress, and music was as good a way as any to do that.

She started playing one of the pieces — a cheesy ballad originally recorded by a girl group from one reality show or another. The song had always been something of a guilty pleasure for her, both to listen to and to play the piano arrangement of; it was predictable enough to be oddly comforting in a strange sort of way. The pleasingly obvious chord progressions felt like they were massaging her brain as they played, and when she reached the end she felt a little better.

So she played it again. And again. And then the bell went for the end of registration, and it was time to begin work.

*  *  *  *

7C arrived in their usual manner — chatty but friendly, and receptive to Kristina's instructions. Just as she had got them quietened down as they lined up outside her room, a middle-aged woman whom Kristina recognised as one of the inspection team walked up to them, her low heels clacking on the floor as she approached.

"Miss Charles," she said with a nod. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," said Kristina.

"I'll be observing part of your lesson today," she said. "Please, don't mind me and continue as you always would."

Fuck, thought Kristina. This is the last thing I need, though I guess there are worse classes than 7C to be observed on.

"All right," she said, hoping her tone wasn't too obviously acidic. "Would you like to go in and make yourself comfortable?"

"I'll follow the class in, thank you," said the inspector. "Please continue."

"Miss, who's that?" said Becky, a young-looking girl who stood at the head of the line and who was secretly one of Kristina's favourite students.

"She's come to see how you're getting on with your work today," Kristina said. "So make sure you work hard, please."

Becky smiled. Kristina wanted to pat her on the head and ruffle her hair.

"All right," said Kristina. "Let's head in, please."

*  *  *  *

The lesson proceeded without a hitch; Kristina took great care to tick all the inspector's boxes by ensuring she had a starter activity to begin the lesson, keeping her "teaching time" down to a minimum and getting the children engaged in practical activities as soon as possible.

But then her door flew open, and she knew everything was about to go horribly, horribly wrong before it happened.

She also knew who had thrown her door open like that long before she looked over.

Sure enough, it was Edward, and the force with which he'd thrown open the door, banging it into the wall in the process, had caused all eyes in the classroom to turn to him.

He looked furious, aggressive and dangerous, and Kristina suddenly felt scared. But she also thought back to the music lesson where she had successfully got through to him the other day, and knew that she had to make a choice.

"Miss!" said Edward, not waiting to be invited in. He stormed into the centre of the room, fists clenched. "I'm coming in."

Kristina blinked, then looked around the class. All of 7C had turned their gazes to her to see what she was going to do.

"Back to work," she said, hoping she sounded more assertive than she felt. "Now, please!"

She turned to Edward. "What are you doing here?"

"I got fuckin' sent out," he said. "I got angry. I'm still angry. I could… argh!" He swiped aggressively at Kristina's pencil case that was laying on the edge of her desk, and it fell to the floor, scattering pens and pencils everywhere.

"Edward," she said, not wanting to provoke him. "Would you…"

She considered asking him to clear up the mess he had caused, but assumed that he probably wouldn't respond all that well to orders or even requests right now, so she bit her tongue. Instead, she finished her sentence in a different way.

"Would you like to go on the computer and continue with your coursework?" she said. "So long as you're quiet and don't interrupt 7C's work, you're welcome to do that."

She knew it was most irregular to allow a student to behave in such a manner, and that she'd probably be accused of "rewarding" Edward's poor behaviour by allowing him something that he wanted to do, but she didn't care right now; he was a disruptive influence in the classroom, and she either wanted him gone — which looked unlikely to happen — or at least out of the way — which was at least possible.

He nodded mutely, and walked over to the computer in the corner of the room without another word. He donned the pair of headphones that were perpetually attached to the system, fired up the composition software he'd been using to work on his piece the previous week and didn't bother the class again.

Kristina looked over at the inspector, who had been sat in the corner of the classroom all this time. She was writing frantically in her notepad.

The post 1400: Part 16 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Today she had come out with the express purpose of looking at shoes. She didn't have the money for new shoes, of course, but she thought it'd be nice to get some ideas. There would be parties around the end of term, and she knew from experience that everyone — male and female — would be judged by their peers on how well they dressed.

Sian was reasonably confident enough in her appearance, but not enough to feel like she could get away with not making an effort. She was always rather envious of Jasmine in this respect; even on days where her friend claimed she'd overslept and hadn't had time to spend on her appearance, she still looked gorgeous, and as such it was unusual for a party to come and go without Jasmine having at the very least shared a kiss with some of the more desirable boys in the year.

Sian, meanwhile, was yet to give her first kiss to anyone — not that she really minded, of course, since there was no-one in particular she had her eye on. She often fought with herself internally about this; her own sense of maturity meant that she often felt like many of her peers were too immature for her, and she was in no rush to jump into bed with the first guy who paid her any notice.

That didn't mean that she wasn't interested in a relationship, of course; just that she wasn't actively pursuing one right now.

As these thoughts flowed around her head, she realised she'd been staring at the same pair of shoes for a good few minutes now. She blinked, looked around — no-one seemed to be giving her any funny looks — and sauntered down the aisle to look at some other pairs.

Nothing was really grabbing her right now, so she decided to leave the shop. The high street was busy, but not unmanageably so. Time was marching on towards the end of the year, but the populace hadn't quite switched into full-on Christmas panic-buying yet — that would probably start from next week, Sian thought, and continue throughout the rest of November right up until Christmas.

She sighed. She was struggling to muster up much enthusiasm today, despite leaving the house earlier with some enthusiasm. She was discovering that her relatively new-found freedom from incarceration at home by her parents wasn't particularly exciting after all — though secretly she'd always suspected this — and was now wishing she'd stayed in her room, listened to some music or played some video games.

"Oi!" came a yell from further down the street. "Get back 'ere!"

The source of the yelling was the middle-aged owner of the newsagent that bookended one end of the main shopping drag in the high street. Even as the rest of the street had gradually started to be taken up by nothing but clothes shops, leading to several half-hearted residents' campaigns to "save our high street", the newsagent's had steadfastly refused to move. He was always doing good business, too, even with a larger WH Smiths further down the street.

Now it looked like he was having some trouble, though. Sian followed the sound and saw the owner standing outside his shop yelling, and a figure running down the road, knocking people out of the way as it went.

It looked strangely familiar. In fact, Sian knew exactly who it was without having to look too closely.

She started up the street in the direction of the running figure. She didn't break into a run of her own, though; she figured that the shoplifter would probably tire himself out before long, and that's when she'd find him.

Sure enough, it didn't  take all that long; after glancing down several side streets after seeing him apparently vanish from the main road, she eventually found an exhausted-looking Edward leaning breathlessly against a wall, clutching a bundle of magazines to his chest.

"Hey," she said. He jumped in fright and dropped his magazines on the floor; she was unsurprised to see that they were made up of a combination of men's interest magazines with scantily-clad women on the front, and outright pornography, some of which were bagged and had a covermounted DVD. "Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone you're here."

He gave her a look that was somewhere between terror and anger, and said nothing. To Sian's eye, he looked like a wild animal cornered by a predator, unsure whether to fight or run away.

She took a step closer and he visibly stiffened, pressing himself back against the wall as if willing himself to sink into it. She paused and looked at him.

"What's up, Edward?" she asked, trying to use as calm a voice as possible. He still didn't answer; his face was turning more and more wild by the second — now it was contorted into an outright snarl.

She took another step closer to him, and this time he moved; he bolted, leaving his stack of magazines on the floor. Charging down the side street, he knocked several dustbins over before disappearing around a corner at the end. Sian took off at a jog after him; she felt fairly confident that she'd catch up to him again before long.

She was right; Edward had barely got around the corner before having to stop to get his breath again.

"What do you want?" he yelled. "Leave me alone!"

"I just want to talk to you," said Sian. "I'm not going to tell anyone where you are, I said that before."

"Why do you want to talk to me?" he said breathlessly, a little less aggression in his voice now. "You saw what I did, didn't you?"

"I did," said Sian. "But I don't care."

Sian surprised herself by saying that, but after a moment of reflection she realised that she meant it. She detested the kids in her year — mostly boys, but there were a few girls, too — who wore criminality like a badge of honour, vandalising property and shoplifting in ever-increasing attempts to look cool. But she also knew that Edward wasn't like that; because he'd alienated pretty much everyone around him, there was no-one for him to look cool in front of — except perhaps Sian, and she believed he was intelligent enough to know how she felt about that sort of thing — and thus he was obviously indulging in this behaviour for another reason. Perhaps stress relief?

"Huh?" he said, panting. His breathing was slowing a little now.

"I don't care," she said. "You did something wrong, but I don't believe you wanted to actually hurt anyone. And if you were really that attached to those magazines you'd have taken them with you."

He said nothing and just looked down at the cracked surface of the pavement on this side street; a far cry from the fresh, clean paving slabs of the high street.

"I hate myself," he said after a moment's pause. He didn't look up, and kicked the ground lightly. "I don't know why I do the things I do."

Another pause.

"Well, I do. But I don't want to talk about that right now."

Sian said nothing. She wasn't quite sure what to say to Edward right now. He sounded like he wanted to get some stuff off his chest, but also that he was embarrassed by it. Sian felt it would be better to let him say what he wanted — if anything — at his own pace.

"I want to take the stuff I nicked back," he said after a long moment's silence. "I'll get in trouble but I don't care. I want to do it."

Sian was surprised at his proposed course of action, but didn't argue. As he started walking back in the direction the pair of them had come, she followed along behind him.

"You don't need to come," he said, looking over his shoulder.

"Yeah, well, I think I'm going to," she said. "If you don't mind."

"Whatever," he replied, turning his eyes back to the front.

He led the pair of them back to the side street and picked up the pile of magazines that lay where they had fallen just moments ago.

"Shame," he said, looking fondly at the cover of one of the pornographic magazines. "This one looked pretty hot. But I can't afford to buy it." He looked over at Sian.

"If you can't afford it, I'm not buying it for you," said Sian with a laugh. "You buy your own porn."

She had to admit she was morbidly fascinated with the magazine and its covermounted DVD; she was familiar with the idea of porn and had even looked some up on the Internet out of curiosity once or twice when her parents were out — taking care to delete the browsing history afterwards, of course — but had never actually seen a pornographic magazine or DVD up close.

She caught herself staring and looked away, feeling her cheeks flushing slightly.

"You sure you don't want it?" asked Edward, a mocking tone in his voice.

"No," said Sian, firmly.

Edward gathered the magazines, clutched them to his chest and led the pair of them back out of the side street into the relatively bright daylight of the high street. They proceeded up the pavement towards the newsagent's until they reached the doorway; Edward paused before going in.

"Do you want me to come with?" asked Sian.

"No," said Edward. "Yes. No."

Sian giggled.

"Come on, then," she said. "I'm coming in."

Edward walked into the shop with Sian in tow. She immediately saw the owner stiffen behind the counter as if preparing for another confrontation, but she was grateful that he didn't seem to have called the police as yet. She got the feeling that this wasn't the first shoplifting incident he'd suffered, and ultimately a few "specialist" magazines going missing probably weren't going to cut into his profits too much.

Edward plopped the bundle of magazines onto the counter in front of the owner, who looked at them in surprise.

"Sorry," Edward muttered, then looked at the floor.

"He wanted to return them," Sian explained. "He really is sorry. He's just… going through some things at the moment."

"Hmm," said the owner, looking Edward up and down. Edward, meanwhile, was still staring at the floor.

There was an awkward silence for a few minutes. Then the owner spoke again.

"All right," he said. "I believe you. After all, you did bring them back. Just… please don't do it again."

"I can't promise anything," Edward muttered. He looked up at the owner, then over at Sian. "Things are worse than they've ever been. Or perhaps they're better than they've ever been. I don't quite know. I'm so confused. I don't know what to think any more."

Suddenly, without warning, he started to cry. Sian looked over at the newsagent, who looked slightly embarrassed, then back to Edward, who clearly didn't care what a spectacle he was making of himself right now.

"Shhh," said Sian, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. He immediately flinched.

"Don't touch me," he said through huge, gulping sobs. "Don't ever touch me."

Then he ran, leaving a very bewildered Sian standing, confused, in the middle of the newsagent's, with the owner and several customers looking curiously at the door Edward had just charged through.

The post 1399: Part 15 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"I have a bloody doorbell," she muttered to herself. "Why does no-one ever use it?"

This was a constant and irrational source of frustration for her. She'd spent good money on a doorbell — there wasn't one there when she moved in — and apparently no-one ever noticed it.

She wasn't quite sure what time it was; the TV was still on, and it was showing some sort of early morning cookery show. She couldn't really tell what was going on as she was still half asleep, but the things they were cooking did not look at all appetising right now.

Staggering over to the front door, she peered through the peephole and saw an unfamiliar face. A delivery, perhaps? She hadn't ordered anything recently, but perhaps it was one of her mother's infrequent "care packages," or perhaps a gift from a secret admirer.

She snorted derisively at the prospect. As if, she though.

She chained the door and opened it a crack.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hello," said the unfamiliar face. He looked like a pleasant enough sort — perhaps a little older than Kristina. She put him somewhere around Martin's age, which would put him in his mid-thirties. There was a youthfulness around his eyes, though, that made him look younger than he was. "Sorry to bother you. Are you Kristina?"

"Yes," she said uneasily. How did this stranger know who she was?

"I'm Mark," he said. "I'm really sorry to just drop in like this, but I was wondering if Maxine was with you?"

"Um," said Kristina. She knew she had to think quickly.

So this was Mark. She still didn't really know what to make of him, or indeed what had truly happened between him and Maxine. Maxine had assured her that everything was fine and that it had all been a big misunderstanding, but Kristina knew her friend well enough by now to know when she was putting on a brave face and lying to avoid talking about difficult things. And now seemed to be one of those times, so letting the source of her anxiety know she was here would probably be a bad idea.

"No," she said finally. She knew only a fraction of a second had passed, but it felt like several minutes had gone by in the instant she'd been considering what to do. "Sorry. Are you looking for her?"

"Yeah," he said. "We were supposed to have a date last night, but she stood me up. I just wanted to make sure she was all right, and you seemed like the right person to ask."

"Okay," said Kristina. Her skin was crawling, but she wasn't sure why; speaking to him like this, he seemed like a perfectly reasonable, polite person, but at the back of her mind, she harboured thoughts that all was clearly not as it appeared. "Well, I'll see if I can get hold of her and let her know you were after her. Looking for her," she corrected herself.

"All right," he said, seemingly trying to peer in through the crack in the door. "Again, sorry to bother you."

"It's okay," she said. "Take care now. Have a nice day."

She closed the door on him, and she watched through the peephole as he walked away. He paused at the end of the path up to the front door, turned around and looked back at the door, looked as if he was about to come walking back up the path, then finally walked away.

Kristina quietly walked back into the living room, where Maxine was stirring.

"What was that?" said Maxine, sleepily. Kristina felt like telling the truth might not be a good idea here.

"Um, nothing," she said. "Just a delivery."

Maxine sat up and rubbed her eyes, then yawned.

"A delivery?" she asked. "But you're not holding any package."

"I…" Kristina looked down at her empty hands before realising the stupidity of her lie. "Um."

"Kris?" said Maxine, suddenly perking up and looking worried. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, I, um," she stammered.

"Kris," said Maxine. "It's fine. You can tell me if there's something wrong."

"It's just…" Should she say anything? Should she— "It was Mark. He was looking for you."

That answers that, she thought. Her mouth had a tendency to run ahead of her brain when she was nervous.

Maxine turned pale, but didn't say anything.

"He said that you two had a date last night," she continued. No sense stopping now. "And that you stood him up. And he came here to see if you were all right."

Maxine frowned.

"Bastard," she muttered under her breath, sighing.

"My turn now, Max," said Kristina. "I want you to tell me what's going on, because I know you haven't been telling me the truth."

Maxine closed her eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath; Kristina thought she heard a slight sob in there somewhere.

"All right," said Maxine. "And I'm sorry for getting you wrapped up in this, but it looks like you are. He must have gone through my phone when I wasn't looking or something and found your details. Asshole."

"I thought  you said things were going all right?" said Kristina. But she could tell her friend was becoming more agitated.

"Well, they're not," said Maxine. "Mark may act all sweet and nice when he's around other people or trying to get something he wants, but behind closed doors he's… not a nice person." Her tone was acidic. "He lives on power; on exerting it over other people, and proving to himself that he's the best."

"How do you mean?" asked Kristina.

"After… what I told you before, I told him I didn't want to see him again, that I felt uncomfortable with what he did," Maxine replied. "He threatened me. Said he was going to tell the bosses at work that I'd been harassing him. And he's weaseled his way into so many people's good graces that they'd believe him over me."

"Why would he do that?" said Kristina. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Like I said," Maxine continued, "he just loves to exert power over others. I don't know why, because he's not particularly successful or high up in the company; it just seems as if he's compensating for something. But in all our conversations, I never figured out what; he's been putting up one hell of a front in order to get what he wanted."

"Max," said Kristina, laying a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Has he hurt you?"

"He's tried," said Maxine. "Fortunately I've always managed to get out of the way before he could do anything. But he's been forcing me to keep seeing him with these threats and everything. Last night, I just told myself "no more," and ditched him. But it looks like he's not going to take no for an answer.

"Well, he's gone away for now," said Kristina.

"He'll be back," said Maxine. "Oh, Kris, I'm sorry, I really hope he doesn't start giving you grief, too. I feel terrible."

"Don't," said Kristina seriously. "The guy clearly has problems. Is there anything you can do? Can you go to the police or whatever?"

"And say what?" said Maxine. "He hasn't actually done anything to me, so what can I report him for? I don't want to get in trouble for wasting their time. 'Please, officer, this man's been being a bit weird around me.'"

"Max!" said Kristina. "You just said he tried to hurt you."

"But I have no proof of that," she said. "Why would they ever believe me?"

"Because it's their job to check it out if you report it?" said Kristina. "It can't hurt to tell them, can it?"

"I don't know," said Maxine.

*  *  *  *

Later that day, well after Maxine had gone home — after the pair of them had made sure Mark was nowhere to be seen outside Kristina's place — Kristina's phone rang once again.

It was Maxine. Kristina immediately had a bad feeling. She tapped the screen to answer.

"Hello?" she said. But there was no response from Maxine; perhaps she had pocket-dialled her again?

She heard the sound of banging in the distance, and someone shouting. Was it Mark? Was he trying to get in to Maxine's place?

Kristina continued to listen, and she heard Maxine's voice shouting something back. The banging continued; more forcefully now. It didn't sound like knocking any more.

Kristina was horrified by what she was hearing, but was at a loss for what to do; she couldn't tell if she was misinterpreting the sounds she heard, or if Maxine really was in some kind of danger.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for her to find out; she heard the distinctive sound of the phone being picked up at the other end, then Maxine's voice hissed down the phone at her.

"Kris, please, get help."

The phone clattered down on some sort of surface, and Kristina could hear her footsteps going away. She wanted to continue listening — there was something morbidly fascinating about what was going on — but at the same time she knew that she had to do something, right now.

She hung up the call and, fingers trembling, dialled 999.

"Hello, emergency services, which service do you require?" came a calm, friendly voice on the other end of the line.

"Police, please," said Kristina, her voice shaking.

As she waited to be connected, her mind started turning over all the possibilities of what might be happening at Maxine's place right now. She was terrified for her friend, and she hoped beyond hope that the police would be able to get there in time to save her.

The post 1398: Part 14 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She looked up at the clock. It had been well over an hour since the end of school, and all traces of noise had ceased outside the classroom — she couldn't even hear the out-of tune warblings of what Martin laughably called his "jazz band" — actually nothing more than him on piano, one year 10 boy on trumpet, a year 8 girl on a tenor saxophone that was slightly too big for her, and a year 9 violinist who didn't really like jazz music, but wanted something to do on Friday afternoons. They must have gone home; she didn't know if Martin was still here and didn't really feel like seeing him right now, anyway.

Gritting her teeth, she set about going through a few more of the papers. If I'm still here at five o'clock, she thought, I'm just going to leave it there. This is ridiculous.

More and more papers went in the bin. Another bundle of letters for her non-existent tutor group; a note from the Head reminding all staff that there would be a fire alarm three weeks ago; a mysterious form just labelled "Action Plan" with no indication of what actions she was supposed to be planning and to what end.

A bright yellow piece of paper was emblazoned with the word "IMPORTANT" in bold-print Comic Sans at the top of the page, with three exclamation marks either side of it. Having piqued Kristina's interest, she was disappointed to note that the paper was requesting nothing more than volunteers to help at a school cake sale that had taken place well over a month ago. Into the bin it went.

Kristina was unsurprised to discover that the vast majority of pages she'd been hoarding were, in fact, completely useless and should have just gone straight in the bin the moment she got them. The trouble was, with how hectic a typical school day was, papers were usually dropped on her while she was right in the middle of something else, and just got tossed aside to be reviewed and dealt with later. This continued over and over until her desk was, like it was now, full to bursting.

"Oh, fuck this," she said. She had gone through barely half of the stacks on her desk, but she couldn't take any more. She held the binbag open and simply swept all the remaining papers off the desk and into the bag. Then she tied the bag up and threw it — now surprisingly heavy — to the side and sat down in her chair, admiring the wooden surface of her desk for the first time in what felt like forever.

Tiredness suddenly set in. She leaned her elbows on her now-clear desk and rested her head on her hands. She closed her eyes for a moment but quickly sat up again when she realised that she would actually fall asleep then and there if she wasn't careful. But she couldn't quite bring herself to stand up and get moving just yet.

She looked around her classroom with tired eyes. She honestly wasn't sure what she thought any more. Some days, like today, she almost felt like a good teacher, particularly when she managed to get through to notoriously "difficult" students like Edward. Others, she felt like she was an imposter standing in front of the classes she taught; paranoid that she'd be found out any moment.

The prospect of the inspectors coming back didn't help with this feeling — particularly when the last time around she'd been branded "unsatisfactory". She already felt nervous any time someone watched her teach, whether they were her peers, a teaching assistant or someone from the local authority. But to know she was being graded on her performance made it all the more difficult to concentrate and be natural.

She sighed to herself. Why was she doing this? How had she fallen into this career?

She knew the answer; she'd come to the end of her undergraduate course and found herself at a loss for something productive to do with her degree, so had decided that staying on another year and attaining a qualification that was all but guaranteed to lead to a career was the right thing to do. It was a sound plan; what she hadn't counted on was how tough life at the chalkface in modern schools was. Her own memories of school had been somewhat rose-tinted — or perhaps she just didn't remember the bad parts — and so it was a bit of a shock for her to discover that teachers weren't always treated with respect by students, and that a typical lesson involved as much time being spent on what was euphemistically referred to as "behaviour management" as on actually teaching.

She'd stuck it out, though. She was determined to make it work — the pay was reasonable, and it was a job that conferred a certain amount of respect from people her own age. It wasn't until it was too late that she realised the respect she was getting was more due to the fact that everyone knew she was likely having to put up with abuse rather than because she was making a difference in young people's lives.

She was snapped out of her reverie by her phone beeping in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at it; it was a message from Sian.

Are you still at school? it read.

Yes, she typed back. Did you need something?

I'm not sure, came the response after a moment. Can I come and talk to you?

I was going to go home soon, typed back Kristina. Would you like to go and get a coffee or something?

Sure, typed Sian. I'll meet you at school, I'm not far away.

*  *  *  *

"Hello," said Sian cheerfully, though Kristina noted her greeting didn't have quite the same energy it usually did.

"Hi," said Kristina. "You okay?"

"Um," said Sian. "I'm not sure. But let's go somewhere before I tell you about it."

"All right," said Kristina.

The pair of them walked the short distance from the school to the local supermarket. Sian found a table while Kristina ordered the pair of them some lattes.

"So what's up?" she said, sitting down. "Problems with your schoolwork?"

"No," said Sian. "I, umm, I feel a bit silly saying this because it might be nothing, but I'm worried about Edward."

"I think we all are, Sian," said Kristina. "Is there something specific?"

"Yes," said Sian. "I walked him home after music class today. He's been opening up to me a bit recently, and I think he enjoyed class today. But, umm…"

Sian took a sip of her latte and then recounted the strange experience she'd had at Edward's house — relaxing with a drink one minute; being ushered out of the back door the next; then the sounds of yelling and things breaking.

Kristina frowned at what Sian was telling her.

"Okay," she said seriously. "Thanks, Sian. You did the right thing telling me. Obviously we don't know exactly what was going on there, but it sounds like something worth at least looking into."

And it might explain a lot, she thought to herself, but didn't say it out loud.

"I wonder if we can help him," said Sian. "He's got a bad reputation, but I think underneath all that he wants to be a good person."

"I'd certainly like to believe that," said Kristina. "I'll admit my first encounter with him made me think he was just another badly-behaved kid, but today opened my eyes a bit, I won't lie." She laughed. "I probably shouldn't be telling you that, should I?"

"It's okay," said Sian with a giggle. "We all figure you teachers feel that way about us sometimes anyway."

"It works the other way too," said Kristina with a conspiratorial smile. "But I really should stop saying things now before I get my colleagues into trouble."

*  *  *  *

"It's… going well," said Maxine, taking a sip of wine. It was the middle of the month, so neither she nor Kristina had a lot of spare money to go out with, so they'd just decided to meet up, drink some wine and watch some TV together. Kristina had tentatively asked her how things were going with Mark; she was still worried about her friend.

"Are you sure?" she said. "You sound a bit hesitant."

"Yeah," replied Maxine. "No. No, it's nothing. I'm just tired."

"You can stay here tonight if you want," said Kristina, secretly hoping she'd agree. Her place had felt entirely too empty and lonely for the past few days, and she felt she would welcome the company.

"I might," said Maxine. "It's nice to just hang out and relax. It's been a long week."

"It really has," said Kristina. "And I know next week is going to feel even longer in my case, but for now I'd just like to enjoy the weekend and not think about anything that's stressing me the fuck out."

Maxine put her hand on Kristina's shoulder.

"You're super-strong," she said out of nowhere. "I really admire what you do, you know."

"That's the wine talking," said Kristina, picking up the bottle and refilling her friend's glass. "But thanks."

"I mean it," said Maxine. "You put up with a hell of a lot of shit, including from me, and you never complain. Well, sometimes you do. But you just deal with it. You never let it get to you. Well, you do. But you, oh shit, I'm pissed."

"Yeah you are," said Kristina. "And I think I need to catch up."

She refilled her own glass with wine and took a big swig. The pair of them sat in silence for a while. Kristina stared at the television, but didn't really pay attention to what was on it; it was some reality show that she hadn't caught the premise for, involving the usual combination of stressed-looking people shouting at one another in obviously contrived situations.

She smiled bitterly to herself. Can't even escape the stress in entertainment these days, she thought.

"Hey, Max?" she said, turning to her friend. "Are you sure you're all right? I've been…"

But Maxine was already asleep, the wine glass still held in her hand, her head thrown back in a distinctly undignified manner.

Kristina smiled, removed the wine glass from her comatose friend's hand, pulled her blanket around the pair of them and rested her head on her friend's shoulder. She closed her eyes and felt her own consciousness drifting away before long; the dreamless sleep of an exhausting day — no, an exhausting week — finally coming to a close.

The post 1397: Part 13 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Sian was exhausted; she hadn't got much sleep the previous night. She didn't blame Kristina — it was her own fault that she couldn't "let go" after hearing something worrying like what her teacher had told her — but she did wish that she could have just stayed at home today.

Still, she thought. It's almost the weekend. Time for a well-earned break.

The morning seemed to pass by in something of a haze. Sian was pretty sure she'd been to all her lessons and had participated as much as she always did, but by the time lunchtime rolled around she was struggling to recall anything she'd learned today.

She took a bite out of one of her sandwiches and chewed thoughtfully.

"So are you going to tell us what's up, Sianie?" said Jasmine. Sian gave a start; in her tired delirium, she'd all but forgotten her friends were there.

"Nothing," she said absently. "Just tired."

"What were you up to?" said Nicola, a mocking, cheeky tone in her voice. "You got some fella on the side?

"No," said Sian, not rising to the bait more because she'd barely noticed Nicola's tone than anything else. "Nothing like that."

"Then what?" said Jasmine. "Come on, Sianie, we're worried." She sounded a lot more serious than her usual light-hearted self.

"Nothing," she repeated, a little more forcefully. The persistent questions were starting to bring her out of her reverie, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to come back from wherever she was just yet. Although part of her was worrying that she wasn't taking anything in and was feeling very detached, another part of herself was enjoying the relative peace and quiet in this happy place.

"Okay, okay," said Jasmine, standing up. "Come on, Nic."

"What? Where?" said Nicola, confused.

"I don't think Sianie wants us around right now," said Jasmine. "Let's leave her to it."

"See you later," said Sian.

She put her sandwich down and sighed, then looked around herself. Everyone around her seemed to be laughing, joking and having a good time, but she suddenly felt very lonely, and she'd just driven her friends away.

"Stupid," she muttered to herself. She didn't feel hungry any more, so she stuffed the remains of her sandwich back into her lunch bag, stood up and headed for Kristina's classroom in the hope of finding some company.

When she arrived, she tapped on the door, then pushed it without waiting for a response. Kristina was sitting at her desk, which was still covered with piles of paper. She didn't appear to be doing much.

"Hey," said Sian, tentatively stepping into the room. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Kristina, coming to life and facing her student. "I'm… actually, no, I'm not great. Didn't get all that much sleep tonight, so I apologise in advance if this afternoon's lesson is rubbish."

"Join the club," said Sian with a gentle laugh. "I didn't sleep much either."

"Oh," said Kristina, a frown appearing on her face. "I'm sorry. Was that my fault? Did I worry you?"

"Well," said Sian, hesitating for a moment. "Yes, you worried me. But no, it's fine. I'm glad you felt you could tell me those things. And I'm sorry you were worried about your friend. Have you heard from her?"

"I got a text from her earlier," said Kristina. "She said that everything was fine and that everything went well, but I'm not sure I believe her."

"Why's that?" asked Sian.

"I know her," said Kristina. "She went from being so freaked out that she couldn't go into work to being absolutely fine with everything in the space of a day. She doesn't do that. She holds grudges and takes ages to come around to people she thinks have wronged her. I mean, she's liked this guy for ages, but still. That's no excuse, is it?"

"Don't they say love is blind or something?" said Sian with a slight laugh. She didn't know if the humour was appropriate. "I can't speak for her, but I've known people go out with boys who are just plain bad for them."

"Well, no offence, Sian, but my friend's a lot older than your friends," said Kristina. "I'd like to think Max is a bit more mature than some teenage girls, present company excepted."

"You might be right," said Sian. "You should talk to her about it, though."

"I'll try," said Kristina. "Now you should get along. It's registration in a minute. I'll see you later this afternoon."

"All right," said Sian.

*  *  *  *

Registration came and went, and before long Sian was back in the music classroom. She was the first there, but it wasn't long before her classmates — including Edward, again accompanied by a teaching assistant — were sitting down and ready to go.

Today was composition day. Sian enjoyed the process of putting together her own music, but knew that some of her peers struggled with the creative aspect. It was something she'd always found very natural, though she felt extremely self-conscious about sharing the things she'd come up with. She'd always got good marks for her composition assignments, so she knew that she didn't really have anything to worry about in terms of her abilities; it was more that letting other people hear her compositions felt like she was making herself very vulnerable and putting herself on display. It was an uncomfortable process for her, but to date she'd always been supported and encouraged by friends, peers and teachers alike.

The class was already halfway through an assignment, and Sian was almost finished. Once Kristina finished her initial lecture and sent everyone off to get on with their work, Sian did not dart into her usual practice room; instead, she gravitated towards Edward.

"Hey," she said softly.

He was staring at the wall, his jaw set and his face scrunched up into a frown. He grunted in acknowledgement.

"Are you all right?" she said.

"Edward," said the teaching assistant. "Be polite."

"Yeah," he said, turning to her. He looked miserable. "I'm all right. Why?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted a bit of help," said Sian. "You missed a bunch of lessons, so I thought you might want a hand."

There was a pause. In the distance, Sian could hear her electric guitar-wielding classmates warming up.

"Okay," he said.

Sian raised her eyebrows and smiled a little. She turned to look over at Kristina, who was sorting through some of the papers on her desk.

"All right," said Sian. "Have you got anything at all yet?"

"No," he said. "And Miss wouldn't help me." He paused. "I don't blame her."

"Oh, now come on," said Sian. "I'm sure she'll help you if we ask nicely."

"Go on," said the teaching assistant.

After a moment's consideration, Edward stood up. Sian led him over towards Kristina, who looked up at the pair of them in surprise, then immediately looked uneasy at how close Edward was.

"Miss," he said.

"Yes, Edward?" replied Kristina. Sian could tell she was uneasy, but she said nothing.

"I'm… sorry about the other day," he said. Sian's eyes widened, and Kristina's eyebrows raised. "I just sort of lost control. I'm sorry."

"That's… okay, Edward," said Kristina. "Just try not to let it happen again."

"Edward was hoping he could get some help with his composition," said Sian. "I said I'd give him a hand, too, as I'm nearly done with mine."

"That's great," said Kristina. She looked like she was loosening up a bit. "Okay, Edward. The first thing we need to do, then, is figure out what you want to compose for."

*  *  *  *

Sian was pleasantly surprised to discover that Edward actually took quite well to composition. Due to his relative lack of instrumental skills, Kristina had suggested he try using the computer to make a piece of electronic music. She had several pieces of software installed specifically designed to allow users to arrange samples in sequence and produce convincing-sounding dance music, and Edward seemed interested enough to try them.

Edward offered the headphones to Sian, so she put them on and he clicked the "Play" button. Instantly her ears were filled with a thumping beat and throbbing bassline; the two complemented each other well, and Edward had taken care to ensure that they synced up nicely with one another. He had a good ear for rhythm, it seemed, though the layers of synthesiser he was just starting to put on top of the basic beat were rather too loud.

"That's really cool," said Sian, and she meant it. She knew that the music composition program essentially involved using musical "building blocks" rather than composing things from scratch, but even so, for someone with relatively little musical ability like Edward to come up with a convincing-sounding dance beat and bassline was impressive to her.

Kristina came over to see how they were getting on.

"How's it going?" she asked. Sian offered her the headphones without saying a word, and Edward clicked the "play" button. When the piece had run its course, she smiled at Edward.

"Great job, Edward!" she said. "I think we've found your calling."

Sian looked at Edward and smiled, too. Then, something unexpected happened: he smiled, too.

*  *  *  *

"Thanks," said Edward as he walked out of the classroom with Sian. "I actually had a good time today."

"I'm glad," said Sian. "Music is great. It's a really good way to express yourself."

"Yeah," he said. "I liked that music program. It was fun."

"It looked it," said Sian, laughing. "I'm a bit jealous, actually."

The conversation died for a moment as the two walked to the front door of the school.

"Hey, um," said Edward. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," said Sian.

"Would you mind walking with me to my house?" he asked. "Sorry, it's stupid, I know. But it's not far."

Sian paused for a moment. She wasn't sure where he was going with this. Then she decided.

"Sure," she said.

I seem to be getting through to him, she thought. Perhaps I can help him, and then that's one less worry for Kristina, too.

At the back of her mind was the knowledge that he had been known to snap at any moment, but ever since she had started talking to him he'd been a lot calmer than she'd ever seen him.

Edward, it turned out, was speaking the truth; his house was no more than five minutes' walk away from the school. It was an unassuming-looking terraced house with a slightly unkempt front garden and a rusty iron gate. Edward pushed it open and pulled his keys out of his pocket before opening the door. He turned back to Sian.

"Do you want to come in and grab a drink?" he asked. "I'm not going to do anything weird, I promise."

Sian smiled. He'd read her mind, much as she felt ashamed to admit it.

"All right," she said.

The hallway of Edward's house was dark and smelled a little musty, but he flicked a light on and it was soon illuminated with warm orange light from a bare bulb hanging from the high ceiling. He pushed the front door closed and led her into the kitchen, which was at the back of the house.

"Orange juice?" he asked, opening a cupboard and pulling out two glasses.

"Sure," said Sian. She looked around, trying to figure out what sort of family lived here — and what sort of family could have produced someone like Edward.

The kitchen was in reasonable condition, but there was a significant pile of washing-up in the sink and the bin was full. The light in the kitchen was similarly without a lampshade, and Sian noticed that there were numerous discarded bottle tops on the kitchen table, though from what she couldn't tell.

"There," he said, thrusting the glass towards her.

"Thanks," she said, taking a sip. It was the cheap orange juice that you could buy in bundles of six cartons at once, but at least it was cold and refreshing — plus the fact that it was clearly a few days old gave it an invigorating "zing" to it.

She drained her glass and put it on the kitchen table.

Suddenly, there was the sound of keys in the front door. Edward's expression immediately changed.

"Oh fuck," he said. "You've got to get out of here."

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Go on!" he said. "Go!" He unlocked the back door, which led from the kitchen into the overgrown back garden, and pushed Sian out of it, slamming it shut the second she was outside.

Sian dusted herself off and looked back, but got the sudden sense she shouldn't stick around here. Taking care not to make herself visible to the kitchen windows, she crept through the garden, looked around, found the back gate and slipped out into the alleyway that led back to the street.

As she closed the gate behind her, she heard yelling and what sounded like a glass breaking coming from the house. What was going on in there?

The post 1395: Part 12 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Kristina dumped her bags forcefully on the floor, then sat down with a "thump" and exhaled, but she said nothing.

"That bad, huh?" said Maxine. "Sorry."

"The inspectors are coming back," said Kristina. "So yay, I get to be branded 'unsatisfactory' all over again."

"Coming back?" asked Maxine. "Didn't they just leave?"

"That's what Special Measures means," explained Kristina, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her head on her hands. "They keep coming back until we're… not unsatisfactory, or whatever."

"That sucks," said Maxine. "And seems counter-productive."

"Well, I sort of get it," said Kristina. "I mean, being in Special Measures basically says that we fucked up and we need to shape up or shut down. And them coming back is a way of checking that we're, you know, shaping up. But, ugh, everyone's really stressed about it again, particularly as they come at such short notice."

"Sorry," said Maxine, laying a hand on Kristina's arm. "Wish I could help more."

"Just listen to me rant every so often," said Kristina. "That'll do me."

One of the baristas came over and brought two large lattes.

"I ordered for you," said Maxine with a smile. "Hope you don't mind."

Kristina chuckled weakly. "No, not at all," she said. "I feel like I need this." She picked up the heavy glass and took a sip of the coffee, giving an exaggerated gasp after she swallowed. "So what's new with you? Are you feeling better after… the other day?"

"Oh, yeah," said Maxine cheerfully. "It was all a misunderstanding. We talked about it at work and sorted it out. It's all fine."

Kristina raised an eyebrow. This wasn't quite what she expected to hear.

"Really? Are you… sure?"

"Yeah," said Maxine. "I was just overreacting. It's all good. We're seeing each other again later tonight, actually."

Kristina frowned, but didn't say anything. She took another sip of her coffee.

Something felt off about all this. Maxine had been so upset the other day, and now everything was fine? She didn't say anything, though; she felt she was in no position to give her thoughts on her friend's love life, what with her own lack of experience in that department. Sometimes she was grateful for that lack of experience; at others, she wished she had more experience to draw on to be able to give advice. Now was one of the latter times.

"What are you going to do this time?" she said. She instantly regretted adding the "this time", but Maxine didn't seem to notice — or care.

"He's going to cook me a meal," Maxine said. "He's quite a chef, apparently."

Was that a hint of uneasiness in her voice? Kristina couldn't quite tell, but she didn't feel happy about this.

"You're going to his house?" she said. She couldn't stop herself. There was a slight pause — not a long one, but noticeable.

"Yes," said Maxine.

*  *  *  *

Kristina had brought some of the paperwork home with her to try and sort. Not all of it, but she reckoned she had about half of it. After finishing her dinner — a microwave curry tonight; not at all bad — she heaved the box of papers onto her dining table and started drawing them out one by one, a binbag by her side ready to discard useless or irrelevant items into.

First was a copy of the school newsletter; she never read these, as they were largely aimed at parents. Into the binbag it went. Then came a stack of letters home to parents explaining the results of the inspection and what "Special Measures" meant. Since Kristina didn't have a tutor group, she wasn't sure why she'd been provided with a stack of these; into the binbag they went.

Beneath that was a form from the school's special educational needs unit asking for feedback on Edward. She was apparently supposed to track his behaviour in the lessons he attended, then submit the report to the SEN department so they knew how he was getting on — whether he was successfully integrating into the school or whether he was going to be even more of a problem than he had been in the past. She put that to one side; although she had neglected to fill it in earlier, she made a mental note to focus on that and remember it for the future.

Then there was a pile of worksheets from Martin — she'd made her own for the lesson they covered, so into the binbag they went, although she kept one just in case she wanted to use it in future — and a note from the Head reminding everyone that was a Governors' meeting two weeks ago; binbag.

Her phone rang at this point; she fumbled around in her dressing gown robe pocket for it and clumsily dropped it face-down on the table in her rush to answer it. She picked it up and saw that it was Maxine calling her; wasn't she supposed to be on her date with Mark? She slid her finger across the screen and answered.

"Hello?" she said uneasily. There was no response from the other end, but she could hear something; she wasn't sure what. Had Maxine pocket-dialled her?

There was a rustling sound, and mumbling in the background, though she couldn't hear what was being said. There were two voices — she assumed they were Maxine and Mark. They sounded like they were talking normally.

"Maxine?" Kristina said, a little louder than she would normally speak. "Maxine, are you there? I think you pocket-dialled me. Hello?"

No response. The voices in the background sounded a little louder. She couldn't tell if they were closer or actually louder. Then there was more rustling. What was going on? Kristina was morbidly curious, although she knew that she was intruding on what was probably quite a private moment right now.

Mark said something, and Maxine responded in what Kristina recognised as her "girl power" tone; an assertive voice that made it clear she was in charge. But it sounded like Mark was persisting. Kristina still couldn't make out the words, but it sounded as if they were disagreeing on something. She considered speaking up again, but against her better judgement she didn't want either of them noticing her "presence" and hanging up just yet.

She could feel a knot in her stomach forming; she had a feeling something bad was going to happen. And yet she didn't hang up, nor did she do anything about it; she just listened.

Mark sounded like he was raising his voice now, and Maxine's voice sounded less assertive. There was a loud "thump," and what sounded like a yelp from Maxine. What was going on? She had a feeling she already knew, but she didn't want to admit it to herself; she also felt guilty at the fact she was listening in and wasn't able to do anything to help her friend.

"Maxine!" she cried as loud as she could. There was the rustling sound again, louder this time, and then the line went dead with the usual "beep, beep beep."

"Shit," said Kristina, the knot in her stomach tightening by the moment. She tried to call her back, but it simply went straight to voicemail; one or the other of them — she had a feeling she knew who — had turned her phone off.

What should she do? She could feel herself starting to panic. Should she call the police? But what should she tell them? She didn't know where Mark lived and thus didn't know where Maxine was, and with her phone off, they wouldn't be able to track where she was — and anyway, she wasn't sure if they could even do that. She didn't know Mark's full name or any other details; there was nothing she could do.

Flailing around, she knocked the box of papers off the table. They scattered onto the floor, and some went under the sofa, but she didn't care right now; she was now utterly convinced that her friend was in trouble and didn't know what to do. Actually, she did: nothing. There was nothing she could do, and the feeling of helplessness was making her panic even more.

She flipped to the messages app on her phone, and chose the conversation thread with Sian.

Sian, she typed. I need help. I really need help. What do I do? 

She just sat and stared at her phone for several minutes. Eventually, a response came back.

What's wrong? came the reply. Simple but to the point.

Kristina took a deep breath, closed her eyes, exhaled sharply, then started to type.

You remember my friend that I told you about? she wrote. Well, after what happened with the guy she went on a date with the other day, she's back seeing him again tonight. At his house. And I'm worried that he's doing something bad to her. I don't know what, but she pocket-dialled me and it sounded like something was going on. Am I overreacting? I think I'm overreacting. Sorry, you don't need to hear all this.

Kristina could see that Sian started typing immediately after her message arrived.

It's okay. It's all right, said the message. Sian started typing again immediately afterwards.

You're not overreacting, came a second message shortly afterwards. Your friend would probably be glad to know you're worried about her.

But I don't know how to help her, Kristina typed back. If he's doing something, what can I do?

There was a long pause. Kristina's house suddenly felt like time had stopped, and all sound had simply ceased. She knew that she was putting a lot of pressure on Sian here — pressure that she really didn't deserve — but she also felt terrified of being alone right now. And, in acknowledging that, she felt guilty for putting her own concerns above those of Maxine.

But Maxine might be fine, she told herself. She said it was all a misunderstanding, that they'd cleared it all up.

The sound of the muffled, mumbling voices becoming increasingly agitated and louder echoed in her head.

"Oh, God," she said to herself, putting her head in her hands. She felt like she was about to cry.

I'm sorry, said Sian. I really don't know what to suggest. It doesn't sound like there's much you can do. I know that's not what you probably want to hear, but it's the truth. If you're worried, you should keep trying to contact her, and make sure you see how she is tomorrow.

Kristina felt a tear rolling down her face. How had this young girl gotten to be so wise at her age? How is it a sixteen-year-old was able to keep her cool, while she — a grown woman and a qualified teacher — was falling apart like this?

The most frustrating thing is that she knew Sian was right. She knew that she was talking sense, that she was simply confirming everything she had already thought. But that didn't make it any easier. It wouldn't make it any easier to sleep tonight; in fact, Kristina felt that there was a distinct possibility she wouldn't be sleeping at all tonight.

I'm sorry about all this, Sian, she typed back to her young friend. I'll leave you alone now. I shouldn't have bothered you with this. Thank you for listening, though.

You're welcome, came a response a moment later. Please take care of yourself.

The post 1394: Part 11 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Kristina was worried about her friend, it seemed, but she hadn't elaborated on the details. It sounded like it might be something serious, but Sian couldn't even begin to imagine what the problem might be. She wondered if it was one of the things contributing to Kristina's seeming emotional fragility at the moment, but didn't like to guess. She knew all too well that guesses often escalated into outright anxiety, and that never got anyone anywhere.

She picked up her phone again — no more messages yet — and put it into her pocket. She left her room and trotted downstairs to go and make herself a drink; she felt like she hadn't drunk anything all evening, and her throat was parched.

Her mother was downstairs watching television.

"Are you all right?" she asked as Sian darted past, trying to avoid being noticed.

"Yes," said Sian.

"What are you doing?" her mother called from the other room.

"Just getting a drink," Sian called back.

"Use the juice that's in the door, please," said her mother. "It needs using up."

Sian obliged, and filled a tall glass with the orange juice, giving it a sniff before she took a sip just to make sure. It smelled fine, and there was only a tiny drop left in the carton now she'd filled her glass; checking to see no-one else was around — her mother hated it when people drank straight from the bottle or carton — she swigged the last of it, then tossed it in the bin. Then she headed back for her room.

"Do you want anything else?" called her mother as she passed.

"No, Mum, I'm fine," said Sian, a little more bluntly than she intended. Her mother didn't respond. She paused on the stairs for a moment, then continued her way back up to her room.

As she crossed the threshold of her room, with perfect timing her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Kristina.

Well, said the message, sent in response to a query Sian had sent earlier. She wouldn't tell me exactly what happened. But it sounded like she had a date that went badly. Her date tried to hurt her. It's so weird, because she always said the two of them had gotten along so well.

Hurt her? probed Sian. What, did he hit her or something? She instantly knew that wasn't what Kristina had meant, and regretted asking such a silly question.

No, came the reply. I probably shouldn't be talking to you about this sort of thing, but hell, I probably shouldn't be talking to you at all. He tried to… you know. When she didn't want to.

Sian looked at the screen in horror. The idea of someone being subjected to a crime like that was difficult for her to process; she and her family had always lived in reasonably well-off areas in which the most unpleasant things that happened involved having more than one door-to-door salesman in a day, and so she'd always considered most crimes to be vague, amorphous concepts that never really actually happened. Although she didn't know Kristina's friend, she felt somehow attached to her; and the prospect of her being assaulted in such a way was utterly horrifying and frightening.

OMG, wrote Sian. I'm so sorry to hear that. She didn't really know what else to say, so she sent the message as is.

I'm so sorry, came the reply from Kristina a moment later. It was completely inappropriate for me to share that with you. Let's talk about something else.

It's okay, said Sian. It was just a shock.

*  *  *  *

It was lunchtime, and both Jasmine and Nicola had been given detention for talking too much in their science lesson earlier in the day, so Sian was at a loose end. She had other friends, of course, but tended to default to hanging out with Jasmine and Nicola, since they were her closest friends.

She often wondered why, as their characters were so very different to hers, but she certainly didn't begrudge them their friendship. She was grateful for it, in fact; she often felt strangely detached from the rest of her peers, so to have a reliable pair of friends who didn't seem to mind her being around too much was something she welcomed very much.

She wandered out of the doors and into the school grounds. It was chilly outside, and the wind was blowing, making it feel even colder. She buttoned up her coat and pulled up her hood, then started walking. She didn't have a particular destination in mind; she just wanted to walk. The air, while cold and uncomfortable, was invigorating, and she was enjoying the sensation of just the front of her face being buffeted by the breeze while the rest of her head remained toasty warm.

Most of her peers had elected to stay inside due to the weather, so it was fairly quiet outside, though she could hear the crowd of boys who always played football every lunchtime whatever the weather doing their thing off in the distance. They always sounded like they were enjoying themselves; shouting and screaming like children much younger than they really were. Sian envied them a little; she had forgotten what it was like to be a "child".

As she rounded the corner of the school and came up on the school's bike sheds, she noticed a lone figure perched on the wall, staring at its shoes. As she got a little closer, she recognised it as Edward, sitting out in the cold without a jacket. She hesitated for a moment and just watched him, but he didn't seem to be going anywhere; the only sign of life was when he occasionally kicked his feet at the floor, but he didn't look up.

Sian felt suddenly curious, though at the same time a little afraid. Despite her misgivings, she approached Edward and sat down next to him. She removed her hood and looked at him. He didn't look up.

"Hey, Edward," she said in a soft voice. "Are you all right?"

"Uh-huh," he said. He didn't elaborate, and he didn't look all right.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked.

"No," he muttered.

There was an awkward silence between the two of them for a moment.

"What are you doing?" asked Sian.

"Just thinking," he said.

"What about?" asked Sian.

There was another pause, and finally he lifted his head and turned to face her.

"What do you care?" he asked.

"I'm just curious," said Sian. "You looked… I don't know, a bit sad."

"I'm not sad," he said, aggressively. "I'm just thinking."

"Okay," said Sian, recognising that she probably shouldn't continue down this line of enquiry.

Silence fell again. A cheer echoed across the school grounds; one of the footballers had evidently just scored.

"Everyone hates me," said Edward after a moment, unprompted.

"I'm sure that's not true," she said.

"Everyone hates me," he repeated. "And I don't blame them. I hate me, too."

"Edward," said Sian, trailing off. She wasn't quite sure what to say next.

"I can't help myself," he continued. "I just… can't control it. And it ruins things. I fucked everything up with that music teacher."

"Miss Charles?" asked Sian. "What happened?"

Edward sighed.

"She was being nice to me," he said. "She was helping me, and then I just… I got so angry. I got so mad. I scared her. I feel like shit."

Things started to click into place for Sian.

"If you feel bad, you should say you're sorry," said Sian. "I'm sure she'd like that."

"No," said Edward. "She won't want to come anywhere near me now. I fucked it up." He sounded like he was starting to get a little angry and frustrated; Sian felt she should tread carefully, and perhaps change the subject.

"Do you know what makes you feel upset?" asked Sian tentatively.

"I don't feel upset," he said through gritted teeth. "I feel angry."

"Okay," said Sian. "What makes you feel angry?"

"I don't know," said Edward. "It just… happens. Things pop into my mind, and they just make me… explode."

"What sort of things?" asked Sian.

"I… don't want to talk about it," he said. "You'll laugh."

"No," said Sian. "I won't."

"No!" he said. "I'm not talking about this!"

He stood up, and for a moment Sian felt a flash of fear. But he wasn't lunging for her or attacking her; he was just standing up.

He started to walk away in the direction of the school's back gate. Sian had a feeling he wouldn't be coming back for afternoon classes.

After a few steps, he paused, turned and looked over his shoulder.

"Sorry," he said. "And thanks. People don't normally talk to me."

Before Sian could respond, he was walking away at a brisk pace. She just stared after him.

In the distance, the footballers roared again. Another goal.

The post 1393: Part 10 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She was still angry, but she was embarrassed now, too; it wasn't a great combination inside her head. She knew all too well that her colleagues were probably just as stressed as she was, but given how much she was inclined to bottle things up and then explode rather than talk about them rationally, she couldn't help feeling like she was being treated a little unfairly.

Then she felt that she was being unfair, too; her colleagues weren't mind-readers, after all, so how could she expect people like Martin to know that she was feeling overwhelmed and stressed by everything that had been going on, even without almost being assaulted by a student.

Either way, she didn't really want to talk about it right now, so went straight to her classroom and began sorting things out ready for the day's lessons. The piles of paper were still on her desk — she swore they'd grown since yesterday — and were still no closer to being filed or sorted. She sighed at the sight of them and spent a moment just gazing forlornly around her classroom.

It wasn't an awful classroom in comparison to the rest of the school, but it was a distinctly awkward shape. Long and thin, the design of the room made it largely impractical for any layout of tables other than around the perimeter walls, but in doing so that meant the students were encouraged to turn their backs on Kristina — not ideal for getting them to pay attention. She'd tried to counter this in various different ways, with the most effective by far being getting everyone to pull their chairs away from their tables and gather around the piano when she was talking. It wasn't ideal, but it sort of worked; she was extremely pleased with herself when it had proven effective, as it was something she'd come up with herself rather than something a textbook had told her to do.

Suddenly, she jumped as her phone chimed in her pocket. She normally switched it to silent before classes started for the day — it was hard to regain control of a class after they'd heard a teacher's phone go off — but she'd apparently forgotten today. There were still a few minutes to go even before registration, so she fished it out, flicked the silent switch and then glanced at the screen.

It was a message from Maxine. hey babe, it read. need to talk2u. call me when u have a sec? x

Okay, said Kristina. TTYL. x

*  *  *  *

The day passed fairly uneventfully. Just before lunchtime, it was the GCSE group's performance practice period, so Kristina, after doing her rounds and making sure everyone who was present — a group that excluded Edward today — was actually practicing, decided to take advantage of the relative peace to call Maxine.

She was grateful for her GCSE group being so motivated to get on in their own time. She knew by now that, Edward aside, she could trust them all to get on with practicing without having to continually badger them; playing their instruments or singing was the reason most of them had actually picked to continue studying music, so they appreciated the opportunity to have some free time to do just that — Kristina, meanwhile, appreciated the opportunity to sit back and let them get on with it. She was sure it wasn't quite in the spirit of "active teaching," but given how much energy some classes took up, she had decided to take up any opportunity to slack off a bit.

She knew that Martin was teaching a lesson himself right now, so slipped quietly into the music departmental office and drew out her phone, scrolled through its contact list and tapped on Maxine's name.

"Hello," came the answer after a few rings. Her voice didn't seem to have its usual energy.

"Hey, Max," said Kristina as cheerfully as she could muster. "What's up?"

"It's…" There was a long pause, and Kristina thought she heard her friend sob. She felt a knot immediately form in her stomach, and braced herself for some unpleasant news, whatever it might be. "Sorry, Kris, I can't do this over the phone. Meet me for coffee after you're done working today?"

"Sure," said Kristina. "Are you… all right?"

"No," said Maxine. "I'm really not. But I'm not sure how to talk about it yet. I'll figure it out by this afternoon. See you later."

She hung up before Kristina could get another word in. The strange conversation had dampened her spirits considerably, and she was starting to worry. After a moment of standing alone in the office grinding her teeth in thought while just gazing at her phone, Kristina eventually decided to do another round of the music students to distract herself from her own thoughts.

*  *  *  *

Kristina was out of the gates almost as soon as the end-of-day bell went, and headed for her friend's favourite coffee shop.

When she arrived, Maxine was already there. She was considerably dressed down from her usual appearance; her face was without makeup, her hair was disheveled and she was wearing a rather drab sweatpants and hoodie combo. It looked like she'd been crying.

"Max?" said Kristina, sitting down opposite her almost unrecognisable friend. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I…" Maxine began, but her lip began to tremble and she was obviously holding back tears.

"Max?" said Kristina again. She reached out her hand across the table, and Maxine took it; Kristina was surprised at how cold it was.

"Oh boy," said Maxine, sniffing and composing herself somewhat. "Last night was… a bad date."

"Bad date?" said Kristina. "Oh, right, you were going out with Mark, right? It didn't go well?"

"No," said Maxine. "I… may have misjudged him somewhat."

"How so?"

"I, uh," said Maxine. "It's sort of embarrassing."

"Hey," said Kristina. "I'm not judging. Honestly. You can tell me anything." She really wanted to know, but she was trying her best to frame her curiosity as supportiveness.

"Well," said Maxine, "it was going well. So well, in fact, that we headed back to his place after the movie, and, um…"

"Did you…?"

Maxine's face screwed up and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"You know me, Kris. I don't do that on a first date, I just wanted to… but he… he…"

The knot in Kristina's stomach grew tighter, and she felt like she wanted to throw up.

"Oh, God, Max, did he…?"

Maxine closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily through her mouth. It seemed to help her compose herself a little.

"No," she said. "Thankfully. But it wasn't through lack of trying, I don't think; I managed to get out before he could… do anything. But, oh, Kris, he was scary. I… can't believe I misjudged him so badly."

Kristina's eyes widened.

"Um," she said. "Are you… are you sure you're not just misreading the situation? Perhaps he's just one of those guys who likes to, you know, take control?"

"No," said Maxine. "This was different to that. I was up-front with him, told him it wasn't going to happen that night, but that I liked him and that we should see where things went from there, but he was… he was very persistent. He wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Ugh," said Kristina. "I'm glad you got out when you did. He sounds like a dick."

Maxine chuckled. "To the point," she said, a weak smile on her face. It quickly turned serious again. "I just don't know how I'm going to face him now. I skipped work today because I couldn't deal with the prospect of seeing him in the office. What am I going to do?"

"I… don't know," said Kristina. "I'm sorry. You know I don't have a lot of, you know, experience at this sort of thing." She pondered for a moment. "But you can't hide from him by not going to work, can you? You'll need to go back eventually, so you need to think about what you're going to do about that then."

"What can I do?" said Maxine, an exasperated tone creeping into her voice. "I just… can't face him."

"Um," said Kristina, thinking for a moment. "Perhaps you should mention it to someone. Not details, obviously, just that… there's problems between you, and that you need to stay away from him or something? Would that work?"

"I don't know," said Maxine. She sighed. "I guess I'll have to find out though, huh?"

*  *  *  *

That evening, Kristina lay on her sofa beneath her favourite blanket, watching TV. A half-eaten microwave meal lay on the coffee table in front of her; she didn't feel hungry enough to finish it.

She was feeling very lonely. She wanted to talk to someone about what Maxine had said earlier in the day, but felt that she didn't want to upset Maxine further.

Then she had an idea. She didn't know if it was a sensible one. She paused, weighing up her options for a moment. Then she got up from the sofa, rummaged around in her bag until she found her "admin" folder, flipped through the pages inside until she found the list of phone numbers she'd taken from the students participating in the charity 24-hour music marathon that had taken place the previous month.

Where was it… Ah!

Her finger slid smoothly down the page until she found what she was looking for. With her other hand, she reached into her pocket, took out her phone and brought up the contacts page.

After registering the details, she switched to the messaging app.

Hi Sian, she typed slowly and hesitantly, then paused for a moment to consider how she should phrase what she wanted to say. This is Miss Charles. No. She backspaced over "Miss Charles" and replaced it with Kristina.

This is Kristina, she typed. I hope you don't mind me messaging you like this, but I could do with someone to talk to. She added an "x" to the end of the message out of habit, but suddenly thought it might be inappropriate, so she deleted it. Then, before she could reconsider, she sent it.

Hi, came the response a few minutes later. Thanks for the message. Is it okay for you to be texting me like this?

I don't know, said Kristina. I guess we'll have to find out.

The post 1392: Part 9 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

The bell went, and school was over for the day, but Sian didn't want to go home just yet. Her parents were out for a few hours yet, and she didn't feel like being in the house by herself. So she decided to partake of her usual after-school activity: shutting herself in one of the music practice rooms, banging out some show tunes on the piano and singing her heart out.

She knew that Mr Bilton was the head of department, but it was usually Kristina she turned to to ask for permission for this sort of thing — even before the two of them had struck up their friendship agreement — and so it was her classroom she headed for rather than the departmental office.

She tapped lightly on the door and pushed it straight open without thinking; instantly, she regretted it.

Kristina was sitting at her desk, reams of paper scattered all around her, and she had her head in her hands, sobbing. At the sound of the door opening, she looked up and frantically tried to organise herself, but only succeeded in creating more mess.

"Miss… Kristina, are you all right?" said Sian, her voice full of concern.

"No," said Kristina. She didn't elaborate, and Sian didn't ask. Instead, she moved closer, and started to pick up some of the pieces of paper that had fallen to the floor. She put them back on Kristina's desk, then laid a hand on her teacher's shoulder.

"I'm worried about you," said Sian.

"Isn't that my line?" said Kristina, trying to laugh through her sobbing.

"Not if you're the one who's hurting," said Sian. "Do you… want to talk about it?"

"Not really," said Kristina, sniffing. She reached into her handbag, which she had been keeping beneath the desk, and pulled out a tissue before blowing her nose noisily. "I mean, it would probably help, but would also probably be unprofessional, too."

"Right," said Sian. "Of course. I… wouldn't want to get you in trouble."

All was silent for a moment. Kristina sniffed. Then it was quiet again.

"Um," said Sian. "I was wondering if I could use a practice room? It's okay if you're… busy."

Kristina closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then looked at Sian.

"Why can't everyone be like you, Sian?" she said. "Why are people so complicated? Yes, of course you can use a practice room. I'll just be here. Let me know if you need anything." She turned back to her desk and half-heartedly began shuffling papers. Sian didn't move.

"Um," she said. "If you'd like, we could… do something together?"

Kristina paused, then turned back to Sian.

"Actually, that might be nice," she said. "What did you have in mind?"

Sian smiled, reached into her bag and pulled out her battered show tunes book.

"I've been working on these," she said. "I can play and sing at the same time, but it's much easier if someone else plays the piano part. Could you help me?"

Kristina wiped her swollen eyes and took the book from Sian, flipping through it.

"Sure," she said.

"Shall we go to a practice room or…?" Sian began, but Kristina interrupted her.

"We've got a decent enough piano here," she said. "The acoustics aren't quite as good, but I'd rather stay in here for now, if that's all right with you."

"That's fine," said Sian.

"All right," said Kristina. "Where do you want to start?"

*  *  *  *

An hour later, Sian's voice was starting to crack.

"Whew," she said. "I think that's probably enough."

"Don't strain yourself," said Kristina. "We don't want to damage that voice of yours." She sounded a lot more upbeat, and Sian was thankful for that, but she was still incredibly curious about what had gone on earlier. She didn't push her luck, though; she got the impression that Kristina either didn't want to or wasn't sure how to talk about it just yet.

She took the book back from the piano and stuffed it into her bag, then made for the door.

"See you later," she said. "I hope you have a nice evening."

"Thank you, Sian," said Kristina. "You too."

Sian walked out of the door and into the corridor, and instantly wished she had done more, but also felt like it would be inappropriate to turn back now. She'd already barged in on Kristina's moment of apparent grief and upset and she felt a little guilty at having denied her the opportunity to stew in peace, but at the same time knew that being alone at a time of great difficulty like that would often lead to dark thoughts, so felt she had probably done the right thing.

What had got her in such a state, though? She knew that Kristina had been struggling, particularly when it came to dealing with difficult students like Edward, but she was feeling genuinely worried for her teacher — her friend — now. She hoped things wouldn't get any worse.

*  *  *  *

"Kristina, have you got a moment?"

It was Martin. Kristina had been expecting him to show his face at some point, and she wasn't looking forward to the conversation.

"Yes," she said. "Come in."

Martin came inside the door and let it shut behind him, but he didn't approach Kristina's desk.

"We need to have a talk about what's been going on," he said. "I heard about what happened today."

"Yes," she said. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes again just contemplating talking about it. "It was horrible and frightening."

"I'm sure it was," said Martin. "But you need to be careful, Kristina. None of this would have happened if you hadn't done what you did."

Kristina was about to respond, but realised she had no words. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she caught herself.

"Wait," she said. "What?"

"You know the policies and procedures," said Martin, without a hint of emotion in his voice. "You should not have engaged with Edward in the way that you did. You should have immediately informed the leadership team, and they would have dealt with him. It was not your call to make, and it led to unfortunate consequences."

"Hold on," said Kristina. She could feel her feelings of fear and upset being replaced by anger. "Let me get this straight: you're saying the fact that I was almost assaulted by a child with some serious, serious anger management issues is somehow my fault?"

"You have to understand, Kristina," continued Martin. "The school is in Special Measures. We can't afford to do anything other than 'by the book.' If the inspectors had come back today to see how we were getting on and saw how you had handled that situation, the department would be in big trouble."

"You're… what… I can't believe this," she said, standing up. "You're seriously saying this to me? Do you not give a shit what nearly happened to me?"

"I do," said Martin. Kristina was unconvinced. "But the point is, it could have been avoided, and, as I said, we have to play things very carefully while the school is in the state it's in."

"It 'could have been avoided?'" she said, mocking him. She immediately felt bad for doing so, but it was too late to turn back now. "Forgive me for trying my best to engage a difficult child with my subject — and succeeding for a short while, I might add — and not being able to anticipate that he might try to jump me and do fuck-knows-what?"

"Kristina," said Martin, his voice remaining calm. "I understand it's frustrating…"

"You're fucking right it's frustrating!" she said. "This is just par for the course, isn't it? Always the teacher's fault, never the kid's! We're done here!"

She stormed out, her heart racing and her hands shaking. She didn't like getting angry and tried to avoid it whenever possible, but Martin's attitude had just infuriated her beyond measure. She stomped through the corridors, her shoes clacking on the hard floors, and headed for her car. It wasn't until she reached it that she realised she had left her handbag — and in it, her keys — in the music room. How could she possibly go back now?

*  *  *  *

More Maths homework. Sian's heart really wasn't in it tonight, but she idly scribbled down what she thought were the correct answers anyway, then tossed her books aside and lay down on her bed.

She couldn't stop thinking about the sight of Kristina sobbing into her hands. For most of her life, she'd always thought of teachers as somehow superhuman, immune to the thoughts, feelings and quirks of regular people. And yet there Kristina had been, more vulnerable than anyone she'd ever seen. Her faith was shaken; teachers were human after all.

She'd always known this on some level, of course; her pleasant, friendly nature had always endeared her to most of the teachers she had known over the years — so much so that she was often treated with a lot more respect and a lot less "distance" than many of her peers. But it was somewhat sobering to discover that teachers like Kristina were subject to negative emotions such as fear and sadness as much as they could be friendly, jovial and casual.

She rolled on to her side, and pulled out her phone.

Hey, she tapped out in a message to Jasmine. What are you up to? x

She felt like she needed some sort of conversation, but didn't really feel like going downstairs and talking to her mother — least of all while she was cooking dinner. Jasmine wasn't the most sparkling conversationalist in text form, but she'd do for now.

She contemplated phoning her, but then remembered how much she disliked talking on the phone. The ease and convenience of mobile chat messages was her preferred method of communication — it gave her time to think, and helped alleviate any occasional feelings of awkwardness. She often wondered how someone like her would have coped in the ages before mobile phones; would she have simply learned to cope with talking on the phone, or would she have been doomed to a life on the social sidelines?

not much, came the reply from Jasmine. what abt u? xx

Just finished my homework, she typed back. Felt like a chat. Hope you're not busy.

nope, came Jasmine's reply. what u wana tlk abt? xx

Nothing in particular, she wrote. Just had a bit of a weird day.

u wana tlk abt it? xx

I'm not sure what there is to say, to be honest.

did u get in truble??! xx

No, no, nothing like that.

She paused, wondering how much information she should share.

wel then wat? xx came Jasmine's impatient reply.

Eventually, Sian decided to explain everything that had transpired recently. It was a long message, and several messages from Jasmine arrived in the meantime, mostly admonishing her for apparently typing a "wall of txt", but she pressed on regardless. As she typed, it felt like there was a weight lifting from her; it felt good to share these things… but as she placed the final full stop at the end of her lengthy message, she hesitated over pressing the "Send" button.

She scrolled up, read through her complete message, pondered a moment, then deleted all of it.

Nothing, she typed. Never mind.

The post 1391: Part 8 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Maxine was agog at Kristina's description of what had unfolded with Edward earlier in the day. Kristina felt a little bad for sharing what should probably be private information, but Maxine was her best friend, and after all, how likely was it that she would come into contact with anyone who had anything to do with either the school or Edward himself?

Kristina also felt a little bit bad for having built Edward up to be some sort of demon when she last told Maxine about what was going on at work. The incident earlier in the day had shown that Edward was, despite appearances to the contrary at times, a human being with a lot of raging, conflicting emotions.

That hadn't stopped her from sharing what had gone on earlier, though.

"He just started crying," Kristina said again. "I don't know why. He wouldn't explain, even after I went and got the deputy head. He just kept saying that he didn't want to go home, he didn't want to go home."

"Huh," said Maxine. "That's odd. And he wouldn't say why?"

"Nope," said Kristina. "Which makes me think that it's something… you know, serious."

Maxine sat back and placed her coffee on the table in an exaggerated gesture of concern.

"Yeesh," she said. "Heavy. Poor kid."

Kristina took a sip of her coffee and gazed into the middle distance.

"Let's talk about something else," she said absently. "The whole thing is a bit… you know. And I probably shouldn't talk about it too much anyway."

"Uh-huh," said Maxine. "Sure. Hey, did I tell you about Mark?"

Mark was a guy who worked with Maxine. Maxine liked him a lot, but rather than actually telling him, she'd settled into a routine of flirting with him, always stopping short of actually asking him out on a date. He reciprocated in the same way — so much so that the pair had now been working together for over a year and built up a considerable degree of sexual tension that, so far, had no hope of ever being released. Or did it?

"No," said Kristina. "Have you asked him out yet?"

"Yes!" said Maxine. "I did!"

Kristina's eyes widened, and she placed her coffee cup down on the table.

"What? No!"

"I did!"

"And? Come on, don't keep me in suspense!"

"He said no."

"What?!"

Maxine giggled.

"He didn't really. We're going out tomorrow night. Dinner and a movie. A classic."

Kristina smiled.

"That's great, Max," she said. "I hope you two get on well after all this time."

"I think we're probably all right," said Maxine. "I doubt we'd have kept going the way we have been if there wasn't something there. We were just at a bit of a, you know, stalemate. Neither one of us was sure if taking it further was the right thing to do."

"Well, there you go," said Kristina. She couldn't help feeling a little jealous, since there was no-one even slightly on her radar at the moment, and very little time to actually go out and meet people. Not that she'd ever been particularly good at meeting new people, anyway.

"I'm sorry," said Maxine. "I don't want to sound like I'm gloating."

"No, it's fine," said Kristina, realising that her face had fallen somewhat since Maxine's good news. "I'm just… distracted."

*  *  *  *

Kristina liked Tuesdays for the simple fact that they were her quietest day, and that they started with a free period. Today she had finally resolved to do something about the ever-growing stack of paper on her desk. She'd started making two piles — one for "keepers" and one for the bin. She'd only got through about ten sheets in total when the door to her classroom opened without knocking. Who she saw when she looked up was the last person she expected to see.

"Miss," said Edward. "Can I play the drums?"

Kristina wasn't quite sure how to respond to this. She shuffled her feet uneasily, looked around the room in the vain hope that someone would show up and tell her what to do, then back to Edward.

"Um," she said. "Where are you supposed to be?"

"Dunno," he said. He plunged his hands into his pockets and kicked at the floor.

Silence hung heavy in the room for a moment. It was Kristina who eventually broke it.

"I'm fine with it," said Kristina. "But I'm going to have to let Reception know where you are. Your teacher from wherever you're supposed to be is probably looking for you."

Edward grunted. She took it as an acknowledgement.

"Come on, then," she said, picking up her bundle of keys from their customary spot on her classroom's piano. "Let's get you in a practice room."

She led Edward to music room 4, one of the department's smaller rooms that was used for practicing and instrumental lessons. Tuesday was the one day of the week when there were no instrumental lessons running, so Kristina felt confident that Edward would be safe in there without distracting anyone. She waited until he sat down at the drum kit, then closed the door behind him, momentarily tempted to lock it behind her, then immediately feeling guilty at the thought of it.

As she heard Edward starting to bang out some unsteady rhythms on the drum kit, she made her way towards the Reception desk. Janice was there waiting for her, and greeted her with a smile.

Janice was the school's receptionist, and the face of the school to the public. She was always friendly and professional, regardless of how whoever was talking to her was treating her, and knew how to remain calm in a crisis. Kristina envied her somewhat; she seemed completely unshakeable, and Kristina figured that she'd probably make a good teacher.

"Hello, Miss Charles," said Janice. She always addressed teachers in the same way as the children, mostly to set a good example. "What can I do for you?"

"Um," she began. "It's Edward…"

"Oh," interrupted Janice. "Mr Smith was looking for him. Do you know where he is?"

"Yes," said Kristina. "He's in one of my practice rooms right now. He seems to be… comfortable there. Someone can come and get him if they want, but I get the impression he might need to let out a bit of stress."

"Okay," said Janice. "I'll let Mr Smith know. Please call through if he causes any problems and we'll get someone to come and remove him."

"All right," said Kristina. "Thanks."

She wandered back towards the music department, and could hear Edward thumping away on the bass drum long before she got back. He was unambitious with his rhythms, sticking to a slightly unsteady four-on-the-floor pounding bass drum rhythm, alternating with high-hats. She wondered if this might not be a good opportunity to try and engage him with something.

She opened the practice room door, and Edward turned to face her, stopping his thumping for a moment.

"Edward," she said. "Would you like me to teach you some simple drum rhythms?"

"Okay," he said in a monotone.

*  *  *  *

Kristina was surprised to discover that Edward was actually quite a fast learner when he put his mind to it. By the end of first period, he'd successfully got his head around a basic rock rhythm and fill, and was now trying to up the tempo a little.

Kristina was inwardly quite pleased with herself. She wasn't a drummer by trade, but she'd dabbled a little in the past, and her first instrument of the piano had helped her with the coordination necessary to play at least some simple, straightforward rhythms. She was also quite pleased at the fact that somehow, she'd managed to get through to Edward. She didn't know if it was her, the fact that he was getting some one-on-one attention or if he was simply doing something he enjoyed, but he was responding positively to her teaching, and although his face still wore a perpetual scowl, the energy he was putting in to his practice suggested that he was enjoying himself, much as he was probably loathe to admit it.

Then the bell went, and it was time for Kristina to teach a lesson, and thus time for Edward to go.

"All right, Edward," said Kristina as assertively as she could manage over the noise of his drumming. "That's the bell. It's time for you to head off to your next lesson, I'm afraid, but you've done really well this morning."

He stopped his drumming abruptly, but didn't look at Kristina.

"Don't want to," he said.

"Now come on, please, Edward," said Kristina. "I've been understanding this morning — you should have been in your lesson with Mr Smith, but instead you've been allowed to be here. Now it's time for you to go."

"Don't want to," he said, more forcefully.

"Edward," she said.

"Don't want to!" he yelled, flying into a rage. He leapt up from the drum kit's stool, kicking it aside and lunging at Kristina. Adrenaline suddenly flowing through her body, she darted out of the way and he slammed into the wall; unfortunately, she had dodged in the wrong direction, putting a now-furious Edward between her and the door.

She was suddenly scared. Edward was armed — only with drumsticks, admittedly, but she figured he could probably do some damage with them — and he certainly looked dangerous. She didn't know what to do now — trying to stay calm had only provoked him further, and now she was trapped in the room with him. What should she do?

He took a step towards her, his scowling face now contorted into a furious-looking snarl. She stepped backwards, and found herself bumping up against the wall of the tiny practice room. There really was nowhere to run. She could feel her heart pounding fast; her breathing was ragged and she was starting to feel sick. How on Earth was she going to get out of—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door to the practice room suddenly swinging open forcefully, and Mr Rhodes stepping in, his normally jovial face looking thunderous.

"Edward!" he bellowed. "Out! Now!"

Edward roared an incoherent, wordless yell, flung the drumsticks up in the air, then barged straight past Mr Rhodes into the corridor. The drumsticks hit the ceiling, then clattered back down to the floor via the drum kit's toms.

"Sorry," mouthed Mr Rhodes to Kristina as he ducked back out of the door. "I'll be back."

Kristina couldn't move. Her heart was still pounding and she still felt short of breath. Her legs and hands were shaking, and it felt like it was taking all of her strength to keep standing up.

What had gone wrong? It was all going so well, and then she'd lost him. She didn't think she'd been unreasonable or aggressive or anything; he'd just exploded. And she didn't understand why. How could she help him like she was supposed to if he just responded with aggression and violence?

And what would he have done if they hadn't been interrupted? She swallowed. She didn't want to think about that, but knew beyond a doubt that pretty much every one of the unpleasant possibilities would be whirling around her head tonight when she wanted to get to sleep. She wasn't looking forward to that.

She wanted nothing more right now than to run away and hide. But she had a class waiting. And so, despite the fact she could barely breathe, and that her shaking legs made walking a lot more difficult than she had anticipated, she prepared to put on a brave face, push all her anger, fear and uneasiness beneath the surface and try her best to be a "satisfactory" teacher.

It wasn't the first time she'd had to do this. And it probably wouldn't be the last.

The post 1389: Untitled etc. etc. Part 7 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It was Nicola, and Jasmine was trotting up the corridor just behind her.

"Um," said Sian, thinking for a moment. "Okay. I just… need to go and pick something up."

She'd left Miss Charles'… Kristina's class without saying goodbye, and she was feeling a little guilty, so she wanted to poke her head in before she headed to the shops with Jasmine and Nicola. Of course, she didn't really want to tell the girls that — she had a feeling they wouldn't really be on board with the whole "being friends with a teacher" thing — and so she concocted an excuse in her head with an appropriate amount of detail should either of them ask any questions.

Fortunately, they didn't. They did offer to come with her, but Sian managed to convince them to wait by the entrance for her; she said she wouldn't be long. Before they could protest, she took off down the corridor towards the music department at a half-jog, conscious of the fact that she was moving in the opposite direction of most of the foot traffic through the school.

Moments later, she was outside Kristina's room. She was about to push the door open but suddenly had a crisis of conscience and decided to knock instead. There was no response for a moment, so she peeped through the small window in the door and was very surprised by what she saw.

Kristina was kneeling down in front of Edward, who looked as if he was in tears. There was a teaching assistant standing with her hand on his shoulder, too, and both of them looked very concerned. Kristina was saying something, but Sian couldn't hear what it was with the door closed. It looked like a serious conversation, though.

She hesitated a moment, then knocked again, moving away from the window so as not to give herself away. After a moment, the door opened with its distinctive "click", and Kristina emerged looking slightly flustered.

"Oh… Sian," she said, sounding a little dazed. "Good timing. Can you do me a favour, please?"

"Sure, Kr… err, Miss," she said, correcting herself. She figured she should probably remain appropriately formal within the walls of the school. "What's up?"

"Please go and fetch Mr Rhodes for me," she said. "Please tell him it's extremely important."

"Okay," said Sian. Mr Rhodes was the deputy head teacher who tended to deal with the more difficult children in the school, and Sian figured Kristina probably wanted him to help deal with Edward. But it was strange; Edward wasn't being his usual angry self, and it didn't look as if he was in trouble this time around. What could it be? She was curious, and couldn't help herself asking.

"What should I say to him if he asks what it's about?" said Sian as innocently as she could manage.

"Tell him…" Kristina paused for a moment. "Tell him it's about what we had that training day about on… no, that's not right… Oh, just tell him it's about Edward, please, and that it's very important. Very important."

"Okay," said Sian. "I'll be right back."

She jogged back through the corridors and into the school's entrance hall. Jasmine and Nicola were still there; Jasmine was leaning against the wall fiddling with her phone and Nicola was wandering around aimlessly. They looked bored.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm going to be a little while. Go on ahead without me."

Nicola looked up.

"You all right, hun?" she asked. Sian hated when Nicola called her "hun", but she knew all too well that her friend's playfully provocative nature meant that telling her to stop it would just make her do it more.

"Yeah," said Sian. "Yeah, I'm fine, I just have a couple of things I need to sort out. It's fine."

"Okay, if you're sure," replied Nicola. "Come on, Jas."

"Catch you later, Sianie," said Jasmine. "Text you later."

"Talk to you later," said Sian. And then they were gone. Sian immediately turned to the corridor that led to the staffroom and headteacher's offices, and tapped gingerly on the dividing door. She wasn't convinced anyone could hear her, but she was hesitant to step through it; that area had always felt like a "restricted" zone in which students weren't welcome. But no-one was in there right now; how would she find Mr Rhodes?

She took a deep breath, opened the door and strode purposefully through it. Mr Rhodes' office was just inside the corridor, so she didn't have to go far; his door was slightly ajar when she reached it, so she tapped tentatively on it.

"Come in," came the response almost immediately. She pushed the door open to reveal Mr Rhodes sitting at his desk.

Mr Rhodes had always reminded Sian of a kindly old uncle — it was something about the combination of his grey and ginger beard and his gentle voice. He normally set her at ease, but she felt out of her depth coming to his office; she'd always associated coming to one of the offices in this corridor with being in trouble — something that she'd mercifully avoided for all of her school career to date.

"Sian!" he said, putting down his pen and throwing his arms up in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

"Um," said Sian. "Miss Charles sent me. She said she needed your help. Something to do with Edward. I don't know any more than that, I'm afraid, but she said it was important."

"Okay," said Mr Rhodes. "Just give me a moment…" — he picked up his pen, quickly scribbled his signature on a couple of pieces of paper, then put the cap back on it purposefully — "There. Lead the way."

Sian blinked, but he didn't seem to notice. He stood up from behind his desk and walked out from behind it, so Sian headed back out into the corridor and aimed for the music department, with Mr Rhodes in tow.

When they arrived back at Kristina's room, Sian stood back from the door. Mr Rhodes looked through the window, then turned back to Sian.

"Thank you Sian," he said. "You should get home now."

Sian's curiosity was bubbling up inside her, but she knew there was no way she was going to find out what was going on right now, so rather than protesting she said her farewells and headed back in the direction of the school's entrance.

*  *  *  *

It was cold outside. Sian pulled up her hood and immediately felt a lot warmer. She felt safe inside her hood; it was like a barrier she could put up not only against the cold, but against the whole world. It wasn't that she was embarrassed to be seen or anything; more that she just wanted some time alone with her thoughts.

This time around, her thoughts turned once again to Kristina, and to Edward, and to what could have transpired between them. She'd left the classroom before whatever had happened had unfolded, so she had no idea whatsoever, and didn't know Edward well enough to take a guess as to what the issue might be. What she had seen was new even to her; her relatively few encounters with Edward in the past had been limited to times he'd been exploding in a rage or storming out of the classroom, so to see him so vulnerable like that was more than a little disturbing.

Sian didn't like to think what could have caused that. She knew Longmore had more than its fair share of students with problems at home that occasionally spilled into their school life, but Edward had always been an extreme case, so she figured whatever it was must be something serious. She felt bad running through the possibilities in her head, but couldn't help herself.

Eventually, she pulled out her phone in an attempt to distract herself. There was a message from Jasmine on the screen.

u comin yet? xx

Yeah, she typed back. Are you still at the shop?

"The shop" was the local supermarket that was a few minutes' walk away from the school. It was a frequent stop for the three girls after school let out; it wasn't a particularly nice place to hang out, but it did have a café, a good selection of chocolate bars and a bus stop right outside, making it a convenient place for them to chat, gossip and then go their separate ways for the evening.

Sian felt like she wanted to talk about what had happened, but wasn't quite sure how she was going to raise it. She knew Jasmine in particular hated Edward with a passion, and Nicola usually followed Jasmine's opinions on things like this. She didn't think either of them would be particularly sympathetic or understanding towards… whatever his plight might be, and thus came to the conclusion that bringing it up probably wouldn't be a brilliant idea.

It wasn't long before she reached "the shop", and Jasmine and Nicola were waiting outside for her.

"You all right?" said Jasmine. "You're not in trouble, are you?"

"Please," said Nicola. "When has Sian ever been in trouble?"

"Oh, come on," said Sian, but she knew they were right. She felt she should change the subject. "Fancy a coffee?"

"Sure," said Jasmine. "You paying?"

Sian sighed. "Have you not got any money again? I swear you owe me about fifteen coffees by now."

"I'll buy you something nice," said Jasmine. Sian didn't believe her.

The three trooped into the shop and made their way straight to the café. It was usually pretty quiet at this time of day, and today was no exception. Jasmine and Nicola sat down, and Sian went to order the coffees.

"So you had Miss Charles again today, right?" said Jasmine. "Did she explode again?"

"Yeah, I heard it was crazy!" said Nicola. "I saw Edward was in again today, did he wind her up?"

Sian paused for a moment and took a sip of her coffee.

"No," she said meekly, suddenly worried about standing up to her friends. She cleared her throat and tried again. "No, it wasn't like that."

"Oh?" said Jasmine. "What happened, then?"

Sian paused and took another sip.

"Edward came in and was particularly… Edward, you know?" she said. "He was screaming and swearing and knocking things over and all sorts. It was horrible. Miss Charles didn't explode; she did her best, but I don't blame her for being freaked out by what happened. Edward is scary, and she'd never met him before."

"Edward's a wanker," said Nicola. "Ain't that right, Jas?"

"Yeah," said Jasmine. "Wish that little arsehole would just fuck off like he normally does. No-one wants him in school. Not even the teachers, I bet."

"I'm not so sure," said Sian philosophically.

"Eh?" said Jasmine. "You what?"

"Oh, nothing," said Sian. "I just… don't think it's quite as simple as all that. I think there's something a bit more complicated going on with Edward. I sort of want to know what, but at the same time I want to stay as far away from him as possible, you know?"

"Heh," chuckled Jasmine. "I get that. Actually, just the last bit. I wouldn't worry about it, Sianie; he'll be expelled before we know it."

"I'm surprised he hasn't been already," said Nicola.

"Yeah," said Sian. "I wonder why he hasn't?"

The post 1388: Untitled etc. etc. Part 6 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

The morning bell had already gone and the sound of students milling around outside had subsided. Kristina didn't have her own tutor group, so she liked to use this time in the morning to mentally prepare herself for what was to come — and perhaps even to get her room a little more in order than it usually was.

Her desk was still covered in unfiled paperwork, but she was trying not to let the sight of it bother her. She'd told herself that she was going to go through it at the end of the day, regardless, and just toss out anything that didn't need her immediate attention. It was all about prioritising, she'd decided, and about being ruthless. She wasn't quite sure she had it in her to be ruthless, but she was going to give it a shot.

She was surprised to note that she was actually feeling rather positive this morning — much more so than usual. Her night out with Maxine coupled with her unexpected but not altogether unwelcome conversation with Sian yesterday had perked her up somewhat; it had made her feel like she wasn't going through life completely alone, and that there were still people looking out for her; people who had her best interests at heart.

She still wasn't quite sure what to make of what had happened with Sian; she felt like she'd crossed a bit of a line, but wasn't quite sure why. They hadn't done anything inappropriate, after all — it was just two people who happened to meet and have a chat. She'd seen Sian in passing that morning and the teenager had just given her a polite wave and smile rather than anything that might cause people to think their relationship was anything more; that was fine. She had a lesson with her later, though — it would be then that she'd see if their agreement to be friends would have an impact on the way they worked together.

For now, though, she was enjoying the peace and quiet of an empty classroom. She had a fairly gentle start to the week as soon as the registration period was over — the quietest, most polite year 7 class. Not all of year 7 was like that, unfortunately, but 7C had always been thoroughly pleasant and enjoyable to teach — the kind of class that Kristina wished she had all the time. She knew that was an unrealistic dream — particularly in the kind of area Longmore was in — but still indulged in it regardless.

The bell went again, and she came to her senses. 7C would be here soon, and she wanted to be ready. She was going to start the week as she meant to go on — learning objective on the board, starter activities ready to go by the time everyone sat down, and a well-organised, well-planned lesson all set to go. She liked starting the week with 7C because it was the sort of class where she could plan things down to the minute, safe in the knowledge that a disruptive child wouldn't wreck her carefully crafted lesson.

Before long, she could hear the kids — as far as she was concerned, they were still "kids" in year 7, not "students", though she knew some of her colleagues objected to the K-word — gathering outside her room. She closed her eyes, took a deep cleansing breath, then strode purposefully over to the door and opened it. She was ready.

*  *  *  *

By the time break came around, she was feeling pretty good about herself. Her lesson with 7C on Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre had gone so well she'd been able to deliver it flawlessly to 7B, who came along immediately afterwards. 7B usually caused a few more problems thanks to a few students with behaviour-related special needs, but somehow she'd managed to keep them engaged and interested today. She liked it when that happened; it gave her momentum for the rest of the day. Of course, it only took one Edward to stop all that momentum in its tracks, but she didn't have the GCSE group until this afternoon and was thus trying not to think about it too much.

He might not even be here today, she thought. I hope he's not here.

At that moment, her door opened without so much as a knock, and a colleague she didn't know all that well barged in. She couldn't remember his name offhand, but she was pretty sure it was something Greek and hard to spell, and that he taught design and technology.

"Duty," he said bluntly, gesturing for her to come out of her room and into the common area where students were milling around, talking to one another, eating snacks and generally making a mess.

"Oh!" she said. "Sorry. Just coming."

Shit, she said inwardly. She was always forgetting her Monday break duty. She hoped it didn't annoy or frustrate her colleagues too much, but the one standing in the doorway, whatever his name was — Pan, she thought she'd heard people refer to him as? — didn't look all that happy.

"In this school, we work together," he said tartly as she passed by him. She didn't respond, but she felt the familiar feeling of anxiety in her stomach; the feeling she always got when she felt like she'd done something wrong, regardless of how major it was. She hated letting people down, and she hated people being annoyed with her, even if she didn't really know them.

Just like that, her momentum was gone.

*  *  *  *

Lunchtime came and went, and Kristina chose to spend it alone in her room. No-one came to find her or talk to her, but she was fine with that; she felt like she wanted to be by herself for a bit. She only had the afternoon lesson to go, which could go one of two very different ways depending on whether Edward was present or not. She hoped he wasn't, then immediately felt guilty for wishing one of her students — one who had picked her subject as an option, no less — was absent.

"Afternoon," she said as the GCSE group filed into her room rather casually. It was a small class compared to those from lower down the school; those who had spent three years thinking that music lessons were a pointless waste of time were able to filter off and do things they were interested in — or at least found tolerable — which, theoretically, anyway, left her with those who were genuinely interested in what she had to say.

Today was set to be a listening lesson; something that she didn't feel Edward would respond all that well to.

Stop thinking like that, she said to herself. You've met him once, and he might just have been having a bad day.

Sian entered the room with a cheerful "hello, Miss!" and a friendly wave, but didn't do anything that might have tipped her classmates off about their encounter the previous day. She was grateful for that — not that she was ashamed of having had coffee with Sian or anything, but she didn't quite feel ready to deal with that right now.

"Okay," she said after everyone had taken their seats. "Everyone okay?"

There was a general murmur of approval. The group were always tired in their afternoon lessons, which is why Kristina had thought it most appropriate to set that time aside for the listening activities; they didn't require as much activity, and certainly didn't make anywhere near as much noise.

She invited the group to turn to a page in their school-issued music anthologies, and turned to the CD player to find the right track. Behind her, she heard the door open again, and she immediately felt nervous.

She pressed the pause button on the CD player and turned around slowly. Edward was in the doorway, but he wasn't alone this time around; he had one of the teaching assistants with him. His face was frosty, but he didn't say anything. The assistant urged him into a seat away from the rest of the class, then sat down next to him.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said. "I found him wandering around outside."

"That's okay," said Kristina. "Do you have an Anthology, Edward?"

Edward said nothing. The teaching assistant muttered something quietly to him, but he didn't respond.

"Well, let me give you one anyway," said Kristina, her voice wavering slightly. She turned to her cupboard, took out one of the battered spare anthologies and passed it to Edward. He didn't thank her and didn't open it to the page she'd written up on the board, but she didn't push her luck.

"Okay," she said, addressing the rest of the class and pointedly not looking at Edward any longer than she had to. "You remember when we talked about Serialism a while back? We're going to take a closer look at a piece of Serialist music today."

"That's the weird plinky-plonk stuff, right?" asked Gemma, a friend of Sian and another member of the class with whom Kristina got along quite well.

"In a manner of speaking," said Kristina. "Can you remember the word we used to describe the way it sounded?"

"Atonal!" said Sian, her hand shooting up as she said it. She always was overenthusiastic about giving answers; it was the only thing that frustrated Kristina about her — she sometimes wished some of the quieter members of the group would pipe up and answer. Sian was all but guaranteed an "A", after all; it was the others who needed to focus.

"That's right," said Kristina. "Now, can anyone remember what that actually means — not you this time, Sian," she added before Sian could jump in again.

There was silence for a moment; Kristina could practically hear the cogs whirring in her students' brains as they struggled to recall the fact she'd taught them just last week.

"'S no key," came an unfamiliar voice. Kristina looked around for its source. Surely it couldn't…

"Speak up," said the teaching assistant to Edward.

"'S got no key," said Edward.

Kristina blinked. She wasn't quite sure what to make of this development. Where did that come from? She caught herself after a moment; it wouldn't do to be fazed by this.

"That's… that's right," she said. "Good job, Edward."

Edward didn't smile; his eyes remained fixed on Kristina and his face still looked like he was furious about everything, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Kristina blinked again and turned to the rest of the class.

"Okay," she said. "Who can remember what that means?"

*  *  *  *

The class passed completely without incident, much to Kristina's surprise. She still felt uneasy around Edward, but he didn't cause any trouble, and even answered a couple of questions. After his initial correct answer, the rest were completely off-target, but at least he was trying, and Kristina felt that she should probably re-evaluate her opinion of him.

The final bell of the day went just as Kristina was wrapping up her summing-up of the day's studies. Most people seemed to have taken at least some of it in, but she felt they'd probably need another lesson to absorb it completely, much to her chagrin; she hated Serialist music and resented having to teach it and sound enthusiastic about it, but there it was on the exam syllabus, so she had to deal with it sooner rather than later.

The class gathered their things, packed their bags and filed out of the room. Everyone, that is, except for Edward.

"Come on, Edward," said the teaching assistant — Kristina made a mental note to find out what her name was and thank her for her help later — "It's time to go home."

Edward said nothing for a moment.

Then he buried his head in his hands and started to cry.

"I don't want to go home," he said. "Please don't make me go home."

The post 1387: Untitled November Creative Writing, Part 5 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It was Sunday, the most boring day of the week, and she was stuck in the house with nothing to do. Her parents were both "busy," they said, which meant they couldn't take any time to give her a lift anywhere interesting, and none of her friends were free either.

She'd spent the morning reading her book, an uninteresting "supernatural romance" novel that all her classmates had been raving about recently, but which she was finding deathly dull. She had a mental block that prevented her from leaving a book unfinished once she'd begun, however, so she figured that a boring Sunday was as good a time as any to get some of it out of the way.

She had tired of the book, though; she frequently found her mind wandering as she read and had eventually given up. She tried listening to some music, but she couldn't sit still. She tried playing some games on her phone, but suffered the same problem; nothing was engaging her brain and keeping her occupied.

Sighing to herself, she opened the door to her room and decided to try fluttering her eyelashes at her parents one last time. Surely they couldn't expect her to stay cooped up here all day while they did… whatever it was they were doing sitting at their desks at opposite ends of the house. She wasn't worried about them; they always did this, and they'd been married for a long time now, so it obviously worked for them. It frustrated her, though.

Her father was predictably dismissive of her attempts to convince him. He had a whole stack of email to get through, he said, and it needed to be done right now. He did, to his credit, apologise, but Sian didn't feel particularly appeased by his half-hearted "sorry, Sian."

Her mother, however, surprised her.

"Why don't you just take the bus into town?" she said. Sian was taken aback for a moment; normally her parents weren't at all keen on her going out by herself, so this was an unexpected development — so much so that she had to check what she had just heard.

"Are you sure?" said Sian. "I mean…"

"It's fine, dear," she said. "Your Dad and I were talking earlier, and we figure it's time we let you be a bit more independent. You're sixteen, after all, and you can probably handle going to town by yourself."

At last, Sian thought, but didn't say it out loud. Her friends had been "independent", as her mother put it, for many years now, but she had always felt like a shut-in. She had fought with her parents on numerous occasions about it, but had never been able to prevail; what had changed?

It didn't really matter to her; she was finally getting to go out without a chaperone, and the reasons were unimportant.

"Here," her mother said, handing her a five-pound note. "Get yourself a treat while you're in town."

"I have money, Mum," said Sian, but graciously accepted the note regardless. Her mother chuckled.

"Go and have fun, Sian," she said. "Don't be back too late. Send me a message or give me a call when you're on the way back."

"All right," Sian replied. "I'll see you later."

She wandered out into the hall, threw her coat around herself and fumbled in her pockets to make sure she had everything. Keys, purse, phone — yes, that was everything.

"See ya," she called from the front door.

"Bye," said her mother. She heard the sound of her father getting out of his chair and coming down the stairs, but decided to leave before he came down.

The door slammed behind her, and she was free.

*  *  *  *

Town was surprisingly busy, despite the fact that there was a chill in the air. Sian zipped her coat up to her chin and hid the bottom half of her face inside the collar. Now she was here, she wasn't sure what to do.

Coffee, she thought to herself, glancing a nearby café. That ought to warm me up.

She strode purposefully over to the cafe and entered. The air inside was warm, and the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans was invigorating. She ordered herself a latte and a cake to treat herself, and paid with the five-pound note her mother had gave her, plus an extra pound from her pocket since it wasn't quite enough. She knew it was extravagant, but she didn't care right now; it was just nice to be out and about.

As the barista passed her her latte, she glanced around the café in search of a place to sit, and was surprised to see Miss Charles sitting by herself in a window seat. She didn't seem to have noticed Sian; in fact, she didn't seem to have noticed anything at all, since she just appeared to be staring out of the window into the middle distance.

There was a table not far from Miss Charles' table, so Sian decided to sit there and observe what her teacher was up to.

Not much, as it happened; her initial assessment was correct, as Miss Charles did indeed appear to be doing little more than staring out of the window, occasionally turning to her table to sip her large, black coffee. She still hadn't noticed Sian.

I wonder if I should go and talk to her, Sian pondered to herself. No, she probably wouldn't want that… but she does look sort of lonely. Maybe I…

Her phone chimed loudly and interrupted her thoughts. It was a chat message from Jasmine.

ey babes what u up to? x it read.

Not much, Sian tapped out in response. Just in town for a bit. She chose not to mention that she was staring at her music teacher and was contemplating going to sit with her.

She sipped her coffee and returned to gazing at Miss Charles.

She doesn't look at all happy, thought Sian. I really think I should…

Her phone chimed again.

"Oh, for fuck's…" she muttered, this time flicking the switch onto silent. She always felt embarrassed when her phone went off in public, even though she knew her ringtone was far less obnoxious than some of the ones she'd heard.

im free now, came the reply from Jasmin. wana meet up for a coffee or sumat? x

Sian was about to tap out a response in the affirmative, but paused for a moment, frowning to herself.

Sorry, she eventually replied. I have a few things to do, then I have to be back soon. Another time. My folks finally seem to be cool with letting me out of the house by myself, she added.

k x came the reply after a moment. Sian always felt a little bad when she received a blunt response like that from Jasmine, even though she knew that it was just the way she was. She hoped that Jasmine wouldn't mind being turned down, but she had something on her mind right now, and wanted to see if she could resolve it.

She picked up her latte, leaving the crumb-covered cake plate on her previous table. Then, feeling a little nervous, she pulled up the chair opposite Miss Charles and sat down.

"Oh!" said Miss Charles, suddenly snapping free from her reverie. "Um. You're… Oh, Sian? Are you all right?" Sian could tell that she was switching into "teacher mode," obviously trying to sit up straight and look a lot more prim and proper than she was a moment ago.

"It's okay, Miss," said Sian quietly. "We're not at school now. I just… I just wanted to come over and see if you were all right."

"Yes, I'm all right," said Miss Charles. "I'm just having some quiet time."

"Sorry to interrupt," said Sian with a gentle smile. She swallowed, then took a swig of her latte before she continued. "I, err, was a little worried about you."

Miss Charles' eyes widened a little, and she stared directly at Sian.

"You… were worried about me?"

"Yes," said Sian. "Friday was… not very nice for anyone, was it?"

"No," said Miss Charles with a slight sigh. "No, it wasn't. I'm really sorry about that. It put a real downer on things, didn't it?"

"It couldn't be helped," said Sian. "You hadn't… dealt with Edward before, but we all know what he's like. Seriously, it's not you, it's totally him."

Miss Charles gave a weak chuckle. "Yes, well, it doesn't—" She trailed off. "Anyway, I hope it didn't upset you too much."

"Not at all," said Sian with a smile. "I've seen people handle Edward much worse than that, believe me. A lot of people really can't keep cool when he's being a di— when he's being like that. Sorry."

Miss Charles chuckled again. She seemed to be loosening up a bit.

"Thank you for coming to talk to me, Sian," she said. "I appreciate it." She hesitated for a moment, apparently unsure of whether she should say any more. "It's… difficult," she added after a moment.

"I bet," said Sian. "I don't envy you at all. Sometimes I just want to give those kids a good slap."

"Yes, well, we're not allowed to do that, unfortunately," said Miss Charles. "N-not that I want to."

Sian laughed. "Well, we're not really allowed to, either," she said. "I sometimes think it would do some of them good, though."

Miss Charles smiled slightly uncomfortably, apparently thinking the same thing but being unwilling to actually say it out loud.

"Look," said Sian. "I'm sorry for interrupting your Sunday like this, but, well, you looked kind of sad, and I just wanted to see if I could help."

Miss Charles took a sip of her coffee, then closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

"I don't know if you can help, Sian," she said. "I'm not sure if anyone can. But… well, I appreciate that someone like you is trying."

"We're not all bad," said Sian. "Some of us are even human beings, believe it or not."

"So are we," said Miss Charles. "Teachers, I mean."

"I know," said Sian, laughing.

Miss Charles set down her coffee cup and sat forward, suddenly looking a lot more youthful.

"You know," she said. "I always hated that big divide between teachers and students, even back when I was at school."

"Yeah," said Sian. "I do too. Some of the kids in my class seem to feel obliged to just… I don't know, fight against the teachers or something. You'd swear school was some great oppressive regime or something. It's just… weird."

Miss Charles chuckled. "Yeah, I get that feeling," she said. "I haven't been in the job for very long, I know, but I think it's always been that way."

"Okay," said Sian. She swallowed, unsure of whether or not she should say the next part, but pressed on regardless. "How about… how about we be friends, then?"

That wide-eyed look again. Sian immediately regretted saying what she'd said.

"I'm sorry, Miss," she stammered. "I didn't mean… I'm sorry, I…"

"N-no, Sian," Miss Charles replied. "It's fine, I just… that's a really nice thing to say."

"Oh," said Sian. "Whew. I thought I'd crossed a line."

"You probably have," replied her teacher, laughing. "We probably both have. But you know what? Right now I just don't feel like it matters. All right, Sian, let's be friends."

"Okay, Miss," said Sian.

Miss Charles raised an eyebrow.

"If we're going to be friends," she said with a slight smile, "I'm going to have to insist you call me Kristina, or Kris."

The post 1386: Untitled November Creative Writing, Part 4 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She'd slumped down on the couch, expecting herself to sink into it, but it turned out it was a lot harder than it looked, and now her backside was telling her to be a little more careful next time. She winced, leaned forward and placed her drink on the table with what she thought was ladylike delicacy, but which was actually cack-handed drunkenness.

"Hey Kris," yelled a familiar voice over the din of the club. "You all right?"

"Yeah," she yelled back, aware that her head was lolling like a ragdoll as she turned to look at the person who had addressed her. Through her blurry wine goggles, she could just about make out the figure of her best friend Maxine, who had a habit of looking out for her any time she got drunk.

Maxine and Kristina had come out on a Saturday night for once. Kristina didn't normally like to do this, but she felt like she didn't see Maxine anywhere near often enough these days, especially with the fact that her evenings were normally taken up with extra work. Maxine never turned down an opportunity to go out to their favourite club — well, it was more Maxine's favourite club than Kristina's — and, more often than not, watch Kristina get steadily drunk over the course of the evening.

She wasn't drunk right now, of course; she was in full and perfect possession of all her faculties, and any lolling around was purely the result of tiredness, not the "few" glasses of wine she'd consumed this evening. "Few" was the descriptor she used when she'd lost count, which was usually the case after two small glasses of pungent house wine. This evening, she'd actually had five; Maxine knew that, but Kristina had, as usual, lost count, and as usual it was apparently up to Maxine to ensure she didn't get up to any mischief. Keeping an eye out for Kristina over the years had helped Maxine develop an astonishing tolerance for alcohol, so much so that she was pretty confident she could drink even the most hardened football hooligan under the table at a moment's notice.

"I'm fine," Kristina reiterated, even though Maxine hadn't said anything else to her. "Totally fine. Absoposolutely fine. Hey, that guy's pretty fit."

Maxine chuckled.

"He is, isn't he? But I'm not sure you're in any state to strike up a conversation with him right now."

"I told you, I'm fine," Kristina slurred, picking up her glass and taking a big swig, then wincing. "I just… bollocks, no I'm not. Excuse me."

She snatched up her handbag , stood up hastily and trotted as quickly as her heels could take her towards the toilets. Maxine sighed.

"Classy chick," she muttered to herself.

*  *  *  *

Not long after, a slightly sober Kristina was walking arm-in-arm with Maxine down the road. Kristina throwing up usually meant two things: firstly, that she would almost immediately become a lot more alert; and secondly, that she would probably want to walk home. Maxine knew that Kristina didn't need the support to walk any more, but held on to her arm as a sign of affection towards her friend regardless.

"I've had a shit week," said Kristina. "Life sucks."

"I don't understand why you're still in that job, Kris," replied her friend. "You obviously hate it. Why do you still do it?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said, wafting her free arm into the night air in an exaggeratedly philosophical gesture. "Denial, perhaps. I don't want to feel like a failure."

"And why should you feel like a failure?" Maxine asked. "Incidents like that little scrote you told me about earlier aside, you're doing all right, aren't you? You told me most of the other kids seem to quite like you."

"They do seem to," she said. "But I don't know if that's because I'm a pushover, or because they actually like me. I shouldn't care so much, I know; I'm not there to make friends with them, but still. But…" She trailed off.

"But?"

"Well, the school got inspected last week," she said, hesitantly.

"Oh, right," said Maxine. "I remember you telling me. Everyone was stressing out about it."

"Yeah," replied Kristina. "Well, it turns out that I'm an 'unsatisfactory' teacher."

"What? Says who?"

"Says some bitch who came in, observed twenty minutes of one of my Year 9 lessons in the afternoon, then wandered out before we got to the interesting bit. Oh, I really wish I'd let her have it when she gave me her 'feedback'."

"Oh, fuck her, Kris. You just said yourself, that doesn't sound like a fair assessment at all."

"That's not all, though," Kristina continued. "Now the school's in Special Measures because it sucks so bad, and I feel like it's my fault."

Maxine stopped walking and turned to face Kristina.

"Look, Kris," she said seriously. "If something like that's happened it's pretty clear that there's something very wrong with the whole place, not you. I really doubt they'd put the whole place in Special Whatevers because of one person. Not that I believe you did anything wrong anyway."

"I… I guess," she said. "But every time I hear the Head talk about the results of the inspection and the feedback and I hear the word 'unsatisfactory', I just feel like they're talking about me. It sucks."

"Oh, Kris," said Maxine. "C'mere." She wrapped her arms around her friend and gave her a hug. Kristina sniffed and reciprocated the gesture. The two girls pulled apart at a "weeeeyyyy!" of encouragement from a gang of drunken men a little further down the road, and continued on their way.

"Point is," Maxine continued, "you can't blame yourself. You can use this as an opportunity to improve, or you can use it as a kick up the arse to go find something else to do if you're really having such a miserable time."

Kristina said nothing. She knew that Maxine was right, but didn't want to admit it. The pair continued walking in silence for several minutes — Maxine knew when not to push her luck.

"Thanks, Max," said Kristina after a while. "I needed tonight. I know we didn't do much, but, still. Thanks."

"Any time," she replied with a smile.

*  *  *  *

Kristina wasn't quite sure what time it was when she woke up on her couch, but the TV channel she'd apparently left playing for background noise while she drifted off to sleep was displaying nothing more than a digital "this channel will be back later" page on the screen, so she figured it probably was the early hours of the morning. Someone — she figured either Maxine or herself — had put a heavy woollen throw over her, and it was lovely and warm, but she still felt a little uncomfortable. Peeling back her makeshift blanket, she realised that she had apparently fallen asleep in her clothes — though at least she had taken her shoes off.

"Ugh," she groaned to herself. "Real classy, Kristina." She swung her legs down off the couch, pushed the throw to one side and reached around behind herself to unzip her dress. She wriggled out of it and tossed it on the floor, then unfastened her bra with an exaggerated gasp of satisfaction — she was convinced that she wasn't wearing quite the right size, but she did like that one — and similarly flung that aside, too. Then she wrapped herself in the cocoon of her makeshift blanket once again, enjoying the feeling of the warmth enveloping her bare skin.

She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come again. She felt completely sober now, but too tired to get up and actually go to bed properly, so she decided to stay on the couch for now. There was no-one here to judge her, after all. Fumbling around beside herself for the remote, she flicked the TV onto a channel that didn't close down in the early hours of the morning, then closed her eyes again, only half-listening to the dull mumbling of what passed for late-night TV on whatever channel she'd randomly hopped to. She was dimly aware of it being some comedy show that she didn't find at all funny, but the number of times it had been repeated meant that it was comfortably familiar, and a good way to break the silence in her flat.

She didn't like silence, or the dark, but was ashamed of these feelings; they felt childish and silly, and she had never admitted them to anyone, not even Maxine. But she had a good enough reason for them; given no other stimuli, her mind would inevitably be drawn to the things that were making her more anxious than anything else — her job; her lack of love life; the fact that she didn't really know how to make friends with her colleagues; and, of course, incidents like the one that had unfolded on Friday.

Oh, why did she have to think of that? Now it was creeping into her head again, even with the sound of the TV distracting her from her unwanted thoughts. Her eyes still shut, she fumbled around for where she thought she'd left the remote, and found the volume button by touch to turn up the sound and drown out the noise in her head.

It worked. For now. But it was only a temporary measure; sleep would soon take her, and that's when her subconscious would get to work. She was tired of the nightmares, but knew there wasn't anything she could really do about them; sometimes she wished that life was more like a fantasy story she'd read as a teenager, in which a young girl banished nightmares from people's souls and minds with the help of a magic blade that allowed her to enter another dimension — the land of dreams.

Before long, her mind wandering through idle flights of fancy caused her to drop off to sleep without noticing.

"Based on what I saw there, that was an unsatisfactory lesson," said the sour-faced woman.

"Fuck you!" bellowed Edward, bursting through the door.

"Your behaviour management needs some significant work," continued the woman, apparently oblivious to the profanity-spewing teenager in the doorway. "And the pace of your lesson is all wrong. You didn't have a starter, and you spent too long on teaching time."

"Fuck you!" cried Edward again, throwing a table aside.

"Unsatisfactory," said the woman. "Special measures."

"Fuck you!"

Kristina covered her eyes, dimly aware that what was unfolding was nothing more than a dream from her subconscious, but terrified of it all the same. She didn't know how much more of this she could take, and things were only going to get more and more difficult in the coming weeks. What could she do?

On the couch, her unconscious body twitched in its sleep, an occasional moan escaping from its lips. But there was, of course, no-one around to hear it; she was, as she had been ever since she left home, completely alone.

The post 1385: Untitled November 2013 Creative Writing, Part 3 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"Yeah, I'm… I'm fine, Mum."

Sian knew better than to reveal her true feelings to her mother by now. One hint of sadness, anxiety or any emotion outside the "happiness" part of the mood spectrum, and she'd be bombarded with a torrent of questions, ostensibly in an attempt to make sure she was "all right" but which almost inevitably made her feel worse than she had in the first place. Consequently, she'd taken to bottling things up somewhat. She knew it wasn't altogether healthy, but it had been a successful coping mechanism so far, and she wasn't about to change now.

Besides, the fact that she was feeling a little dejected wasn't, for once, due to anything in her own life. Instead, she was feeling bad on behalf of someone else; specifically, her teacher Miss Charles, whom Sian had felt was perilously close to the edge today.

Sian pondered to herself that this was, sadly, nothing unusual for Miss Charles, whom she liked and respected very much but secretly felt probably wasn't cut out for life in a school like Longmore. Not that this reflected badly on Miss Charles in Sian's mind; Sian herself often found herself thinking that she wasn't really cut out for life in a school like Longmore, either. But it was the hand that life had dealt her, and so she'd deal with it, whatever it took. It built character. At least, that was what she always told herself.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mum, I promise I'm fine. Now I'm going to go and do my homework."

Before her mother could protest, she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom, closed the door — carefully, so as not to sound as if she was slamming it — and turned on the radio. It was time for the show she liked with the songs from musicals; she'd always been a fan of songs from the shows, partly because of her own studies, but had never intended to become the sort of person who listened to them in her free time. The fact that this show typically coincided with the point in the day where she would typically do her homework meant that it was a regular companion, and it had got to the stage where it was a comfortably familiar, pleasant presence to work alongside.

She unzipped her bag and took out her planner, opening it on her desk in front of her. There was only one thing she needed to do today; the rest could wait until next week. Finishing off those Maths questions needed to be done for Monday, though. It was her own fault — she'd gotten herself involved in a particularly lively and animated conversation with her friends Jasmine and Nicola rather than working in Maths today. Their teacher Mr Abraham didn't mind them chatting usually, but did insist that everyone complete all the work that was set by the time the next lesson rolled around — and the next lesson was Monday. She could do it over the weekend, of course, but Sian objected to doing homework on Saturday and Sunday unless she absolutely had to; she'd rather give up her Friday night instead, even if it was for Maths.

Sian hated Maths lessons. She knew this was an opinion that wasn't worth expressing, however, because almost everyone in her class seemed to hate Maths — and this was the top set, too. She found her distaste for the subject frustrating, because she understood that it was something that was important to everyday life in various ways, but she also knew that today there were more tools than ever that meant people would never have to remember what "some old houses creak and howl through old age" meant ever again.

She let out an exaggerated sigh, reached into her bag and drew out her Maths textbook and exercise book, then opened them both to the pages she'd marked earlier. She picked up her pencil and was just getting started on the first problem when her phone chimed. It was a chat message from Jasmine.

heard tht miss charles wuz proper mental earlier lol, it read. did u see it? xx

Sian pondered how to reply — or even if to reply — for a moment. On the one hand, she liked Jasmine and always enjoyed chatting to her; on the other hand, she also liked Miss Charles and didn't really want to gossip about her.

No, I didn't, she replied after a minute, with her customary perfect use of spelling, punctuation and grammar. She refused to compromise her own standards for the sake of convenience. Knowing Edward, though, I'm not surprised.

It was a gentle lie to try and steer the conversation away from Miss Charles. She had seen Miss Charles go "proper mental" earlier, of course, but she didn't really want to talk about it, and in fact it was recalling the incident that was making her feel so anxious right now.

She put her phone down and picked up her pencil again. It wasn't long before her phone chimed again, but she grit her teeth and told herself that she wouldn't look — much less reply — until she had conquered the first of the questions she had to complete this evening.

The question, as it happened, was rather easy, and so in a matter of moments the phone was in her hand again.

yea, came the reply from Jasmine. edwards a dick lol sounds lyk miss charles wuznt redy 4 him xx

Can you ever be ready for Edward? she replied. I don't understand why he even comes to school. Not that he does very often.

By the time the reply came back from Jasmine, Sian had conquered the second problem, too.

well its cuz his ma got fined for him being off all the time lol, it said. he may be a dick but i guess hes still scared of his ma xx

You could be right, she sent back. My battery's low and I'm about to have dinner, she lied in an attempt to end the conversation. I'll talk to you later?

The third question took a little longer to calculate, and Jasmine's reply arrived in the middle of the process, making Sian jump. She frowned, and managed not to look at her phone until she finished, though, secretly feeling quite pleased with her own self-discipline.

ok babe, read the reply. ttyl xx

Sian flicked her phone onto silent and tossed it onto the bed. There were four more questions to go, of increasing complexity, and she wanted to get them out of the way sooner rather than later. She knew all too well that it took a good two or three times of saying goodbye — or fake goodbye, at least — to get rid of Jasmine, though a long silence often did the trick, too.

The radio had started to play Memory from Cats. As much of a fan of musicals as she was, she couldn't stand Cats, and particularly couldn't stand Memory, so she flicked off the radio and completed the rest of her homework in silent protest to no-one in particular.

*  *  *  *

Later that evening, after she'd had dinner with her mother and father, Sian lay on her bed gazing at the ceiling. She thought of this as her "thinking position", though in actuality it was more an "anxiety position"; she tended only to lie staring into space like this when she was worrying about something or someone. And she couldn't get Miss Charles out of her mind.

She kept replaying the scene from earlier over and over in her head. She wondered if she should have stood up and said something — probably not, she thought; although she counted herself quite lucky that she was one of the few people in her year who was both academically gifted and relatively popular, she didn't fancy her chances against the seething ball of rage that was Edward. Edward was too unpredictable; he might have listened to her, he might have redirected his anger away from Miss Charles and towards her, or he might have gotten even angrier.

Sian didn't understand Edward, and that scared her. She was the sort of person who liked to figure people out as soon as possible so she knew how to act around them. She was generally quite good at reading people shortly after becoming acquainted with them, but with Edward's frequent long absences from school, she'd never really had the opportunity to get to know him, and, if she was being honest, didn't really have the inclination to get anywhere near him when he was present.

She understood Miss Charles, though. She could tell that Miss Charles was suffering, and that made her sad, because not only did she like Miss Charles as a person, she respected the amount of knowledge Miss Charles had of her subject. She liked spending time with Miss Charles, and she liked studying music with Miss Charles. It was just a shame that the experience had to be spoiled by people like Edward. She didn't even know what Edward was doing in that class; the boy had no musical talent whatsoever, and his assertion that he was "a drummer" translated, in her experience, to him being able to do little more than bang out an unsteady four-on-the-floor beat at an uneven tempo and high volume.

She closed her eyes, and saw the classroom again.

"Fuck you!" Edward yelled.

"Now, Edward," Miss Charles said, her voice wavering. "If you need to take a moment outside to calm yourself down, please do. Otherwise, please return to your seat."

Sian could tell that Miss Charles was scared. The young teacher's hands were shaking, and she was propping herself up against her desk for security — something Sian had noticed she did when she was nervous.

"Fuck you!" Edward screeched again, driving his fist into the wood of the door and apparently feeling no pain from the impact. Sian saw Miss Charles flinch and shrink away from him slightly — she certainly didn't blame her for that, because she'd felt scared too. This wasn't her first encounter with an Edward rage, unlike Miss Charles, but experience didn't make them any easier to deal with.

"Urgh, stop it," muttered Sian to herself, rolling onto her side on the bed and holding the pillow around her ears, as if doing so would cause the memory to stop replaying itself. It didn't work, of course — it never did — but that never stopped her from trying at times like this.

Eventually she sat up. Lying in thinking position wasn't achieving anything; she just wanted to distract herself with something — anything. She pulled out her phone and looked at it; she scrolled through Twitter and Facebook but found nothing of interest, then checked her favourite YouTube channels for any updates, but it seemed like everyone she might want to watch was having Friday off. Eventually she settled for a favourite cat video, watching it four times until it made her giggle out loud and start to feel slightly better.

She lay back down again and closed her eyes, trying to force her mind's eye to see the cat jumping in and out of cardboard boxes rather than Edward screaming "Fuck you!" at the top of his voice.

It's the weekend, she said to herself. And it's not your problem. Just relax.

She took a deep breath in, held it a moment, then released it. She did it again, then again, then again — and finally sank into a dreamless sleep.

The post 1384: Untitled November 2013 Creative Writing, Part 2 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath in, then rolled herself forward as she exhaled noisily. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, the papers scattered all over her desk gazing back at her; cold, unfeeling. They weren't going anywhere unless she moved them, but the last thing she wanted to do right now was touch them, look at them, do anything with them. But she knew that if she didn't do anything with them now, they'd still be there at the start of next week, and things would just continue to get worse.

It was times like this that Kristina resented the teacher's life. Even as the rest of the world was being drawn inexorably into the future thanks to technology that seemed to get more advanced by the day, the teaching profession remained resolutely set in its ways, seeming absolutely determined to keep the world's paper manufacturers in business. Everything was dealt with through some sort of printout; her desk was covered with everything from school newsletters to action plans via behaviour trackers, and she hated all of it. She wanted nothing more than to just sweep it all off her desk, into a black bin-liner and be done with it. She had contemplated it on several occasions, but had never been able to bring herself to do it.

She heard the distinctive "click" of her classroom door pushing open, accompanied by a gentle "tap, tap, tap"; looking up, she saw the familiar face of Martin, her head of department. He was smiling that gentle smile he always seemed to have on his face; she envied his seemingly unflappable nature and wished that she could "switch off" as easily as he seemingly could.

"Hey, Kris," he said. "Long day?"

"Uh," she replied. "You could say that."

"Well, the week's over now. Why don't you leave it behind for now and come to the pub?"

She looked from Martin to the stack of papers on her desk, then back to Martin. An unspoken question hung in the air.

"Leave it," he said. "I know you've had a rough time today, and the last thing you need right now is to be fretting about all that paperwork. Just leave it." He leaned in in an exaggeratedly conspiratorial fashion. "Between you and me, I ignore a good 90% of it. Most of them are like utility bills; you can leave them be until someone comes chasing you for them."

Kristina chuckled. She'd learned this herself quite early on, but she always found it amusing when someone as seemingly respectable as Martin — her direct superior, no less — effectively urged her to shirk her duties. She was under no illusions; she knew perfectly well that most of her colleagues had managed to survive as long as they had simply by knowing what work them simply had to perform, and what could be safely ignored and left behind.

"Fine, whatever," she said, shrugging and getting to her feet. "I'm not achieving anything here anyway, and moping in the dark isn't going to solve anything."

"That's the spirit," said Martin. "I think your first drink's on me."

*  *  *  *

Raucous laughter erupted around the table. Kristina made an effort to join in, but felt she didn't quite get the joke — or perhaps she simply wasn't in the mood. Either way, she was bluffing, but no-one seemed to notice.

No-one ever seemed to notice her. She was pretty sure that most people around this table probably knew her name, but she was equally sure that not one of them — with the possible exception of Martin — knew anything beyond that about her, barring perhaps the subject she taught. That said, she didn't know much about any of them, either; in the few months she'd been in this job, she'd had trouble getting to know people, partly due to her own natural shyness and partly due to the fact she'd felt from the very beginning that the staff of Longmore Community College had already formed their cliques well before she'd arrived, and that it would take a more confident woman than she to break into their inner circles.

She picked up her wine glass and swished it from side to side, the swaying waves of the wine within proving vaguely hypnotic. She wasn't even listening to the conversation around her any more; inwardly, she was counting the minutes until she felt it would cease to be impolite to get up and just leave, but another part of her mind wondered if anyone would actually notice if she did just that right now.

She downed the remainder of her wine and decided to try an experiment. She put her glass purposefully down on the table, picked up her handbag and stood up.

"Y'all right, Kristina?" said Paul, whom she knew only as the Northern PE teacher, and often the butt of some light-hearted ribbing from the "cool kids" of the English department. She was surprised to be addressed by him, but his gently lilting Sheffield accent put her somewhat at ease.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she said quietly, scratching her face in the way she normally did when she was feeling uncomfortable. "I'm just. You know. I'll be right back." It somehow didn't feel quite right to tell someone she didn't know that well that she was just going to head to the toilet and decide from there whether or not to make a break for it.

She excused herself and walked out into the corridor that housed the doors to the toilets. As usual, the corridor smelled strongly of urine — a stench that was wafting out from the gents', she assumed — but once she was into the ladies', the stink was replaced by that of cheap perfume, presumably applied hastily by young women off out on the town after a long week. There was no-one in the toilets when she entered, but the smell was strong; either the owner of the perfume wasn't long gone, or must have drenched herself in the fragrance enough for it to stick around long after she had departed.

Kristina opened the door to the cramped cubicle, put the seat down and sat down. She didn't need to actually "go"; she'd just come here for a moment's escape and a bit of peace and quiet. She knew that with her mind the way it was at the moment, that wasn't necessarily a good idea — quiet rooms tended to cause her to dwell on things she would rather forget — but it was, for now, preferable to sitting at that table pretending to be sociable.

Suddenly, she felt a tear run down her face. She had been expecting that she was probably going to cry this evening — she knew herself well enough by now to recognise the signs of an impending mini-breakdown — but hadn't expected it to come on quite so soon and quite so suddenly. Resigning herself to the apparent inevitability, she just let the tears silently roll down her face until there were no more.

*  *  *  *

"Hey, Kris, you all right?"

It was Martin.

"I'm all right," she said, not turning around. "I just need to go home. Sorry."

"It's all right," he said. "We were just worried about you. You were gone a long time and then you headed straight for the door without saying goodbye."

"Yeah, I—" she began, not sure where that sentence was going. She started again. "I just. I'm not feeling well. Sorry. See you Monday."

She started walking, determined not to look back over her shoulder. She didn't know if he was watching her walk away or whether he'd already gone back inside. She told herself that she didn't really care one way or the other, but really she hoped that he wasn't watching her. She felt like a pitiful wreck of a human being right now, and just wanted to curl up in bed and go to sleep. It had been a terrible day to draw a terrible week to a close, and she wanted to leave it well and truly behind her, just like she'd left the stack of papers on her desk.

She knew those papers would be there waiting for her when she got back, and in all likelihood the fallout from the terrible week would still be there when she got back too. But that didn't matter right now, she told herself. It was the weekend; a time to reflect, relax and regroup. There was no guarantee that next week was going to be as bad as this one, and who knows? All those papers might have magically vanished by the time she got back. If only.

*  *  *  *

"Fuck you!" the kid screeched. His name was Edward, and this had been her first encounter with him. She'd heard his name before in staff meetings, but since he was a serial truant, it was rare for him to be in school. She'd been secretly hoping that his truancy would continue indefinitely, culminating in his expulsion from the school without her ever having to come face-to-face with him, but here he was, every bit as unpleasant as she'd been led to believe.

"Now, Edward," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "If you need to take a moment outside to calm yourself down, please do. Otherwise, please return to your seat." She could feel her voice quavering as she said the words; she hoped it wasn't as obvious to the ears of her class.

"Fuck you!" he yelled again, punching the door. He followed his profanity with an incoherent yell that didn't appear to contain any words, then walked around the room throwing his classmates' pencil cases and books onto the floor. It was an utterly bewildering sight; it would probably have been comical to Kristina if it weren't so terrifying. She knew that this kid could snap — further than he already had, anyway — at any moment, and she didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, something in her mind went, and she felt like she was watching herself, out of control.

"You little shit!" she screamed. "Get the fuck out of my classroom now before I pick you up and throw you the fuck out! If you're so fucking ungrateful that you can't be bothered to sit down and shut the fuck up, then just get the fuck out and don't fucking come back, ever!"

There was a moment of silence. She could feel the entire class looking at her in shock. No-one was breathing. Time seemed to be frozen.

Then he leapt at her with a feral roar, screaming bloody murder — possibly literally. She put her hands up to defend herself and—

She finally woke up, breathless. Her heart was pounding, and the darkness of her room felt like it was constricting her, choking the life out of her. She was panicking, almost too scared to move, but she eventually managed to summon the strength and courage to reach over to her bedside lamp and flick it on.

As the light filled the room, she unsteadily sat up, resting her back against the headboard. It thumped gently against the wall as she leaned her weight back into it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath just like her CDs had trained her to do, then exhaled through her mouth. Again, in; again, out. Once more, in; one more, out. She felt the panic slowly subsiding, though her heart was still racing.

This kept happening, and she couldn't control it. Her subconscious mind apparently liked nothing more than to look back on the day's events, and reinterpret them into "what if" scenarios that culminated in the worst possible outcome, usually involving some combination of furious anger and/or violence. She always woke up feeling guilty, even though she knew that she'd done nothing wrong; in reality, she'd handled things carefully, calmly and as effectively as she could under often difficult circumstances, but in her mind, things had gone as badly as it was possible for them to go.

She knew she had to change, to grow, to get stronger; she just didn't know how she was going to go about it.

The post 1383: Untitled November 2013 Creative Writing, Part 1 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Anyway. What is happening right now? Not a lot, because it's 11:33 in the evening and I'd quite like to go to bed, as previously mentioned. I am sitting in front of my Mac frantically typing this blog post while Andie is sitting in the other room watching Family Guy on BBC Three. This must be at least the sixth or seventh time I've heard the whole series go around and around and around and I'm never quite sure how I feel about it. Family Guy can be quite entertaining, but it's one of those things that it seems to be quite fashionable to bash on these days, so I'm never quite sure if I'm supposed to like it or not. I do know that I like it rather less now that it's been around and around so many times. Certain things remain entertaining on repeat viewings — as I've previously said elsewhere on this blog, for me Friends is one of those shows that I can watch over and over again without getting tired of it for the most part — but for me, Family Guy is a bit of a one-trick pony, particularly when they start pulling the "remember the time when" etc etc jokes where they cut away to something HILARIOUS that probably didn't really happen. What a hoot!

I'm going to stop talking about Family Guy now and think of something else to say. But what? Hmm. How about food? Today we went out for lunch with my parents to Yo! Sushi in WestQuay. I'm a big fan of Yo! Sushi even if it is a bit expensive, really. Go on Sunday, though, and it's an all-you-can-eat for £20 sort of affair, though, so if you leave plenty of room you can ensure you get your money's worth. I really like the food there, too. It's tasty. I'm sure it's not quite up to the standard of a "proper" sushi restaurant, but it's certainly very tasty and a bit different from the normal sort of things that you get around the place.

I can still hear Family Guy and it's a little bit distracting. I will try and maintain my concentration. I set a goal for myself to keep writing non-stop for ten minutes and I'm about halfway through at this point. Lucy the rat is currently running rather aggressively on the wheel in her cage — I can hear, not see her — so I will have to go and check on her in a bit. I like our rats. They are friendly. Lara likes to run up the sleeve of my dressing gown, which is very amusing except when she does a wee in my armpit. To be fair to her, she has only done that once, but it was not very nice.

Anyway, I believe I was talking about sushi before I got distracted by Family Guy. One of the things I like at Yo! Sushi is takoyaki — octopus dumplings which various Japanese video games taught me about the existence of. (I'm specifically thinking of the takoyaki stand people hang out at in Persona 3, but the game I'm currently playing on the DS, Lifesigns, also features a lot of mentions of takoyaki). For some reason, mentioning something repeatedly like that really makes me want to investigate it and try it for myself — and hey, what do you know? Turns out that takoyaki is pretty tasty, though I'm not sure it was quite what I expected when I first had it. I recommend you try it. I didn't have it today because by the time it came around on the conveyor belt at Yo! Sushi, we were already pretty full on everything else we'd eaten. Another time, dear octopus balls, another time.

One more minute to go. Can I break a thousand words by the time that minute passes? Probably not. I'd have to type a little bit quicker than I am typing right now. I can type pretty quickly, but I'm not sure I can type 250 words in a minute. That would be pretty speedy. Superhuman speedy, in fact.

Oh, time's up. Time to go. I apologise for the disjointed, dumb nature of this blog post but I thought I'd do that instead of babbling on about Ar Tonelico II again. (I'll get back to that tomorrow! Just kidding! Maybe.) Anyway. Time for bed. Good night.

The post 1175: Stream of Rubbish appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

A moment's silence.

"I'm not quite sure what else I can tell you," I say.

"I think you've told me plenty," the kindly voice tells me.

I've been coming here for a while now. I think it's helping. Having a safe place in which I can tell my story has certainly helped me to leave things in the past and look forwards rather than backwards.

The owner of that kindly voice is the only person who has heard my whole story as I have just finished relating it. I'm still not quite sure how I feel about that. Sometimes I feel like I should tell Alice, or my parents, or my friends; other times I feel like I should keep this all to myself just in case it makes me seem like I've completely lost it.

I sigh to myself.

I did completely lose it. The story I've just told is proof of that, surely. Even looking back on it with the benefit of hindsight as I have been, I'm still not entirely sure what was truly real and what was simply the creation of my own mind.

"It all felt so real," I say out loud.

"Oh?" says the kindly voice.

"Yes," I say. "It was… like I was there. Well, I was there. But not. It was like it was really happening; like I was really there with those people."

The voice says nothing. I know by now that this is one of those times I'm supposed to figure things out for myself, but I'm not sure I have the answers. I've started now, though, so I can't just leave it hanging there.

"Perhaps they were real in some respects," I continue. "I mean, obviously Alice is, but the Alice from another world? Perhaps she was real too."

"Go on," says the voice, its tone soft, warm and supportive.

"Aril was obviously someone I dreamed up from somewhere," I say. "I don't know where from. But he… I'm not sure. He always seems to come to mind when I'm trying to be calm and rational about things."

"Yes," says the voice. "I'd agree, from what you've told me. And what do you understand by that?"

I pause and think for a moment. It's sort of obvious, looking back on it now. Perhaps it was even obvious to me at the time.

"Aril is part of me," I say. "He's an aspect of myself that I wasn't entirely comfortable with, but part I wanted to explore."

"Go on," says the voice.

"He's the kind who generally stays calm and rational under pressure," I say. "But he's not infallible. Even he could get rattled. When I… when he thought that part of me had disappeared he wasn't sure what to do."

I feel silly relating that now. I didn't go anywhere. No-one went anywhere. But for that short period, I saw things from a different perspective. It helped me to understand a little better. Perhaps that was why it happened.

"And what about the others?" says the voice. It hasn't changed its tone.

"Alice," I begin. "The Alice who was with me through all that… she was the things I admired about my sister. Her strength. Her confidence. Her assertiveness. Everything that I'm not."

I pause.

"Or rather, everything that I thought I could never be," I correct myself. "Because I'm here now, of my own free will. I'm saying these things because I want to, not because I'm being forced to. That sounds like something she'd do."

"I'd agree," says the voice. "And Laura?"

I consider my next words for a moment.

"Laura was what she appeared to be," I say. "Unpredictable. Acting without reason. But reliable despite all that."

"And what did she represent?" says the voice.

"Chaos," I say, without hesitation. "Or rather, the ability to deal with chaos. The ability to deal with the unexpected; the ability to accept the fact that sometimes things happen beyond your control; the ability to accept that sometimes things don't make sense."

There was another pause. I became aware of the ticking of the clock in the corner of the office.

A sudden slamming noise. I recognize this. It's time to finish.

I sit up and look at the face of my therapist Dr. Noakes. His face matches his voice well. He's a middle-aged man, slightly built, with thinning grey hair and a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard covering most of the bottom of his face. I went through a few therapists before I settled on Dr. Noakes here, but there was something about him that set me at ease and made me feel like I could finally tell my story.

Now that I've finished telling that story, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself.

"So what's next?" I ask.

"That's up to you," says Dr. Noakes. "I know that being able to tell your story has probably been a big help for you. But is that all you want?"

"I–" I begin, but then trail off. I'm not quite sure what I want now.

"It's okay," he says with a friendly chuckle. "I don't expect an answer now."

That's good, because I don't have one to give.

"I'll take a week or two," I say. "Get my head together, figure out what I want and if there's anything else I want to work on."

I'm pretty sure there are things I would like to work on. The underlying things in my brain that led to this whole situation in the first place aren't going to just go away overnight after all. But already, over the time I've been telling this story to Dr. Noakes — how long is it now? — I've been able to come to terms with some truths about myself that I wouldn't have been able to accept before.

That's good, I guess.

"Fine," says Dr. Noakes. He extends his hand. I grasp it firmly and assertively — Other Alice would be proud of me — and shake it. "Make an appointment if or when you're ready to come back and I'll be happy to talk more."

"All right," I say. I release his hand and turn for the door. I open it.

Then I pause.

"Thanks," I say. Then I walk out.

*

As I step out into the street, the bracing, cold air is refreshing. I start to walk.

I feel good.

It's strange to think that way, but I'm suddenly conscious of it.

I actually feel good.

Up until now, I've been living my life feeling like something has constantly been pushing down on my from above. That weight on my mind made me want to hide away, to keep away from everyone and eventually led to the situation I just finished telling to Dr. Noakes. It made me want to keep my face hidden, to walk along the street staring at the floor.

But today I feel different.

Rather than turning my head downwards, I walk down the street with it held high, looking straight ahead. The streets are quiet at this time of day, but I don't feel afraid of the few people around me; I don't feel ashamed of myself; I don't want to hide from them.

I know that this feeling will probably pass and that I won't feel this good all the time. But for now I'm determined to enjoy it. I'm determined to embrace the person I am, and to move forward with my life.

I'm still faintly ashamed of what I put myself through — and of the way I treated my family — but ultimately, you can't go back and change things that have already happened. You don't get any do-overs, but you can get a second chance to make things right. And that's what I intend to do.

I pull out my phone from my pocket, scroll through the address book and find my sister's name. I tap the screen to call her, and she picks up after three rings.

"What's up, Josh?" she says brightly.

"Nothing," I say, a slight smile on my face.

Right then, it was true.

The post 1047: Final Chapter appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I tried.

I couldn't.

I groaned. That came out all right. Eventually I managed to get my eyes open. They felt like they'd been glued shut.

My body ached like I'd never felt before. I was utterly exhausted and felt like I could have probably slept for a whole lot longer. I just lay on my back and stared at the ceiling.

Images of what had happened flowed through my mind as I gazed upwards. Reality flowed into fantasy until I wasn't sure what to believe any more. What was real? What was just the creation of my own jumbled mind? What had actually happened?

I couldn't make sense of it.

I closed my eyes again.

I wasn't sure if I actually fell asleep again, or if I just lay there for a while, but when I opened my eyes again I felt a little bit better, like I could move. It wasn't easy, but I managed it.

I sat up very slowly, my back aching as I did so, and lifted my heavy-feeling legs down off the bed. They made a dull "thump" sound as they hit the floor.

I rubbed my face and took a deep breath. Then I glanced over at the clock radio, more out of habit than anything else now. Assuming those previous times I'd looked were real.

I groaned again. It wouldn't do to get bogged down in this kind of thinking. Not now. I could think about things and make sense of it in the morning. For now — what?

I blinked a few times and the digits on the clock radio, which had been nothing but a blur to my sleep-filled eyes until now, read — of course — 2:30. I don't know why I was expecting it to read anything other than that time.

I pushed myself off the bed and stood up unsteadily. I felt like I was waking up from a coma and learning to walk again on atrophied limbs, but I knew that wasn't the case. It was just tiredness and exhaustion, brought about by my own stupidity.

I staggered to the door and opened it, then out onto the hallway. I knew where I was going. I'd done this lots of times before. Only this time… This time I knew for sure what I'd find.

Before I knew it, I was outside Alice's door. I reached for the handle and was about to open it, but then reconsidered. Instead, I tapped on it three times and waited for a response. There was nothing for a moment, but then I heard the distinct sounds of movement from within, then a "click". The faintest hint of light came out from the tiny crack beneath the door, and I heard a soft voice say "come in."

I opened the door quietly and stepped inside. Alice had turned her bedside lamp on, and it was casting a faint glow over her corner of the room. I could see she was sitting up in bed, her back against the wall. She was holding the covers over herself so that just her head and arms were poking out. It was sort of cute, even with her bruised face. She smiled at me as I came in.

"Hey," she said quietly. Her voice sounded cracked and dry. "Can't sleep?"

"No," I said, sitting down at the end of the bed, not looking at her.

We were both silent for a moment. Rather than feeling awkward, though, it just felt nice to be in each other's company, to know that neither one of us was alone.

"I don't blame you," she said eventually. "I really don't. I know how guilty you must have been feeling."

I said nothing right away. I wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"I'm still sorry," I said. "You must think I'm pathetic."

"No!" she said. "Not at all."

I wasn't convinced.

"I think I'm pathetic," I said calmly. I was surprised how calmly I said it. It felt like something I should say with anger or despair, but no; it just… was. "When I got away, all I could think about was how I didn't deserve to be the one who survived."

"But we all survived," she said. "No-one died."

"Yes," I said. "I know that now. But I didn't at the time. I got so caught up in my own shit that I didn't even stop to find out if you were all right or not."

"It's okay," she said softly. "It's all right."

"Is it?" I asked. "I'm not sure if I could say the same if this was the other way around."

It was my honest opinion. I really wasn't sure how I would feel if I had been the one put into hospital by the accident, and that a family member had all but abandoned me.

"We're different people," she said. "You know that. I'm not upset. I understand. I…"

She paused a moment.

"No. I don't know how you feel," she said. "You obviously feel like shit. And not just now. Before all this happened. I could tell that you were upset and sad and lonely, and I didn't do anything to help. I'm sorry for that."

"It's not your fault," I said. "It's not anybody's fault."

I knew this to be true now. Some things just happened. Some things had no reason. Some things just were. This was the essence of chaos. This didn't mean that you didn't have to take responsibility for things that were your fault; it just meant that certain things happened regardless of what you did. Some things happened unpredictably and without reason; they just happened.

I had no real reason to be miserable, to be suffering, to be angry at the world as I had been. But I was. It was just the way I had been built; the way that random chaos had determined that my body and mind would be put together. I had a loving family and a small but close-knit group of friends who clearly cared for me enough to talk me out of doing something really stupid. These people cared for me even though I was a self-absorbed dick.

I covered my face with my hands and let out a sob. I didn't want to cry, and I'd been holding it back, but it burst out and wouldn't stop. I felt Alice move on the bed next to me, then I felt her arms around me.

"It's okay," she said. "You're going to be all right. You're safe."

Her words were soothing and calming, but still the tears came.

"I'm sorry," I whispered breathlessly. "I'm so sorry,"

"Stop being sorry," she said. "What happened happened. All we can all do is move on. I'm not mad. Mum and Dad aren't mad. We're just happy that everyone's safe. These bruises will heal, and then we can all get on with our lives normally."

"Yes," I said. That sounded nice. It had been getting hard to remember what a "normal" life was, particularly as my delusions had continued to grow and take over my life.

I knew that the bruises and scars were not the only thing that needed to heal, though. The rational part of my mind took over and told me to calm down. I took some deep breaths. The flurry of sobs slowly came to an end and I felt like I was regaining my strength and control over my body.

"I," I began. It was difficult to get the words out. "I."

Alice didn't say anything, but she continued to hold me.

"I need some help," I whispered. Then I started to cry again. This time the emotion washed over me with such force that I collapsed onto Alice's bed and just sobbed into her duvet. Alice pulled away before she was dragged down with me, but continued to sit by me. She rested her hand on me as I curled up like a baby on her bed and just cried and cried and cried.

Everything that had ever hurt me was coming out. Flashes of memories; repressed things from my past; images of my recent delusions. All of them swirled together and assaulted my senses. I felt like I was under attack, but at the same time it was a sweet relief to let all of these things out.

Those words I had said; I meant them. It was the first time I had admitted it to myself, much less anyone else.

I had thought I could handle life by myself. But my experiences had proven beyond a doubt that wasn't an option for me. More than that, though, it had proven to me that it didn't have to be that way. I didn't have to feel bad about wanting to ask others for help. I didn't have to get through everything on my own. I didn't have to be lonely.

As I felt Alice's comforting hand on my side while I continued to lie on her bed and cry, I knew that I'd taken a step forward into a new world. Not through a "gate", but instead a new world in which I could come to terms with the person I was, and begin to heal. A world in which I wouldn't have to be alone, and wouldn't have to be afraid any more.

The post 1046: Chapter 29 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

My name. How long had it been since someone had said my name? How long had it been since someone had actually acknowledged my existence, since someone had shown that they had the slightest idea who I was, since someone had shown me that I mattered to someone out there? There it was. My "weak connection" to this world, strengthened once again with just a single word.

"Joshua," she said again. "Please."

I knew it was selfish. I knew that I didn't deserve to be liked, loved, respected, acknowledged. I knew that it was better for everyone if I just faded into obscurity, to be forgotten. What I did was not something you can forgive; everything I felt from that point on was my fault, my punishment.

"Joshua," she said again. I could have sworn I heard another voice along with hers, but there was no-one else around in this eerie scene.

Or was there? I looked over my shoulder again to check, but sure enough, there was only Alice.

Aril and Laura and Alice were asking me to come to terms with so much. To accept that what had happened wasn't my fault, that it was the fault of chaos; the fault of random chance; the fault of no-one. There was no-one to blame, least of all me, and that there was nothing I could have done differently.

But that wasn't true. I could have done something differently. I could have stayed with them. I could have waited in that wreckage rather than fleeing like a coward. I could have called for help. I could have done something to save them. Instead, I chose to look out only for myself, and the guilt was tearing me apart.

"Joshua," she said again. Every time she said it, I felt stronger. Every time she said it, it felt like more voices were adding themselves to hers, but still I could see no-one; still I was unaware of any other presences.

And where were they now? I thought. What was the result of my running away? I had escaped that horrific situation, and to what end? I had just assumed that they–

I had just assumed–

I had believed–

I didn't even know if they were alive or… dead.

Tears came to my eyes as this thought occurred to me. My selfishness really knew no bounds. I had been so wrapped up in my own personal self-pitying that I hadn't once tried to find out whether or not they were still alive, whether someone had been able to save them, whether my guilt was justified.

My parents. Alice. They had taken the brunt of the damage from the crash, but somehow I had walked away from it. Didn't it stand to reason that they, too, might be able to pull through?

"Joshua!" came Alice's voice again. Once more, it felt like she wasn't alone.

I thought back to my ride home with the stranger, and seeing the ambulance's blue flashing lights marking the site of my sin. How had that ambulance got there so quickly? How had someone known that it had happened? How did–

Was this, too, the work of chaos? Random chance? Things happening without a reason? And if so, was it possible that, as much as it had the power to destroy lives and take away precious things, it also had the power to save?

"Joshua," said Alice's voice. It seemed softer this time, but full of warmth. There seemed to be echoes, repeating her words after she'd said it. "Joshua. Joshua. Joshua."

Dammit. What was this?

Did I really want this? Would the pain really go away if I jumped?

I looked down into the murky depths below. It would be so easy to just let go. It would be so easy to just leave this all behind. But–

"Joshua, please don't do this," said Alice's voice. It sounded different. Weaker. Weary. Scared. But unmistakably still her. "Joshua, please. I'm here. It's all right. I'm here. And so are–"

I looked over my shoulder again.

Alice was standing there, but not the Alice who had been there a moment before. This Alice was bruised and battered, with stitches and bandages on her face. This Alice was wearing some baggy, loose-fitting clothing that was easy to put on. This Alice was holding herself up on a pair of crutches and looking absolutely exhausted.

"Alice?" I said in a voice barely more than a whisper. "Is that really–"

Time seemed to stand still. Could this really be–

"Yes," she said. "It's really me. Please look at me. Please see. Please understand. Please come back to me — back to us."

Us?

I looked at Alice. Her eyes were full of tears and she looked like she would keel over at any moment. I twisted my body and turned around atop the barrier to look at her more closely, but I didn't step down — not yet. I needed to understand for sure.

"Joshua," she said. "You don't need to do this."

As I looked at her, the ominous dark mist surrounding us seemed to lift slightly, and colour seemed to slowly fill the world, as if someone was adjusting the controls on a television. As the world — my world — gradually came back into focus, I could tell that Alice was not alone. Flanking her on either side were two figures in wheelchairs, and behind them was a small group of people. A group of people whom I thought I recognised.

A group of people who had had my back all along. A group of people to whom I had reached out for help. A group of people who–

"Joshua," she said again. "You see us, don't you? All of us."

"Yes," I whispered.

"Joshua," came my mother's tired-sounding voice from one of the wheelchairs either side of Alice. "Please come down."

"Joshua," came my father's voice from the other side. "Don't do this."

As they spoke, my vision became clearer still, and I saw that the figures either side of my sister were indeed my parents. They looked even more bruised and broken than my sister, but they were still fighting on. Chaos hadn't taken them; chaos had, perhaps, saved them.

Tears came to my eyes again.

"Oh, God," I said. "I'm sorry."

Those two words weren't enough. But within them was everything I'd been holding inside. My guilt at leaving them behind. My lack of concern for them. My focus on myself. My shutting out of everyone dear to me, and my embracing of a world that was full of self-inflicted horrors; but a world that was mine.

I wailed, and stepped down off the barrier. I couldn't stop the tears. I sank to my knees before my sister and parents, and cried. I cried, and cried, and cried. It didn't feel like it would ever stop. It felt like my soul was pouring out of me; like my very life force was flowing out of my tear ducts and plopping onto the pavement. It was exhausting, but refreshing at the same time, because I knew that these tears were not for an ending; they were for a beginning.

I heard a "clack, clack, clack" sound as Alice hobbled over on her crutches to me, and I became aware of being surrounded. I felt a hand on the top of my head and one on either shoulder. The feeling gave me a sense of comfort.

I was home.

*

Joshua blacked out, but he was all right — just exhausted. We decided to take him home. One of his friends from college had picked us up from the hospital in his car, so we loaded him into the middle seat at the back and put our parents either side of him, with their wheelchairs folded up and put in the boot. I sat in the front.

"So," I said, turning to his friend, a guy with messy brown hair and glasses. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"I can't say for sure," he said in a low voice. "But we didn't see him for a few days. We just thought he was ill. But then we heard about your accident, and we got worried. We tried to go over and visit him, but he wouldn't let anyone in. The lights were all off in the house, but we knew he was home — some of us wandered past and just looked in on him occasionally, and we saw him through the windows sometimes. But he still wouldn't see anyone."

"Uh-huh," I said. I winced as one of my bruises throbbed a bit.

"Then a couple of days ago, he came to us," he said. "He just wandered in like a zombie, said nothing, gave us a piece of paper and then ran away. Hang on."

He fumbled in his chest pocket and withdrew a crumpled, ragged-looking piece of paper.

"He gave us this," he said.

I unfolded the scrap of paper and looked at the words on it. A couple of lines down I started to cry.

"Yeah," said Joshua's friend. "Pretty intense stuff, huh."

The note was like a confession and a suicide note all in one. He felt sorry to be alive — what a horrible way to feel! — and just wanted the pain to go away. The note ended with his plans to be at the bridge, and asked anyone reading it to come at the time he'd written and stop him. It had ended with just one word.

"HELP."

"What does it say?" asked my mother from the back seat. I turned around and looked at them. It looked like Joshua was sleeping soundly, so I passed the crumpled note to her. Within a moment she was in tears, too, as was my father, who was reading over her shoulder.

He'd been in pain. A different kind of pain to what we'd been feeling, but still pain. He'd been blaming himself for what happened to us when really it was no-one's fault at all. He'd been feeling guilty for running away from what must have been a horrible sight. He'd started to think he didn't deserve to be alive. That must have been awful. I couldn't even begin to imagine how he felt.

I'd always been a bit harsh towards my brother in the past, as he'd always been a bit of a loner and didn't have many friends besides the group who'd shown up today. But I could tell now that he needed help and support, not a little sister taking the piss.

I hoped I could help him feel safe. I probably wouldn't be able to do it by myself, but I hoped that I could at least play a part in his recovery. I didn't want him to feel that lonely again.

The post 1045: Chapter 28 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I understood now.

My door opened. Alice walked in.

"Are you all right?" she said. "I had a bad feeling."

"Yes, I'm fine," I said, uncharacteristically calmly.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

Silence fell between us. I looked at her.

Alice. My sister. My little sister. She shouldn't be here, and yet here she was, standing before me as if it was perfectly natural. I knew that she couldn't really be here, and I was starting to question everything I'd experienced.

But for now, she was here. Looking at me. Her eyes were on me, and right now it felt as if they were looking right through my body and into my soul.

"What?" I asked. Her constant gaze was starting to make me feel a bit uncomfortable. Still she stared.

"Come with me," she said. "I need to show you something." She reached out her hand.

I took it.

The static sound again, and my room was gone.

Once again, I was back on the bridge, standing in the middle of the road. Alice was in front of me. She was within arm's reach, but she'd never felt so far away.

"Why are we here again?" I asked.

"Again?" she said.

"Yes, again," I said. "I seem to keep coming back here."

"Perhaps it means something," she said, mysteriously, but didn't elaborate. She just turned away from me to face the side of the bridge. I had a bad feeling.

I wanted to walk towards her, but found myself rooted to the spot. I just watched as she took a step forward, then another. She looked like she was in a trance.

"Alice," I said.

"Yes?" she asked, turning her head to face me. She stopped walking.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Bringing this to an end," she said. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

"No," I said.

"Don't lie to me," she said. "I know you want to put all this behind you and move on."

The bad feeling got worse. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

"No, I…" I began. She turned away and took another step towards the edge of the bridge. She had come to the side of the road and was about to step onto the pavement.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"Stop," I said, meekly.

She did so, and her head turned to face me again.

"Why?" she asked.

I said nothing. I couldn't think of an answer. Why should she stop? I had no right to control her.

She turned away again, and took another step forward. Now she was on the pavement.

"Stop," I said again, a little more strongly than before. Again she stopped, and turned to me.

"Why?" she asked again.

"Because I don't want you to," I said.

"That's not true," she said. "You want this to end. You want me out of your life."

"No," I said.

Again she turned away, and again she took another step. By now she was at the barrier at the side of the bridge, and I knew that if I made any more mistakes she'd be mounting the barrier and possibly–

"Stop!" I said forcefully. Again she did so; again her head turned to face me.

"Why?" she asked again.

"Because this isn't how I want it to end," I said.

She smiled.

"Now we're getting somewhere," she said.

There was a flash of light, and suddenly Alice was replaced by Laura. She leaned back against the barrier of the bridge and grinned at me with an expression that made my skin crawl. This wasn't the Laura I knew — or was it?

"Say it again," she said.

"This isn't how I want it to end," I said again without hesitation. "This isn't the way it should end."

"Isn't it?" she asked. "Why not?"

"Because it's not right!" I asked. "There's no reason to it!"

"No, there's not," she said. She didn't elaborate.

I wanted to walk towards her and — I didn't know what I'd do when I got to her. But it was irrelevant; still my feet were rooted to the floor, and all I could do was watch.

There was no reason to all this. There was no reason to what had happened. There was no reason as to why I was the one who was still alive and yet–

"No, there's not," she'd said.

Wait. Was this…

"Chaos," I muttered under my breath.

"Good!" said Laura, giving me a condescending slow clap as she walked towards me.

"I'll beat you," I said, not entirely convincingly.

"You'll beat me?" she — it? — said with a mocking tone in her voice. "You'll beat me? You're the one who brought me here."

I was stunned into silence for a moment. What was she talking about?

"But you're Laura," I said. "Aren't you?"

"And who is Laura?" she asked. She'd walked right up to me by now, and pressed her body against mine. It was an exciting sensation that made my skin tingle, but I couldn't think about that now. "Who is this girl?"

She stepped back and gestured at her body with a rather grand flourish.

"Who is Laura?" she asked again. "Who is this girl so precious to you?"

"She's–" I stopped and amended my statement, though I didn't know what was accurate any more. "You're my friend. My only friend."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, a smile creeping up the corners of her mouth again.

"Yes," I said, though my voice made it plenty clear that I wasn't really sure.

"How did we meet?" she asked, moving close to me, putting her face right in front of mine. I could lean forward and kiss her right now if I wanted to.

"What?" I said.

"I said, how did we meet?" she said. "If I'm so precious to you, surely you must remember that."

I looked into her eyes. My skin crawled again, but at the same time I felt excited. A combination of fear and eroticism that wasn't altogether unpleasant, but–

"I don't remember," I whispered. It was true. It had been bothering me, recently, and there was apparently no sense in hiding anything from Laura, or whatever this thing that looked like her, was.

"No," she said. "You don't. Do you know why?"

She leaned her head over my shoulder and whispered into my ear.

"There is no reason," she whispered.

Suddenly, she was gone from next to me, and standing in the middle of the road again. I swallowed.

"There's no reason," I repeated.

It was starting to make a twisted sort of sense. Why all this was happening. What Aril, and Laura, and Alice all wanted from me — or, more accurately, what I wanted from them.

"There is no reason," I said again. Was that true? Could I accept that fact?

"Yes," she said.

"There is no reason," I repeated, like a mantra. "There is no reason. There is no reason. There is no reason!"

"There is no reason for what?" she asked finally.

I closed my eyes, and felt tears welling up in them. I took several deep breaths; in, out; in, out. I shivered and clenched my fists. Then I opened my eyes and stared at Laura — or whatever she really was.

"There is no reason that I'm the one who was able to walk away while Alice and my parents didn't," I said after a pause that felt like it was years in length.

"That's right," she said in a low voice, walking towards me. She grabbed my collar. "There is no reason. That is the essence of chaos. And that is what you are coming to understand. Am I wrong?"

Was she right? Was there really no reason? Was it just fate? No, that's a reason. Destiny? No; another word for fate. Luck? Perhaps. Karma? No.

Chaos?

"Yes, you see it now," she said in a harsh whisper. "There is no reason. You can work and work and work to be the best you can be, but still there are times when everything is beyond your control. Times when you cannot predict the future. Times when everything seems without reason. Those times really are without reason. That is chaos. That is the way of the world. That is what you need to accept."

I closed my eyes.

I could see it. The smashed, mangled wreckage. The broken window through which I made my escape.

The bodies.

I was the one who had survived. I was the one who had escaped. Was that enough? Would that take away the guilt I felt?

I had left them behind. What I'd done was unforgivable. I'd left them to–

I opened my eyes again. Both Laura and Alice were standing before me, both oddly expressionless.

My body was still motionless, but something was different. Could I move?

I took a step forward. Yes, I could.

I turned towards the barrier on the bridge and walked forward. I stopped after a couple of steps and looked over my shoulder at Alice and Laura. They were still standing completely motionless, staring into the distance.

Whatever Laura, Chaos, or whatever she was had said, I wasn't sure I could accept her words. I couldn't just eradicate my guilt by accepting that "shit happens," which is basically what she was saying.

The accident may have been the work of random chance — of chaos — but my response to it was not.

A sudden flash of light. I glanced over my shoulder and Laura was no-longer there. Alice still stood staring into the distance, though. I turned back to the barrier. Just moments earlier I'd been watching Alice walking slowly towards this barrier; now it was my turn. Something was trying to push me over the edge here. Literally.

I felt myself climbing up onto the barrier — by now, my body felt like it was moving on autopilot. I stood on the side and once again looked down into the murky black miasma below.

I wouldn't be coming back from that. There would be no return from it.

Should I?

I weighed up my options, feeling oddly rational about the whole thing. I pictured Aril's face in my mind as I contemplated.

If I fell now, no-one would mourn me. There was no-one left to mourn me. My parents and sister were — well, I'd left them behind, and that guilt stayed with me, making me feel physically sick.

On the other hand, something else was telling me that if I fell now, there would be no answers, no resolution. Just an ending from which there would be no return.

Did I want that? It was certainly the easy option. Was it worth sticking around to try and find those answers, though? Did they even exist? Or was this another example of Laura's — Chaos' — "there are no reasons"?

I didn't know.

That loneliness I felt constantly kept gnawing at me, though. That feeling that if I were to jump right now and never be seen again, no-one would know; no-one would care.

"What makes you think that?" said Alice's voice softly behind me. I held on to the bridge support and looked over my shoulder. She was facing me. "I care."

"Do you?" I asked. "Do you care?"

"Yes," she said. "I care."

"Then prove it," I said.

"How?" she said.

"Say it," I said. "You saved me once before by saying it. Say it again."

There was a pause, and she looked down at the floor. I swallowed.

She looked back up at me, her eyes wide.

"Joshua," she said.

The post 1044: Chapter 27 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I kept running. Into the night. I didn't know where I was going. All I knew was that I needed to be as far away from that horrifying sight as possible.

I ran. The cold night air whipped past my face; it stung, and made my eyes water, mingling with the tears that were falling from pure fear.

I ran.

I stumbled.

I fell.

I lay on the ground, just staring at the night sky. I didn't know how far I'd run, or how long I'd been running for. I was still in the middle of nowhere, though, but right now I didn't care. I was scared; my body was in "fight or flight" mode, but everything hurt too much to go any further.

A piercing sound shattered the silence of the night. I jumped. It took me a moment to identify the source of the sound as my phone in my pocket, which had somehow survived everything that had happened unscathed.

Uneasily, I pulled the phone out of my pocket. I glanced at the screen. It was 2:30 in the morning, and a number I didn't recognise was calling me.

Who was it? I didn't want to answer, but I figured if someone was calling at this hour, it was probably important. Perhaps it was–

"Hello?" I said in a cracked voice, tapping the option to answer the call.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late," came a voice on the other end of the phone. I didn't recognise it. It was speaking urgently. "But I'm afraid I have something you need to hear right now."

“What is it?” I said breathlessly. I felt like I had just run a marathon. Perhaps I had.

“There’s been an accident,” said the voice. “Involving your family. We need you to–”

I didn't hear the rest. I took the phone away from my ear, and the horrifying realisation of what I had done crept up on me.

I had been in an accident with the rest of my family, for whom it might already be too late, and instead of trying to help them… instead of trying to help them, I had just run away.

Why had I done that?

Fear, I guessed, but it didn't make me feel any better. The fact was, they were lying there in that wreckage, and somehow, miraculously, here I was, all but unscathed — physically, at least — and I had done nothing. Nothing at all.

I'm an awful person, I thought. I am the worst person in the entire world. My family have never done anything but support me and look after me, even in my most difficult times, and when they needed me, I just turned my back and ran away. I am an awful person. I am weak. I am terrible.

Guilt flooded my body. I felt it creeping in through my skin; it was a horrific, crawling sensation, like a million insects had burrowed into my flesh and were now working their way through my body. I scratched my arms, but the sensation didn't go away.

I threw up, and just lay there breathlessly looking at the pool of my own vomit for a moment. I became aware that there was still a sound coming from the phone.

I pressed the button and hung up. I didn't deserve to hear it.

*

Eventually, I walked back to the road and managed to flag down a passing motorist. My disheveled state caused them to take pity on me and give me a lift home. As it happened, we weren't far out, and the late-night driver was going the right way.

We passed the blue flashing lights of an ambulance as we drove through the dark night. I turned away, my heart hurting.

"Whew, that looks nasty," said my companion. "Hope whoever was involved in that is all right."

I shivered. I was involved in that, and I was all right, but–

"Mm," I said absently, trying not to let my voice betray my guilt.

The drive continued in silence for a while. Apparently my companion didn't like to listen to the radio.

"So, what were you doing out here by yourself at this time of night?" he asked eventually.

"Car broke down," I said, trying not to let my voice shake. "Just want to get home." I'd worked out the story before he asked it. I hoped it was convincing.

"Ugh, bad luck for you," he said. "You don't have breakdown cover?"

"No," I said. "I'll get it sorted tomorrow."

Silence fell again.

"Thanks for this," I said, grateful for the kindness of this stranger.

Kindness I didn't deserve.

*

When I finally got home, I thanked the stranger again and watched him drive off into the night. I unlocked the door, went inside and went straight up to my room. I lay face down on my bed and just cried.

At some point I fell asleep, because when I raised my head again, light was starting to come in through the window. A new day was beginning, for some of us anyway. Others hadn't been so lucky.

I groaned and sat up. I retrieved my phone from my pocket. The battery had gone flat at some point during the journey home, so I plugged it in to the charger. Nothing happened for a moment — it normally took a few minutes for it to get enough charge to do anything if it was completely flat.

Last night felt like a bad dream. Perhaps it was a bad dream.

I staggered to my feet and stood up. I looked in the mirror and saw that my face was filthy. I turned away, and walked out. I looked in on my parents' room, and there was no-one there; it was made up exactly as if it was expecting its occupants to come home any moment. I looked in on my sister's room — it, too, was made up perfectly, as if nothing was wrong.

But something was terribly, terribly wrong. These rooms wouldn't see their occupants again.

There was no way.

It was impossible.

Not after what I'd done.

I went back to my room. The phone had sucked up enough charge to turn itself back on, and I saw that there were ten missed calls, all from the same number that had phoned me last night. There was a voicemail message, too.

I couldn't bring myself to listen to it.

*

I opened my eyes, and I found myself standing on the barrier at the side of the bridge. Aril was still leaning on the pillar behind me. He looked bored.

I looked down. The water below still looked like a swirling black mass of evil. One part of me just wanted to cast myself into that abyss and never be seen again; the other knew that was a terrible idea.

That other part of me was standing behind me, looking bored.

"You're not going to jump," he said calmly.

"Why?" I asked.

"You already know why," he said. "You know perfectly well why."

"But it was my fault!" I said.

"Was it?" he asked, his voice still infuriatingly calm and rational.

"Of course it was!" I cried. "I left them behind. I left them to… to die."

"Oh?" he said. I was facing the other way, but I could tell from the tone of his voice that he'd probably raised an eyebrow. "And if you'd stayed, what would you have done?"

"I…" I trailed off.

What would I have done?

I had no answer.

"Exactly," he said. "Now come on down."

I thought about what he had said. Silence hung over us. Time seemed to stand still.

"No," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I don't deserve to live," I said.

"Why?" he asked again.

"Because I'm the one who walked away," I said. "And I'm the one who has least to offer. I'm pathetic. I'm nothing. I'm worthless. No-one cares."

"Is that true?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I have you. I have Laura. I have Alice. Like I said before. But it's not enough. None of this is real. None of you are real. I can't accept this. I can't go on like this."

"Now you're starting to understand," he said. His voice hadn't raised once during this whole conversation, while I wanted to scream and shout everything I said. It infuriated me, but not because he was being condescending; it infuriated me because I knew he was right.

I turned around carefully, and stepped down off the barrier. Aril showed no sign of relief or exasperation. He just looked at me.

"Good," he said. "I think I'm done here."

He extended his hand to me. I took it. He shook my hand once, then my vision filled with a bright white light. It blinded me and disoriented me. My skin seemed to tingle. Something indescribable felt… different. I couldn't describe it.

The sensation soon passed, and I felt a rushing of wind — or did I? I wasn't sure what was real any more — and eventually the light faded.

When my eyes recovered from the brilliance of the shining white light, I was standing in my bedroom. It was dark. I glanced at the clock radio.

2:30.

The post 1043: Chapter 26 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

There was a momentary sound like radio static, and the surroundings of my bedroom disappeared, only to be replaced by the empty, darkened corridors of the college.

No-one was here. I could see a hint of daylight off in the distance, but no evidence that anyone was alive; no evidence that this building had not been abandoned for years.

The static sound again; this time, the corridors were replaced by the darkened, foul-smelling innards of the long-forgotten supermarket. There was no-one here, either, and the stench of the spoiled food was overpowering.

Static again; this time a place I'd passed by many times before but hadn't given a second thought — the bridge over the river on the way from my house to the centre of town.

I stood still, waiting for the static sound and another sudden shift, but it didn't come.

There was a dark mist in the air, though looking up at the sky I could tell it was still daytime. There were no cars on the street, though, and not a soul to be seen in any direction.

I was standing in the middle of the road, a place I'd passed many times before in Laura's car or on the bus but had barely noticed at all. I walked over to the edge of the bridge and looked down. It was a long drop into the water below. The water didn't look normal, either; it seemed to be a swirling mass of darkness from which there'd be no return if you jumped.

I shivered slightly. The thought of jumping off this bridge had never even occurred to me in the past, but now it was at the forefront of my mind, as if someone was urging me on to mount the barriers at the side of the road and just let myself fall.

"No," I said, even though there was no-one to hear me. My voice sounded very hollow and lifeless in the empty surroundings.

Was this Alice's world? It certainly fit the description. There was no-one around, and there was an almost palpable aura of loneliness about the place. I imagined my sister walking these streets by herself, that defiant expression on her face, and I felt a tear fall from my eye.

The silent urging to leap into the miasma below continued in the back of my mind. I ignored it.

"No," I said again. "No!" I shouted, louder. "No!" I cried. My voice echoed in the empty streets.

The static sound again, and suddenly I was sitting back in the cinema next to Laura, who looked completely engrossed in the film. I gasped, and she turned to face me in surprise.

"You okay?" she said. "It's not THAT exciting."

I looked around. There was no evidence that I'd been anywhere. Was all that in my head?

"Yeah," I said, "No, I'm… I'm just going to step out for a moment."

I made my excuses, walked out into the lobby and headed for the bathroom. The lights were on and the staff were standing around looking bored, but there didn't seem to be any other members of the public here. It was quiet and peaceful, but not the lonely sort of deserted in the landscapes I'd just seen.

I entered the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I had bags under my eyes, and my face was pale. I looked ill. I felt ill.

I ran the cold tap for a little while and washed my hands, then splashed the cold water on my face. The experience I'd just had meant that I wasn't quite sure if I was asleep or awake, so this was a vain attempt to figure it out. It didn't help.

I sighed and looked at myself again, staring deep into my own tired-looking eyes.

"This is getting too much," I said. "This needs to end."

"I quite agree," said Aril, stepping out of one of the toilet cubicles. I jumped and turned to face him.

"Jesus," I said, my pulse racing. I wasn't sure how many more frights I could take today. "What are you… actually, no, I'm not sure I want to know."

Aril ignored me. "You want this to end, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"And you're starting to figure some things out, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. It was true. Though there were almost as many unanswered questions as there were things I was starting to get a handle on.

"Then we need to start preparing for the end," he said.

"The end?" I asked. He was being mysterious, and I didn't like the… finality of the words he was using.

"Yes," he said. "The end. If you want this to end, it makes sense that you need to prepare for the end, right?" He sounded exasperated.

"Oh," I said. "Right. Yeah. That makes sense."

He sniffed and scratched his cheek.

"The only way you can reach an answer is by yourself," he said. "Alice and I are here to support you, but that last step has to be yours alone."

"Uh," I said. I didn't really know exactly what "step" he was referring to.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said.

"No," I said. "I'm not sure I do."

"Are you sure about that?" said Aril. "Think about what you've experienced today."

I thought back over what had happened. I had no idea what was real and what was just in my mind any more. Everything overlapped and blended into each other like wet paints on a canvas. Only there wasn't a clear picture forming; just a mass of colours, none of which made any sense, and none of which seemed more "right" than others.

I contemplated the feelings I had experienced on the bridge. A strong, hard to resist urge to launch myself into the dark miasma of the river below, perhaps never to be seen again. Something was telling me to do that, but at the same time, part of myself felt like it was holding me back, that it would be a terrible idea.

"Think," said Aril. "You're getting somewhere."

I pictured the bridge.

Suddenly, the static sound again, and I was there, standing in the middle of the road. Aril was leaning against one of the pillars at the side, gazing at me nonchalantly.

"Right," he said. "Now what?"

I said nothing and looked around. Aril was the only soul around; the only movement in any direction.

"Do you want to jump?" he said.

"No," I said immediately.

"Why not?" he said.

"I don't know," I said.

Or did I?

I thought about this for a moment, and walked to the side again. I looked over the barrier, and down to the water below, which still looked like an evil black miasma rather than normal water.

I knew in my heart that if I jumped into there, I wouldn't be coming back.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"I'll ask again," he said. "Do you want to jump?"

"No," I said.

"You sound pretty sure," he said. "Why not?"

I thought as hard as I could. Why didn't I want to jump? Why didn't I just want to disappear? It would be so much easier if I just wasn't here any more. After all, no-one needed me. No-one cared about me. I was all alone. I had nothing, and no-one.

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind.

When I opened them again, I saw things a little differently.

"No," I said out loud, knowing that Aril had been listening to my thoughts. "That's not true at all, is it?"

"You tell me," said Aril.

"It's not true that no-one needs me," I said. "It's not true that no-one cares about me. I have you. And Alice. And Laura."

"Is that enough?" he asked.

"No," I said. The sudden, natural response that came out of my mouth without me having to even think about it surprised me. "No, it's not enough."

"And why not?" he asked.

"Because," I said. "Because none of this is real, is it? You're not really here. I'm not really here. Alice isn't really here. All of this is some deranged fantasy conjured up by that chaos beast, whatever it is, and it's driving me crazy!"

I started to shout, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot as I became angry.

Was I really being toyed with like this? Was everything that I had experienced so far a lie? It certainly didn't feel like it, but something in my mind was telling me that it was true.

"Oh, we're here all right," he said, a slight note of menace in his voice. "But perhaps you still have a little way to go before you completely understand the situation."

"What?" I asked. "What don't I understand yet? What is to understand? This is chaos we're talking about! Chaos! Its very nature is that it is unpredictable and difficult to understand! It's irrational! It doesn't make any sense! And I'm sick of it!"

Aril smiled at me.

"Let me ask you a question," he said. "What is it that you want?"

I just stared at him, my fists still clenched from my previous outburst.

"What?" I asked.

"What is it that you want?" he repeated. "What is your desire, right now? What do you want to do? Where do you want to be? What, more than anything, do you want to happen?"

"I want…" I paused and considered this for a moment. What did I want?

The answer came quickly.

*

It was dark. The low murmur of the guy talking about some play on the radio was putting me to sleep — particularly when coupled with the hum of the engine and the pattering of the rain on the windscreen and the roof. It was fairly peaceful, but the back seat wasn’t very comfortable and I was starting to feel my usual sensation of travel sickness. I wasn’t sure when I started getting it, but it was always unpleasant. It just made me want to curl up in a corner and groan, and that’s not really practical when you’re sitting in the back of a car — not least because my mother usually told me to sit up, and also because Alice was sitting on the other side of the back seat, sound asleep. I doubted she'd have appreciated my head in her lap. I was pretty sure she'd only been dragged along on this trip to pick me up because my mother was paranoid about leaving her in the house by herself.

I closed my eyes. The car gave an occasional bump on uneven parts of the road, but the motion was mostly fairly relaxing.

“So, did you have a good time?” I heard my mother’s voice saying. “You look exhausted. Hope you didn’t spend all your time drinking and carousing.”

“No,” I grunted, in a vain attempt to try and close off the conversation before it began. I really wasn’t in the mood.

“So what was the best bit?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It was all pretty fun.”

I was going to think back on what had occurred over the last few days, but the bubbling feeling in my stomach wasn’t going away, so I just found myself thinking about that. Thinking about it didn’t help, of course, since focusing on it just made the feelings worse. The more conscious I was of them, the more I thought I was going to throw up. I tried to think about something — anything — else.

“Oh, come on, Jan,” said my father slightly irritably. “Can’t you see he’s knackered? Let him rest. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and I’m sure we can talk about it in the morning.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” said my mother in a mock-flustered tone, as if she had somehow offended me with her questions. “I’ll shut up.”

My father didn’t rise to her bait, and instead turned the radio up. Whatever it was the voice was talking about was terribly boring, but I was thankful for the distraction — both for my own gurgling stomach and from my mother’s incessant questioning. She never did quite know when to stop.

A few minutes passed, and no-one except the droning bore on the radio said anything. I was aware of Alice stirring beside me, but she didn't wake up. Eventually the programme came to an end, and it was time for the news. The radio gave the distinctive “pips” that signalled it was on the hour, and the newsreader announced that it was two o’ clock in the morning. I didn’t really listen to the bulletin; the smooth, soothing voice of the female newsreader washed over me and made me relax.

Patterns swirled behind my eyes. I recognised this as a sure sign I was tired. I knew that if I opened my eyes again, those patterns would still be there; hypnotic, washing over my vision. I focused on them, trying to make sense of them, and felt my consciousness slowly, gradually drifting away. I was falling asleep at last. Hopefully by the time I woke up again, we’d be home and I could just get into bed.

I don’t know how long I slept for, but I was awoken with a start by a sudden noise. It was my mother screaming. My eyes snapped open, but it took a moment for me to figure out what was going on. My mother was frantically grabbing for the steering wheel and there, in the driver’s seat, where my father should have been… was no-one at all. At least, that’s what it seemed like.

I blinked, and he was back again, wrestling with the wheel. But it was too late. The car was in a skid, and it was heading for the barrier at the side of the road. I didn’t know what was beyond it as it was still dark, but I had a bad feeling. I looked over at Alice, who was fully awake, and staring at me with absolute terror in her eyes.

The car, which was still moving at a fair speed, crashed straight through the barrier and into the blackness beyond. I felt the world spin sideways, and I knew that there was a drop beyond the barrier. I didn’t know how big it was or how long we would fall, but I knew that we were probably not coming back from it.

My stomach felt like it was in my mouth as the car went into freefall, still spinning and rolling in the air. The world felt like it was in slow motion. I wanted to look around, to work out what was going on, but I couldn’t — I was being thrown around too much.

I couldn’t hear anything. I was sure my mother, father and sister were both screaming in terror at the inevitable fate that seemed to await us, but somehow everything seemed to be muted; a silent, frightening world with no future.

The last sounds I heard were shattering glass, crumpling metal and the sickening crunch of bones.

I blacked out.

I don't know how long I was out for, but I woke up. And somehow, miraculously, despite the devastation around me, I was fine.

I crawled out of the shattered window.

And I ran.

The post 1042: Chapter 25 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Suddenly, a piercing sound from the other side of the room. It took me a moment to identify it as the ringtone of my phone which, as usual, I’d put out of reach so I’d have to get up and turn it off in the morning. I jumped to my feet and dove for the phone. The sound was shattering the silence of my room, just as I was getting used to it, and I wanted it to go away.

I didn’t recognise the number that was coming up on the screen. I didn’t want to answer, but I figured if someone was calling at this hour it was probably important. So, with some trepidation, I tapped the option on the screen to answer the call.

“Hello?” I said in a cracked voice.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late," came a voice on the other end of the phone. I didn't recognise it. It was speaking urgently. "But I'm afraid I have something that you need to hear right now."

My pulse quickened further. I could feel my chest pounding.

"What is it?" I said breathlessly. I felt like I had just run a marathon.

"There's been an accident," said the voice. "Involving your family. We need you to–"

*

I woke up suddenly, sweating profusely. It wasn't the first time I'd remembered that time in my dreams, but this felt by far the most vivid. It felt like I was there again, experiencing those terrible feelings once more. But as always happened, I woke up before the conclusion. The memories of what happened after the part I had just dreamed were vague and fuzzy; why couldn't I remember them clearly?

I sat up and threw the covers off me. I was feeling hot, and my body was covered with sweat. I glanced at the clock radio and was not surprised to see that it was, of course, 2:30 in the morning.

Alice was already here now, though, so I didn't need to creep into her room or do anything weird with… "gates" or anything like that. Right?

I felt uneasy. Something didn't feel quite right.

I got up.

It was too quiet. This really didn't feel right. I walked out into the hallway and headed for Alice's room — she'd taken up residence in there, for now, as it made sense. I had no idea where Aril was sleeping, or even if he needed sleep, and I didn't ask.

I put my hand on the doorknob and paused for a moment. I felt uneasy. I shook it off, turned the knob and opened the door. I looked in.

The bed was empty.

My blood ran cold. I froze on the spot. My heart felt like it had stopped.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring at the empty, made-up bed. But it must have been a while.

What had happened? Had she been… taken back? Had she–

"What are you doing?" came a voice behind me. I let out a shout and fell to my knees. "Jesus! What's the matter?"

"I thought you'd gone," I whispered breathlessly. "I really thought you'd gone. That you'd been taken from me. That you were gone."

I could barely breathe. My heart was beating fast. I was in a panic.

I felt Alice's hand on my shoulder.

"Relax. It's okay. I'm here."

I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. I felt her hand squeeze my shoulder, and I heard her kneel down behind me. I felt her arms wrap around my neck from behind, and her head rest on my shoulder.

"It's okay," she said again. "Breathe."

*

I don't remember going back to bed, but when I woke up, the sunlight was coming in through the window. I heard a gentle tapping on my door, and knew it was Alice.

"Hey," she said. "You awake?"

"Yeah," I grunted. I sat up. I could smell myself; the stale stench of sweat. It wasn't pleasant.

"I'm going to make some breakfast," she said. "You want some?"

"Sure," I said.

I heard her footsteps walk away. I got up and went into the bathroom for a shower. I felt somewhat refreshed when I stepped out, and by the time I'd pulled some clothes on I could smell the waft of bacon coming up the stairs. I followed it to discover Alice waiting for me with a bacon sandwich for each of us. I gratefully received it, and ate it in just a few bites. It was delicious.

"Thanks," I said.

"You're welcome," she said. "You better hurry, or you'll be late. I'll be all right here. Aril should be back soon."

I looked up at the clock. She was right. I said my goodbyes and headed out the door.

*

When I arrived at college, I found Laura waiting for me.

"So," she said, a grim look on her face. "You want to let me in on what's going on?"

"I'm not sure what there is to say," I said. "You obviously know that Alice is here, and…" I trailed off.

"What about the club?" she said. "What did you write for them?"

"Just… a piece of creative writing," I said. "Nothing special. They said they'd publish it."

She was making me feel uneasy. I couldn't quite pin down why. When had my feelings toward her changed so much?

And when had her feelings changed?

She was looking at me with a sour expression, and it wasn't the usual one she used to mock me. She looked genuinely annoyed. I felt a bit guilty.

"Hey," I said, trying to soften my tone and stop this turning into a confrontation. "I'm sorry I've been a bit weird recently. It's just… you know. Been a lot to deal with."

Her mouth was still turned down, but her eyes seemed to soften a bit. She sighed.

"Oh, it's all right," she said. "Just don't leave me out of the loop, you know? I worry about you. And… do you remember what I told you?"

I felt further pangs of guilt. I'd been leaving her by herself, after she'd opened her heart and told me she felt lonely.

"Yes," I said. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"All right," she said, smiling for the first time. "Let's do something, then. Come on, we'll blow off classes today and go do something fun."

I hesitated. We were already here. Surely someone had seen us? I looked around. No-one seemed to be paying any attention to either one of us. The invisible twosome.

Laura looked at me expectantly.

"All right," I said. "What do you want to do?"

"Well," she said, "let's make it like a date, huh? How about we go catch a movie, grab some food, maybe do something else fun? My treat."

She seemed eager. Something made me feel a little uneasy about her eagerness, but my guilt overrode those feelings and made me go along with her. I found myself nodding enthusiastically before I was sure what I was doing.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me along. We hastily left the building, got into her car and headed for town.

The first stop was the cinema. I didn't recognise any of the films that were on, so I let Laura pick. Before long, we were sitting in the dark next to each other, with a big tub of popcorn and a large drink between us. We were the only ones in there. Laura started stuffing kernels of popcorn into her mouth one after another like an assembly line. I took one and chewed on it for a little while as I watched the adverts go around and around.

Eventually, the lights dimmed completely, and the trailers started. I remembered why I didn't pay much attention to movies, even despite the fact we'd only been to one recently. All of them seemed so loud, so in your face, so… chaotic. That was part of the thing with trailers, of course. They had to make the movies they were for seem exciting. They had to–

Suddenly my view was blocked by Laura's face, and I became aware that she was straddling me. I felt strange, and afraid. I still remembered the last time something had seemingly happened with Laura, and how she had reacted when I had said something about it.

"Come on," she whispered to me. "I know you've been thinking about it."

I looked at her. I knew that the fear was probably showing in my eyes.

"I know I was a bit weird when you had that… fantasy, delusion, whatever it was," she said, leaning forward and kissing me on the side of my neck. It felt like electricity was shooting through my veins. "But, you know, I've been thinking about it, and… well…"

She shifted her body weight forward and started to grind herself against me. It was incredibly erotic, but I was still rooted to the spot. The only part of me that was moving was–

"Gosh," she said, reaching her hand forward and touching it. "You have been thinking about it. Dirty boy."

She moved again, and it started to feel good, but I still felt uncomfortable. What was I supposed to do here? I sort of wanted to do things back to her, but at the same time, I was afraid the same thing as last time would happen.

"Come on," she whispered at me, leaning in and nibbling on my earlobe. "Come on. Come on."

I blacked out. Or at least, I stopped being aware of everything around me. I couldn't see the screen, I couldn't hear the sound, I couldn't see Laura in front of me, close enough to kiss.

I wasn't aware of my own body.

I'd been here before. Complete darkness. The total absence of anything. Where was this? Was it anywhere? Had I passed through a "gate" without realising it? No, it couldn't be that; passing into that strange darkness last time had needed Aril's help.

I was all alone. I tried to move, but the total absence of anything around me — even light or air — made it difficult to judge whether or not I was actually doing anything.

I found myself missing them. All of them.

I missed Alice's confidence, ability to make things seem simple, and assertiveness.

I missed Aril's calmness and rationality.

And I missed Laura's loyalty, unpredictability and sense of… chaos.

Chaos?

No, it couldn't be. Laura was…

I found myself trying to remember again. Where had Laura come from? Why were we friends? How had we met?

The thoughts flitted away from me as I tried to grasp onto them, and I became aware of a presence. A horrible, menacing presence that made what I assumed was still my skin crawl. A feeling of darkness, a feeling that anything could happen at any time, a feeling of…

Yes. Chaos.

"I see you're beginning to understand," came a booming voice that seemed to reverberate through my entire skull.

"Yes," I said, picturing how Alice would respond to this situation. "I am starting to see the truth."

"Then you probably want this to end," said the voice. It sounded amused.

I pictured Aril's face and responded calmly and rationally. "It will end when the time is right," I said. "And the time isn't right yet. Not all the pieces are in place."

"Very good!" said the voice with a somewhat condescending tone. "The time is drawing near. You know this, of course. You will have a choice to make. And you will have to–"

Laura's face flashed into my mind, and I suddenly leapt with cat-like agility at where I thought the voice was coming from, my fist outstretched. I didn't feel it hit anything, but I knew that it had passed through… something.

The voice chuckled.

"Yes," it said. "Yes! This is good."

The world suddenly came back into focus, and I was sitting on the side of my bed, awake and fully dressed.

What had just happened?

The post 1041: Chapter 24 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I found myself wondering if she'd be able to stay. My thoughts once again strayed to the unwelcome fact that she didn't belong in this world. "My" Alice was gone now. Could she really be replaced by this… alternative version? She was exactly the same in almost every respect — the only difference was in what she had lived through. It must have been horrifying.

And yet there was something different. I don't think I had ever felt so close to my sister. We were siblings and we loved each other, sure, but more often than not in the past I'd kept myself to myself and she'd gone on with her own life. She'd always been the social, outgoing one; I'd always been the awkward loser spending most of his time in his room. We'd had our disagreements and fights, too; there were times when she got frustrated with me and the way I was, I think, and just took out that frustration on me by hurling insults she didn't really mean. I never responded. Whatever she said, I never felt like I could say a harsh word to her.

Now, it was different. She was still the feisty Alice I knew, but there was more obvious warmth, affection and love in the way she treated me. Was this the result of her loneliness? Of the horrors she'd been through? Or was it me who'd changed? Was I the one who was coming to understand her a little better, and she was just starting to respond to me in a different way accordingly?

I wasn't sure just yet. But I felt like I was creeping ever-closer to an answer.

There were still other questions to resolve, too, not least of which was this mysterious "chaos" thing that was there as a constant, menacing backdrop to our time together. Every time I looked at Alice, I became aware that there was a reason she was here, and it wasn't a happy one.

It didn't help that I still had no idea what I was supposed to do. How do you deal with something that is pure chaos? How do you deal with something that is clearly capable of devastating atrocities? How do you deal with something that can mess with your mind so thoroughly, even when it's not at its full strength?

Alongside that, there was my relationship with Laura. I wasn't sure where I stood any more. I felt like I'd been pushing her away a bit since Alice had come to this world. But oddly I didn't feel too bad about it, even despite what she'd told me about being alone. I thought I should feel guilt, but I didn't. She was slipping away, and I knew it, and I felt nothing.

I thought back over our time together, and something occurred to me: I had no idea how we had met, or when.

It hadn't struck me as particularly odd up until now. But today the thought refused to be ignored. I couldn't remember how or where I had met Laura, and the more I thought about it, the less it seemed to make sense.

She was a pretty, confident, nice girl who by all rights should have been surrounded by friends and admirers. And she chose to spend her time with me. Why would she do that? Why would she settle for me, as awkward and messed up as I am, when it's clear that she could do so much better? Why didn't she have any other friends? And why couldn't I remember where she had come from?

"Ow," said Alice. I became aware that I had been squeezing her hand rather tighter than I had meant to.

"Sorry," I said. She didn't let go.

We continued to walk in silence.

I tried to put thoughts of Laura out of my mind. She wasn't important right now. The only person who mattered was Alice. She was here with me now, and she was helping me. I didn't want to feel too much like I was relying on her — I was starting to think that was a problem both Laura and I were having with each other — but I was glad to have her around. And I hoped she felt the same way. She certainly didn't seem to have a problem with being here. I suppose that anything must be better than being stuck in the only remaining hint of civilisation in an otherwise-devastated world.

"What's it like?" I said out loud suddenly, before I realised what I was asking.

"What?" she said, looking up at me.

"Your world," I said. The words were just coming out. I didn't want to upset her, but at the same time I wanted to know.

"Oh," she said. She turned away and looked a little sad for a moment. Then she looked back at me with a surprisingly bright face. "It's actually not as bad as you might think. I know I've complained and cried and whatnot when you showed up, but that was more out of shock than anything. It feels weird to say this, but it's not so bad."

"Really?" I asked. Her response surprised me. I considered how I would feel if I was in her situation, and realised that it was entirely possible that I wouldn't survive it. I shivered slightly.

"Yes," she said. "I mean, yes, it's desperately lonely and I do hate not having anyone to talk to. I much prefer it here, where I can talk to you and Aril and anyone else I see whenever I want, but you know, being all alone doesn't have to be awful."

"No?" I asked. I was genuinely interested in what she had to say. It sounded like the worst thing possible to me.

"No," she said. "It's nice to be, I don't know, free. Oh, God, that sounds awful. I didn't mean to say that I'm glad everyone's gone. But, you know, it's really nice to know that you're not being judged or pressured to do stuff. I can just be who I want to be without having to worry about anything like that."

"Huh," I said. I hadn't thought of it that way. And it was true — loneliness was a terrible, awful feeling that I had experienced, though not on the same level as Alice clearly had, but being by yourself didn't have to be a terrible thing. Even when you're surrounded by people, you can feel lonely. You can feel their eyes on you, sizing you up, trying to work out what sort of person you are. And I'd do the same, wondering what the best way to approach that person and strike up a conversation with them would be.

It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to people or make new friends. It was that I couldn't. I'd feel completely crippled by this sense of self-doubt and believe that the person I was looking at wouldn't want to speak to me, ever, and thus I'd just sit there and not talk to anyone. It's why I stopped going to college parties. I tried going to a few but after a while it just got more depressing to watch all the people who could do it having fun in front of me, as if they were mocking me. Rationally, I knew that they weren't, of course — they were just being themselves — but it still stung all the same.

"Look," said Alice seriously. "I know you're hurting. I know it's been that way for a while. And I know that, if your Alice is anything like me, I probably haven't helped much in the past either. But I also know that you're strong. You may feel battered and beaten and broken, but you're still standing. You're still here. You're still going. You're always pushing forwards. You're always trying to make it better, whether or not you realise it."

It was the most mature thing I think I'd ever heard come out of her mouth, and again it surprised me a little. I wasn't quite sure how to respond to it, so I just squeezed her hand affectionately and we continued to walk.

"Thanks," I said a few minutes later.

"Uh?" she said.

"You're right," I said. "I look at you, who has been through something infinitely worse than anything I can possibly imagine, and then I look at me, who has his own stuff to deal with, sure, but nothing on that scale. If you can stay standing after what you've been through, then surely I can, too."

"That's the spirit," she said, smiling broadly at me. "Now how about we stop at the shop on the way home? I want chocolate."

We took a detour to the little corner shop that was a few blocks away from my house and bought Alice some chocolate. I bought myself an energy drink in an attempt to wake myself up a little bit. It didn't feel like it was helping, but I gulped it down anyway.

"Those things'll kill you," said Alice, munching on her chocolate bar. "Some chemical they used to use on soldiers in Vietnam or something."

"Bollocks," I said, laughing.

"It's true!" said Alice. "I remember reading it online before 'online' didn't exist any more."

"Oh, and you believe everything you read online, do you?" I asked. It momentarily occurred to me that Alice might have come from a dimension where you could trust everything you read online, but that just seemed too ridiculous a prospect to even contemplate.

"No," she said, giggling.

This was nice. It was like old times, only better. I loved her. I didn't want her to go away again. I wanted my life to carry on almost as it was now, though I could live without that constant slight feeling of lingering malice in the background.

She'd told me several times now that we were going to get through this whole situation, and that everything would be all right.

Finally, I was starting to believe her.

The post 1040: Chapter 23 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

There wasn't a lot to plan, really. I would go along to the club tomorrow, take something I'd written — which I still had to do — and then submit it. Alice would come along for moral support if I needed it, but quite rightly pointed out that I needed to be the one to do the talking if I could. It was no good her making bonds with people in this world, because–

I didn't finish that thought. I didn't want to think about that right now. Alice didn't belong here, and I didn't know what that meant in the long term. But it didn't matter. We had to resolve this situation, and it had to be soon. Every day we delayed, this "chaos"… thing grew in power, and if it regained the strength it had in Alice's world… well, then, I really didn't want to think about it.

"This is good pizza," said Alice. "Feels like forever since I've had one. Guess it has been quite a while. Hard to get one delivered if there's no-one else alive."

How could she do that? She was so strong. I had no idea how she had lived through the experience in her world and come out of the other end seemingly unscathed, cracking jokes about it. Everyone in her world was dead, and here she was munching on a slice of pizza in a world that was not her own as if nothing at all was amiss.

I envied her. I wished that I could adjust to new situations as quickly and deftly as she clearly could.

"Hey Alice," I said, swallowing the last piece of the slice I was on. "I've been meaning to ask, what were you doing for food? When I went to the supermarket in your world, all the power was off and everything was spoiled. It smelled awful."

"Oh, you know what Mum was like," said Alice, smiling. "Always kept a fully-stocked freezer. Turns out there was enough frozen bolognese and chillies and whatnot in there for several months, especially as I was the only one eating." She grinned at me. "After this pizza, though, I don't think I ever want to eat bolognese ever again."

I smiled at her. I was glad to have her in my life again, even if it was under these bizarre circumstances.

"So, Mr Author," said Aril grandly. "What are we going to write for your debut?"

He produced a pad of paper from somewhere and laid it down on the table. I thought for a moment.

"A piece of creative writing," I said. "I'm good at that." I felt a little guilty building myself up like that, but it was true — it was the one thing I knew I could do, and which I believed in my own abilities at.

"What about?" said Alice, interested.

"I'm not sure yet," I said. I took the pen which Aril had also produced from somewhere and chewed thoughtfully on the end of it.

Then I started to write.

The words flowed naturally and easily. They tumbled out of my head, through the pen and on to the paper. Before long, I'd filled a page.

"Easy there," said Aril. "You're not writing a novel."

"I know," I said.

"What are you writing?" said Alice.

"Oh, it's nothing," I said, a little embarrassed. I turned the pad away from her so she couldn't look over my shoulder. "You can have a look when it's done."

"All right," she said with a smile.

It didn't take much longer to finish. I filled two sheets of paper from the pad in the end. I could have gone on for a lot longer, but I figured it was better to try and finish it where I could. Like Aril said, I wasn't writing a novel, just something to publish in the magazine. That meant it had to be reasonably short, and good.

I wasn't sure it was either of those things.

Alice saw an opportunity and snatched the pad from me with a triumphant "Ha!". I went to stop her, but it was too late. She was already starting to read.

She read. I saw her eyes following each line, then returning to the start of the line, a little lower. She worked her way down the page, then onto the next.

Halfway down the second page, I saw her eyes grow moist.

By the end of the piece, tears were rolling down her face. She said nothing, and just put her arms around me.

"Looks like we're good to go," said Aril, smiling out of one corner of his mouth.

*

The next day, I went to school on the bus again. Alice promised to meet me after school, and we'd go to the club together. She reminded me that I had to do this myself, but she promised to be there to help me if I needed it.

The day passed in something of a haze. All I was focusing on was the task I had to complete after classes. I spent lunchtime with Laura, but don't remember what we talked about. I managed to get rid of her after classes by saying I needed to talk to some teachers about my coursework. She looked a little sad as she walked away. I felt bad for a little while, but she'd just get in the way.

And so I found myself outside the library. Alice stood next to me. She took my hand and squeezed it. I looked down at her, and her wide eyes gave me a look that said "you can do this."

I opened the door and walked in. Alice trailed behind me. I looked around. The club seemed to be assembled at a table at the far corner of the library. I went over.

"Ah, hello," said a guy with shaggy brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses. "Have a seat."

I recognised him. I wasn't sure why. I didn't think I had any classes with him… or did I?

I looked around the group. Something was familiar about all of them — the girl with the dyed red hair, the guy with a blonde bob that I always thought looked like a girl, the big guy with the sour expression on his face. Did I know these people? No, I couldn't.

My mind felt a little cloudy, but I remained lucid enough to sit down at the head of the table, directly opposite the guy who had first spoken to me.

I took out the pieces of paper with my contribution written on them and handed them over without saying a word. The guy in the glasses took them and looked them over. He nodded and passed them around the group.

The redheaded girl was the last to put the papers down. They all looked at me.

"That's really good," said the guy with the glasses. "That's really… brave. Very bold. Are you sure you want to do this?"

My mind remained cloudy. It felt like I was watching a dream, not sitting here talking to these people. I glanced over my shoulder to try and find Alice, but she was nowhere to be seen. I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and opened them again.

I regained my sense of self. What was that?

I looked over my shoulder again and Alice was there, pretending to look at a bookshelf. She glanced at me and smiled, then turned back to the book she was browsing. She looked out of place, but no-one commented on her presence.

"Yes," I said finally, looking right into the eyes of the guy with the glasses. Then I looked around the faces of the assembled people around the table. All of them were gazing at me with sympathetic eyes. "Yes, I'm sure."

I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to cry, but I didn't want to do it in front of these people. I didn't want to do it at all. But it was becoming harder and harder to resist.

I felt it build up inside me. It rose up from my heart, up my throat and out of my mouth as gulping sobs. My eyes filled with tears, and they started to flow freely down my face.

I covered my face with my hands and leaned on the table to support myself. My shoulders shook with every sob. The tears wouldn't stop. It was horrible to experience, but at the same time it was a sweet relief. I felt like this had been building up inside me for a long time, and letting it out seemed like a good thing to do.

I felt a hand on one shoulder, then the other. Alice?

I peeped out through a gap between my fingers. The sobbing was starting to subside, to be replaced by a dull feeling of absolute misery. I started to feel a little less embarrassed. The worst was over, so I could probably face Alice now.

I wiped my cheeks and eyes and took my hands away from my face. As my blurred vision came back into focus I was surprised to see not Alice standing next to me, but the faces of all of the assembled people from the club.

"What," I said. A sob threatened to prevent me from saying anything else. "What is this?"

They didn't say anything else. They just stood by me. I felt a sense of warmth and comfort.

I didn't understand. Surely this was wrong? I didn't know these people… did I? Or did I? There was something overwhelmingly familiar about them, and it occurred to me that when I had showed up today, not a single one of them had asked why I was there. Did they know me?

No, that couldn't be true, I thought. The only person in my life is Laura. And now Aril and Alice, of course. But before them, there was no-one but Laura. She'd stood by me and helped me out. She'd helped me to be strong, to deal with all this. She'd been my rock.

I felt a bit bad about how I'd been treating her recently, but it was too late now.

"I think we're good for today," said a voice that I recognised as the guy in the glasses. "Do you need any help getting home?"

I took a deep breath and slumped back in my chair.

"No," I said. "I think I'll be fine."

"All right," he said. "We'll print this in the next issue. Thank you so much for writing it."

They walked out and left me sitting there.

Alice came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Well done," she said softly. "I knew you could do it."

"Let's go home," I said. "And let's walk. I feel like I need to clear my head a bit."

"Sure," she said. She took my hand and led me out of the library. Once we got outside, the cool breeze felt good on my face. My eyes still stung a bit, but the feeling of wanting to break down in tears had passed. Now I just felt a bit numb.

I didn't quite understand what had happened today, but I knew that it was important. I knew that I'd taken a big step towards resolving this situation. But exactly how it fit into the whole picture wasn't yet clear to me.

"We'll get there," said Alice. "We'll be all right."

The post 1039: Chapter 22 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It was a ridiculous idea. It wouldn't work. It was too hard.

It actually made me nervous to think about. The idea of talking to people made me sweat. It made my hands shake. But I knew it was the only thing we had to go on for the moment.

I assumed that Laura wasn't going to show up, so I got up early and headed out to the bus stop. I hadn't caught the bus for a while. Too many people for my liking — and too many people that I didn't want to associate myself with.

No, I thought. I have to stop thinking like that. I'll never get through this if I keep alienating myself like that. I can't keep thinking that people are something to be feared and avoided.

I fiddled with my phone as a few people showed up at the bus stop. None of them gave me a second glance. I was glad. I wasn't quite ready for this yet. I continued cycling around between my email and the Web until the bus finally showed up, then pocketed my phone and handed the exact change to the driver without a word. I sat down in a vacant seat and tried to ignore the kids at the back blasting music out of their mobile phones. They intimidated me, even though they were clearly much younger than me. I hoped they didn't come over and harass me.

They didn't.

The bus arrived at college without incident. The younger kids got off well before my stop when the bus arrived at their school, leaving me to relax a little.

I walked into my classroom, not looking at anyone. I sat down. I didn't look around to try and find Laura. If she wanted to talk to me, she'd come and find me.

Morning registration was over before I knew it, and I slipped out as part of the rush. Morning classes also passed without incident. Laura didn't come and find me. I was quite glad. I couldn't face her right now.

Lunchtime came. Time for phase one of the plan — a bit of scouting.

I realised I had no idea where to start.

Alice had made a few suggestions. The college magazine. There certainly was one, but where would they meet? The library? The computer suites? I wasn't sure, so I headed for the library first. Sure enough, there was a scrappy-looking piece of paper taped to the wall inviting contributions for the next edition of the magazine. The next meeting was tomorrow after classes.

All right, I thought. I can spend a day preparing myself for that. But I'd need to show up with something to contribute. What? I'd never read the magazine, so I wasn't sure what sort of thing they were after.

I walked into the library. It was deserted. I wasn't surprised. It was cold and the selection of books wasn't particularly good, making it largely worthless to most of the student population. The librarian looked up with a start from her desk as I walked in, as if surprised to see another living being.

"Hello," she said. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," I said, my voice wavering. I realised I hadn't spoken all day. "Do you have a copy of the college magazine?"

"I think so," she said. "Hold on."

She disappeared into the mysterious office behind the counter and returned with a floppy-looking magazine made of sheets of copier paper stapled inexpertly together. It didn't look like much. Perhaps this wouldn't be so hard.

"It's fifty pence," she said.

It costs money? I thought. Of course it does.

I rummaged around in my pocket, hoping that I still had some change left over. Fortunately, I did, so I handed it over to the librarian and settled down at one of the desks to read my new acquisition. I had a feeling that no-one would be bothering me.

I opened the magazine. Inside it was quite professionally laid out, though the print quality wasn't up to much. You could tell it had been put together using some basic computer software and then just photocopied.

I flipped through. There was a surprising amount of well-written content. There was a full-page writeup on a recent sporting success for the college football team; some reviews of recent films; but what really caught my eye was a section that seemed to feature creative submissions — poetry and very short stories. I read them through and, to my modest eye, they certainly seemed like the sort of thing I could come up with without too much difficulty. I usually got good marks in my English Language classes for my creative projects, so perhaps that could be my contribution.

I closed the magazine and laid it down on the table. As I looked up, I realised that Laura was standing right in front of me.

"Hey," she said quietly. "You okay?"

I looked at her. She looked… normal. She didn't look mad, or upset, or anything. She was just Laura.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm all right."

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

"What are you doing?" she said. "I didn't know you were interested in the mag."

"I'm just curious," I said. "I realised I'd never really checked it out."

There was another awkward silence.

"Can we talk?" she said. "Not here?" She glanced at the librarian, who was very pointedly not watching us, but very obviously eavesdropping.

"Sure," I said. I had a bad feeling, but it was probably better to clear the air sooner rather than later.

We walked out of the library and out into the corridor. It was quiet around here — you could hear students milling around in the distance, but you could tell the library was a forgotten backwater by the fact that no-one at all was walking through these hallways.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "I freaked out a bit. I shouldn't have done that. I know you're dealing with a lot of things."

"No," I said. "I'm sorry. I was… confused. I shouldn't have said those things. I… I can't explain them."

"It's all right," she said. She walked a little closer to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "I can't pretend to understand even half of what you've been going through recently. If you say that something weird happened that made you believe… what you said, then I'll accept that."

"That's exactly what happened," I said. "It was… strange."

I sat down on a bench at the side of the corridor and held my head in my hands.

"I don't know what's going on any more, Laura," I said. "This is all too much to deal with. And now I've got to…"

I trailed off. I got a sudden feeling that telling Laura about our new plan would be a very bad idea indeed.

"You've got to what?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. I changed the subject. "Did you drop by my house recently?"

"Yes," she said. "I… ran into your sister."

I nodded.

"You managed to… bring her here?" she asked. "I was surprised to see her."

I nodded again, but said nothing else.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm probably poking at you too much. Would you like me to leave you alone?"

I raised my head and looked at her.

Did I want her to leave me alone? On the one hand, having her here was comforting. On the other, it was making it harder to deal with everything. I felt like I needed to hide some things from her, and lying to her was proving more stressful than I thought. I figured that probably said something positive about my personality. I'll take small victories where I can get them.

"I think… Yeah, I just need a bit of time to think," I said. "Sorry. I just–"

"It's okay," she said. She placed her hands on my cheeks and held my head in place, looking straight at me. "It'll be all right."

She kissed me on the lips and walked away. I was left sitting on the bench in this forgotten corner of the school, more confused than ever.

*

I hope he's doing all right, I thought. I sipped on a cup of tea that I'd made for myself. Aril was just sitting in the corner of the room staring into space. He wasn't being much of a conversationalist.

I stood up.

"Want anything?" I asked.

"No," he said bluntly.

Fine. I walked up the stairs to my room and browsed the bookshelves. They were exactly as I remembered them. I ran my finger along the cracked spines of the many paperbacks I'd read over the years, and eventually settled on a cheesy, funny, teenage "coming of age" book I'd been through several times already. The characters in it were supposed to be older than me, but I'd always felt more mature than them. It made me happy to feel that way.

I took the book and returned to the living room. Aril was still staring into space. Well, all right then.

I opened the book and started to read quietly. Aril still said nothing.

I finished the prologue. Then the first chapter. Finally he spoke.

"Do you think he'll be able to do this?" he asked.

"Yes," I said straight away. I gave my brother a hard time, but I believed he could do it.

"Are you sure?" he asked. There was a hint of worry in his voice. I didn't like it.

"Yes," I said again, not looking up from my book. "We've got to believe that, right?"

"Yes," he replied.

The room became silent again. The only sound was the fwip-fwip of my pages turning. I finished two more chapters.

"I'm not doing nothing," he said.

I closed the book and looked up.

"What?" I asked.

"I said I'm not doing nothing," he said, sitting forward in his chair. "I'm keeping an eye on him. Or his mind, anyway."

"Oh," I said. Creepy. "And?"

"It's…" he began. "You're probably right. It will all be fine. From what I could make out, I think we might need your talents tomorrow."

"Oh?" I said. "Did he pick a club?"

"Looks like the school magazine," he said. "For some reason he's hiding what he's up to from that girl he knows," he added.

"That girl?" I asked. "The one who came over?"

"Yes," he said.

Another long pause.

"I think he's right to do that," he said. "I'm not sure, but there's something… strange about her."

"Strange?" I asked. "How?"

"Hard to say," he said. "I'm just getting a bad feeling."

Aril hadn't been acting like Aril lately. I didn't like it. I preferred it when he was leaning against walls looking bored and occasionally making sarcastic comments. This was all a bit serious for my liking.

"Well," I said. "Not much we can do right now. We'll just wait for him to come home, and then we'll decide what to do."

"Yes," he said. He sounded uneasy. I didn't blame him. It wasn't clear how this was going to end. The only thing that was clear was the fact that it wasn't over yet.

The post 1038: Chapter 21 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

After we'd all calmed down a bit — even Aril had looked somewhat on edge, which surprised me — I tried to explain what had happened, to the best of my memory.

It was strange. I couldn't remember all of it. It was fading rapidly, like a dream. Was it a dream? No, of course it wasn't, because both Aril and Alice had seen me disappear, and had said so.

Aril and Alice. Two people who didn't belong in this world. My only assurance that what I thought had happened was real came from two people who shouldn't exist.

"Are you all right?" said Alice. "You stopped in mid-sentence."

"Oh, right," I said, catching myself. "No, I'm fine, I was just… trying to remember."

Alice gave me a funny look, but didn't say anything else. I continued trying to explain.

There was darkness, definitely. And loneliness. A feeling of being nowhere. A feeling almost like I'd been completely erased from existence, but was still somehow aware. Perhaps existence had been erased from around me instead. I didn't know. It didn't really matter.

Something had happened to me. Someone was there. Who?

The memory was there, I could tell, but every time I tried to remember it in detail it was as if it was "hiding" in a dark corner like a frightened animal.

"Some girl came over," said Alice suddenly. "She was looking for you."

Laura? Was it Laura?

Wait. Laura was… was she…?

No, she couldn't be. If she was here, then she couldn't have been… but then she did disappear… but that wouldn't make any sense, because this doesn't have anything to do with her.

"No, it's worth considering," said Aril out loud, apparently reading my thoughts. Alice gave him a curious look.

"Do you have to do that?" I asked. "It's weird."

"Do what?" said Alice.

"Root around inside my head," I said. "Him, not you," I added, for clarification.

"Oh," said Alice. "Right." She looked a little confused. I realised that she still had no idea what we were talking about.

"Did you know the girl who came over?" I asked her.

"I thought I knew her," she said, "but I couldn't remember her name."

"What did she look like?" I asked.

"She was pretty," said Alice. "And about your age. I guess she's a friend of yours or something." She paused and gave me a rather childish smile. "Or your girlfriend, perhaps?"

I winced slightly.

"She is your girlfriend?" she said. "Oh, I was just teasing. But…"

"She's not," I growled. I was remembering the confusing sequence of events that had happened the last time I had seen her. Had that really happened? I realised it had come out a little more acidic than I had perhaps intended. "Sorry. No. She's… just a friend. I think. That's neither here nor there, really. You didn't finish describing her."

Alice rattled off a fairly vague physical description that sounded pretty much like Laura. I nodded. Hm. So she'd come back to see me? That was… unexpected. She was the one who had said she needed space and wanted to get away after… whatever had happened. But she'd come back?

I was confused. Very confused. And thinking about it wasn't helping matters.

After a short silence, eventually Aril spoke.

"So," he said. "It sounds like our friend is paying attention to you, at least. If it interfered with you to such a degree that you can barely remember what happened, it's certainly taking an interest. So we apparently know how to attract it. Now all we have to do is figure out how to deal with it."

How do you deal with "chaos" anyway? I had no idea. I was well out of my depth. I was only just coming to terms with the fact that I could apparently step between worlds. And, given what had happened, I was in no real rush to try that again.

Aril once again sensed what I was thinking.

"It's a difficult question," he said. "Logically, the way to beat 'chaos' is with 'law', but I'm not entirely sure how that applies here."

I scratched my head. "Law," huh? I wondered what that looked like. If "chaos" was a confusing mass of conflicting messages that didn't make any sense and "law" was the opposite, then it must be a sense of being firmly grounded in reality, of being absolutely sure of the truth and sticking resolutely to it.

I thought once again about Aril's words — my "weak connection" to this world. I wondered if that was the key somehow. If I could somehow strengthen that connection, then perhaps that would count as "law" standing against "chaos". But how would I strengthen that connection? I had no idea whatsoever what a "connection" to this world even meant — although I had assumed that Laura's sudden departure after the strange events had weakened that connection further.

Hmm.

"You could be on to something there," said Aril. Damn him. Why couldn't he have a conversation out loud like a normal person? "So we need to think about how you can strengthen your connections to this world to ward off the chaos. It's something to try, if nothing else."

"So basically you need to make some friends?" said Alice. "That doesn't sound so tough."

Of course it doesn't sound tough, I thought. You always had friends swarming around you.

I was suddenly wracked with guilt at the wave of bitterness towards Alice I had just felt, but I couldn't deny where it had come from. She had always been much more outgoing and social than I ever was. She had always had lots of friends, and was always spending time with them — going out at the weekends, having people over, having sleepovers at her friends' houses. At least, I assumed that this Alice was the same as the one I had known.

Me, on the other hand… I had always found it difficult to make friends. Any time I even thought about talking to someone other than Laura, I felt choked up and unable to speak. My old problem tended to raise its head — I'd imagine talking to the person in front of me, then I'd imagine the conversations going as bad as it was possible to go, and then I'd walk away without actually having the conversation.

This was a silly way to be, I knew, but it was the way I'd always been. I'd never really trained myself out of it as a young child, which meant it was even harder to do so now. I'd somehow survived my entire school life without really having anyone close to me — apart from Laura, of course — and had come out of the other end relatively unscathed. Well, unless you counted all the terrible things that had happened since then. But I somehow doubted they were anything to do with me having friends or not.

Alice frowned at me.

"You haven't said anything for ages," she said. "Are you all right?"

"Mm," I said, absent-mindedly. I was still considering what we'd just talked about. It made a certain amount of sense. It was perfectly logical that the more people I knew — or who knew me — the stronger a "connection" I'd have. But the prospect of doing that terrified me somewhat. Wasn't there another way?

"You don't sound all right," said Alice. "Are you worried about the prospect of making some new friends?"

I paused for a moment. There was no point in lying.

"Yes," I said simply.

"Hm," said Alice. "Perhaps I can help you out with that somehow."

"How?" I asked.

"Well," she said. "You go to college, right? Perhaps I should come along and try and help you meet some new people. People seem to like me. At least they did before they all, you know, disappeared."

I nodded. It actually wasn't a bad idea. Obviously I wouldn't be able to sneak her into lessons, but there was nothing stopping her coming onto the campus at lunchtime and helping me make some friends. I didn't want to come to rely on her, though. But I grudgingly accepted that I needed some help.

The big question was where to start. I wasn't a member of any of the clubs or societies that ran, and I didn't have any real talents that made any of them a particularly good fit. Also, we were already well into the term, so I figured that they probably wouldn't want to take on new people.

This was pointless, I thought. There's no way this can work.

"Stop it," said Aril.

"What?" said Alice.

"He's thinking about giving up before he's even tried," he said, tapping his fingertips together and turning to address me directly. "That's a poor habit. You need to stop that."

He was right, of course. There was really no rational reason for me to not give this a try. If the person I tried to talk to didn't like me, then all I had to do was move on to someone else and avoid the original person. With so many people milling around the college each day, that surely wouldn't be a problem.

Alice repeated almost exactly what I was thinking. I smiled at her. We were apparently on the same wavelength. That knowledge was comforting.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I'll do it. Where should I start? A club?"

"A club's not a bad idea," said Alice. "It's a good chance to meet people who like things you like. Plus you can meet several people at once. I know that might be a bit scary, knowing you, but it's a good, quick way of getting to know people. And I sort of get the impression we should hurry a bit."

"All right," I said.

"So what club are you going to start with?" she asked, her eyes bright. She was enjoying this a little too much. But given that back in her world, joining a club and hanging out with people was something that was now impossible for her, I didn't begrudge her the feeling.

"I don't know," I said, a sour expression on my face.

"Oh, cheer up," she said. "What do you like doing?"

I considered this for a moment.

"Reading," I said. "And writing."

"So your ideal club is just 'school', then," she said sarcastically. "I'm just kidding. Is there a book club or a magazine or newspaper or something? I used to help out with the newspaper at my school."

"I remember," I said fondly. "I used to like your articles."

She smiled at me. I knew that the articles I read and the ones she wrote might not have been quite the same, given the circumstances, but it wasn't a lie. Her school newspaper was a surprisingly professional production. It only came out about once or twice a term, though, depending on whether or not the club could be bothered. Someone needed to teach them about deadlines.

"I'm not sure," I added. "That's one thing to have a look at."

"What about music?" she said. "You don't play anything, do you? What about singing?"

The prospect of singing filled me with enormous dread, but I knew that the college had a decent choir. I mentally filed it under "possible" — one to fall back on if there was really nothing else.

"And sports?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Oh come on," she said. "No sports at all? You'll get fat and unfit."

Her words stung a bit. I wasn't any good at sports, and had always felt a bit excluded for my lack of skill.

"Hey!" she said, apparently seeing my expression. "I was just joking! Stop being so sensitive."

She'd always been like this, joking around and light-heartedly needling me about various things. It was a trait that had always frustrated me back then, but now it was quite endearing, perhaps because I hadn't been around it for so long. I felt a bit sad.

"All right," she said. "Well, we have an idea. You should go to college tomorrow and scout out what clubs there are. Then when you decide to join one, I'll come along and be awesome and help you make friends. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," I said, smiling.

Perhaps this would work after all. It wouldn't be easy for me, but nothing ever was. At least this was doing something positive.

I felt myself filling with resolve. I looked at Alice and her eyes seemed to sparkle. I looked at Aril and he gave me a slightly bored-looking smile.

I felt strong.

The post 1037: Chapter 20 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I closed my eyes and balled my hands up into fists. I hope it reached him. Wherever he was.

Of course it couldn't have reached him. That was ridiculous. I couldn't shout between worlds. Could I?

No, that was ridiculous.

I felt Aril's hand on my shoulder. It was cold.

"This will… work out," he said. It didn't sound overly convincing. "He'll be back. I'm sure of it. He's… special."

I hadn't heard him use this tone before. I didn't like it. He sounded uneasy.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

What?

BANG-BANG-BANG.

Someone was knocking on the door. Both Aril and I froze. What were we supposed to do? I looked at him in the hope that he might give me some sort of signal. He looked back at me, but his eyes were blank. I half expected him to just vanish into nothingness to not deal with an awkward situation — it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that, for sure.

I was glad when he didn't do that.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

Whoever was knocking on the door wasn't going away. I grit my teeth and walked into the hallway, trying not to make a noise, or a movement obvious enough to be seen through the frosted glass. I carefully put my eye to the peephole and looked out.

There was a girl out there. I vaguely recognised her, but I couldn't remember her name. Had I met her before? I didn't know.

What to do?

BANG-BANG-BANG.

The sudden sound of her knocking again made me jump, and I bumped into the door, making a sound.

"Bugger," I muttered to myself.

"I know you're in there!" came the girl's voice from outside. "Please open up. I want to talk to you."

I wanted to shout back "no!" at her, but figured that would probably just confuse her. Better to take the direct approach?

I flung open the door and stood there defiantly with my hands on my hips.

"Leave this place!" I bellowed in my strongest voice. "Begone! Away! And never return!"

No, actually, I didn't do that. It would have been fun, but also there was really no reason to. Also, who talks like that outside of books?

I did, however, decide to open the door — slowly and carefully rather than flinging it open dramatically, though.

"There you a–" began the girl. She stopped when she saw me. "What the fu–"

She trailed off. Obviously she knew who I was. I couldn't remember her name, though.

"Alice?" she said. "Is that you?"

I nodded.

"But you're–"

I smiled sweetly.

"No, never mind," she said. "Um, can I come in?"

"It's not really a great time," I said. "Do you need something?"

"I was hoping to talk to your brother, actually," she said, eyeing me warily. "But… I'm guessing he's not here?"

"No, actually," I said, a little more defiantly than I meant to. "I'm not sure when he'll be back."

It wasn't technically a lie. I didn't know when he'd be back. I also didn't know where he was, but this girl didn't need to know that.

Where did I know her from?

"Oh," she said, looking a little upset. "Sorry to bother you, then. I'll… try again another time."

"Okay," I said brightly. "Bye!"

She turned around and walked away. I watched her leave. I felt Aril walk up behind me, though as usual he didn't make a sound while he was walking. I just felt his presence. I also felt a sense of relief from him.

"Okay, that's that dealt with for now," he said. "Now we need to figure out what to do next."

I frowned.

"Do you know who that was?" I said. "She seemed familiar but I just couldn't place her."

Aril scratched his face.

"She's… hmm, how to explain it," he said. "She's important to your brother, though there's something not quite right about her. I haven't quite figured it out yet. We should keep an eye on her, though."

"Uh-huh," I said, looking down the path where she had just walked away. "So we let her go."

Aril nodded. His usual confidence was nowhere to be seen. This whole situation had obviously shaken him up a bit, and it worried me. He was normally so calm and cool about everything, and for this to mess him up? I didn't like it.

"We let her go. But we should keep an eye on her," I said.

He nodded again. He didn't seem to see what I was getting at.

"Should we perhaps follow her?" I said, spelling it out for him.

"Oh," he said. "Right. Yes. Maybe."

"Come on then," I said, pulling one of my brother's coats off the hooks by the door. It was way too big but I didn't have any of my own clothes here, so it was the best I could do. It was cold outside. I wasn't about to go out in the cold without a coat.

I left the door unlocked so we could get back in later. I had no idea where the keys might be in this world, so rather than waste time looking for them I just left it unlocked. This always used to be a nice neighbourhood, at least in my world, so hopefully it was the same here.

Aril followed me out of the door and we set off down the path to follow the girl.

*

She'd left me. She'd made me feel safe, comfortable and warm — holding me, embracing me, kissing me — and then she'd left. I was all alone again. I was back in the darkness again. Where was I? Who was–

Suddenly, there was a bright flash, and I heard a sound. A rushing, roaring, whooshing sound that culminated in the sound of someone's voice, distorted and echoey, like it was being amplified too much and blasted out of some speakers too small to cope with the sound. It was something that I hadn't heard for a very long time. But it was something that I needed to hear — something that I hadn't realised how much I had longed to hear.

It was something that gave me hope. Something that I knew would bring me home.

A connection. A weak connection, but a connection nonetheless. I could make it back. I could make it back. I could make it back.

I closed my eyes and followed the sound. I didn't know which direction it was coming from or even which direction I was facing, but I could tell where to go. I knew what it was. It was calling me. It needed me. It wanted me.

I floated. I couldn't tell how long for. But I could tell I was going somewhere. The actual sound had long since dissipated, but I still knew that I needed to continue onwards. Ever onwards. Follow the sound. Return home.

Where was home? Who was calling me? And why was I here?

My mind kept being clouded by strange questions and doubts, but I shook them off. I didn't need to hear them. I needed to focus right now, to concentrate, to make sure that I got to my destination.

Home. That was where I was going.

Home.

I felt my feet land on solid ground. I opened my eyes, and I was back where I thought I should be. It took a moment to orient myself, but I recognised the open door, the shelves, the cold room in front of me.

I was back home. Back where I should be.

"Hello?" I called, my mind swirling back into place as if it was trailing behind my body by a few seconds. "Aril? Alice? Are you here?"

There was no response. I swallowed and looked around. How long had I been gone?

I closed the pantry door.  I walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up them.

"Alice? Aril? Are you here?" I shouted again. "Hello?"

Still no response.

This was the… right world, right? Doubts started to creep in. The questions started to slip into my mind through the cracks again. They were unwelcome, but the fact I was still alone was making it harder to fight them off.

I looked around the hallway. I saw that one of my coats was missing from the hooks on the wall. Oddly, that gave me a sense of relief. Alice must have taken it. But when? Where had she gone? Why? How would I find her?

It wouldn't do to stand around here. I took one of my other coats down from the coat hook. I opened the door — it was still unlocked, presumably from when Alice had left — and walked outside. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys and locked it behind me.

Now what?

I walked down the path from my front door and onto my street. Which way? I couldn't tell.

I closed my eyes. I wasn't sure why.

"Alice!" I cried out. I didn't expect it to work. If I couldn't see her, she probably wouldn't be able to hear me, either. I didn't like speaking loudly in the street. There was no-one else around, but I was still self-conscious about the neighbours looking outside and seeing me yelling to myself. I gave it one more try, though, louder and longer this time. "Alice!"

There was no response. I didn't expect there to be. Why would there b–

I heard footsteps. They were running. Coming from — over there? Yes, there they were. And they belonged to–

"Alice!" I said, shocked. Part of me wasn't expecting to see her again at all, let alone so soon. She flung her arms around me and nearly knocked me over as she ran into me.

"You heard!" she said. "You heard!"

I wasn't really sure what she meant, but I was happy that she was pleased to see me.

Wait… "you heard"? Had she been the source of the sound? My connection?

"Yes," I found myself saying, almost automatically. "I heard, Alice. Thank you for bringing me back."

The post 1036: Chapter 19 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"What?" I asked.

"You've crossed over to the world Alice here came from," he said, waving his hand in the general direction of my sister, who was presently wandering around the top floor of my house looking at everything, presumably trying to work out how things differed from her world. "But you know, that's not the only other world out there."

"Right," I said. "You said something about… other worlds existing on a 'continuum' and the world Alice is from being 'closest' to this one, right?"

"Yes," said Aril. "It's also the last world that our chaotic friend passed through. What I'm interested to see is what's going on in the next world. His next target."

"The next one?" I asked curiously. I knew already that there were other worlds out there, of course — infinite possibilities, infinite worlds, presumably — but I'd always been drawn to the one Alice had come from. I hadn't seen a hint of another one, but presumably if I was able to make use of my new… abilities, I'd be able to do so. Assuming there was a "gate".

I thought about this for a moment.

"But wait," I said. "The reason I can go back and forth to Alice's world is because of the gates, right?"

"Yes," said Aril.

"And the gates are a result of this chaos thing messing things up, right?"

"Yes," said Aril.

"So if the chaos thing hasn't been to the next world, there won't be any gates, right?"

"Yes," said Aril.

How infuriating. Say something more.

"You're correct," said Aril. "Which is where I can help you out a bit. I don't have the energy to pass through myself right now, but I can create a temporary gate for you."

I nodded.

"All right. What am I looking for?"

That was decisive. When did I become so assertive? I could feel Alice's eyes on me. They were displaying something like surprise… or was it admiration? I couldn't tell.

"Nothing much," said Aril. "You won't be able to stay long. But take a look and see if things are… all right there. We're only assuming that our friend hasn't paid it a visit yet, of course. It'd be nice to know if we were right."

"Okay," I said. "I'm ready."

"Right," said Aril. "Now, we should probably find a place that wouldn't be too obtrusive for you to suddenly appear. Just in case…"

I shivered slightly at the thought. Alice seemed to be just fine with what had been going on, but I couldn't guarantee that the incarnations of my family from another plane of existence would be quite so accepting of all this.

We eventually settled on the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. I didn't keep it particularly well-stocked these days, as I tended to just put stuff in the fridge or freezer, but that meant that there was enough room to stand in there.

"Okay," said Aril. "I'll try and open the gate there."

Aril clicked his fingers and what looked like a holographic display appeared from the back of his hand. He tapped some floating virtual buttons and there was a momentary flash, but as usual I couldn't see the gate.

"Go on," he said. "Step on through."

I tried to recreate the way I felt and what I did when I stepped through into Alice's room before.

"Go for it!" I heard her voice say behind me. "You can do it."

I closed my eyes, grit my teeth and made my mind go blank. I felt oddly relaxed as I stepped through the doorway of the pantry.

Darkness.

It was all black. I opened my eyes, but it was still dark.

I reached out in front of me for the familiar pantry shelves, but I didn't feel anything at all, not even a breeze as I moved my arms. Were my arms there? I couldn't tell. This world just seemed to be… absolute nothingness.

Had I come to a world where everything was all over? Had I come to a world where existence had simply stopped? If so, how was this place — if it was even a place — even here? And if there was nothing here, presumably I was in the darkness and vacuum of space, but I was still alive.

Wasn't I?

I felt like I was alive. But I couldn't feel anything. Because there was nothing to feel.

I wanted to call out, but something stopped my voice from coming out. Was it the lack of air? No, because if there was no air, I'd be dead. I was still alive, right?

I felt like I was alive. But I couldn't feel anything. Because there was nothing to feel.

This was loneliness. This was absolute nothingness. This was being isolated from everything I had known, everyone I had ever loved.

Somehow I found them hard to picture right now.

Why was I here? What was I doing?

Who was I?

I… didn't know.

I floated — floated? — around, though there was nothing to see that gave me a reference point. I couldn't tell where the "gate" I had come in from was any more. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't feel anything. Again, my thoughts turned to the question of my own existence. Was I alive?

I felt like I was alive. But I couldn't feel anything. Because there was nothing to feel.

I thought I should be more scared at this strange situation. I thought I should be more worried. But I wasn't. I wasn't relaxed, either. I just… was. A consciousness floating in the void. Swirling nothingness in some further swirling nothingness.

Suddenly I felt another presence, though I still saw nothing.

I didn't like the new presence. It seemed threatening, but still I felt nothing.

It seemed like it was mocking me, laughing at me. But still I felt nothing.

I tried to ignore it, tune it out, but it felt like it was following me around. If I could see anything, it would have been following wherever I was looking, like something stuck in my eye. But there was nothing to see. There was nothing here. I was all alone, apart from this strange presence. I didn't even feel like my own "self" was here.

I wanted to come back. But to where? To what? To whom?

Where was home? Who was I? Who was waiting for me?

I fell to the ground with a thump and realised my eyes were closed. My back hurt. I'd fallen onto a solid floor.

Wait, I thought. A solid floor? Feelings. Pain.

I opened my eyes and looked up. It was still dark, but I could at least see where I was now. I recognised it. This place felt familiar. Was it… home?

I unsteadily got to my feet. Yes, this was familiar. I reached out for the door in front of me and opened it. Inside were some shelves, but they were all bare. It was cold inside. It felt like this place had been deserted for a long time.

I closed the door.

Where was I? Was this really home? It looked like there was no-one here. Should there be someone here? Something lingered at the back of my mind. Someone was waiting for me. Who was it?

"Hi," came a voice from behind me. I span around. She was standing in front of me. I knew her. I remembered her.

"Laura?" I said. "Yes, it's you."

"Yes, it's me," she said. "It's all right. You're safe now."

I didn't feel safe in this strange place, but the girl — Laura — was a comforting presence. She was important to me. I was important to her. We belonged together.

Did we?

Yes.

Was she the one who was waiting for me? Something at the back of my mind made me unsure, but that feeling was rapidly fading.

Laura stepped forward and put her arms around my neck. She embraced me tightly, and kissed me passionately on the lips. It was a nice feeling. I didn't want her to let go.

"I won't," she whispered to me. "I won't let you go."

I knew that she wasn't joking. And I was happy. I closed my eyes and let the pleasurable sensations of her lips meeting mine, her tongue exploring my mouth, wash over me. This was happiness. This was companionship. This took the loneliness away. I was safe, and no longer alone.

I felt my "self" slipping away, but I didn't care any more. This was the place I wanted to be, the place I wanted to stay, and nothing was going to change that.

*

"Shit," said Aril.

"What?" I said. I felt bad. It felt like there were spiders crawling up my back. I really hoped that there weren't. It was just nerves. But something seemed wrong.

Aril stayed quiet. I didn't like it. I spoke again.

"What?" I said, a bit louder.

He still stayed quiet. That wasn't like him.

"Come on!" I said. "Tell me! You're going to have to eventually."

He paused, and turned to look at me. The creepy feeling on my back started up again.

"We may have a problem," he said. "He's… gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" I said. The spiders on my back felt like they'd doubled in size and got twice as hairy.

"Exactly what I say," he said. "He's gone. I don't know where he is. He went through the gate and now… nothing."

"Then get him back!" I said, louder still. I really didn't want to shout at Aril, but I felt I probably would before long. "Please!"

"There's no getting him back," said Aril. "Wherever he's gone, he's going to have to find his own way back. Because he's not where he should be."

"What?" I shouted. "But he was…"

"I know," said Aril, interrupting me. It annoyed me a bit, but I wasn't quite sure what I was going to say anyway. "I'm sorry."

I just stood and looked at Aril, then at the open door of the pantry, then back at Aril again.

I'd lost him twice now. I'd lost my brother twice. It wasn't getting any easier. How was I supposed to deal with this? How was I supposed to deal with meeting my brother who I thought was dead, then losing him again? How was I supposed to accept this? How could I get him back?

I felt my eyes filling up with tears. I wanted to just fall down and cry, but I tried to hold back the feeling. It was difficult. My lip trembled and my knees shook. But I didn't let the tears out.

I needed him back. He'd saved me from that terrible, awful, lonely world of nothingness. Now I needed to save him. How could I save him? How could I get him back? How could I find him?

I couldn't work it out. My eyes were stinging. I wanted to cry. I wanted to shout. I wanted to scream.

So I did. Just one word.

I hoped it was enough.

The post 1035: Chapter 18 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Each gate was seemingly different in the times it expanded and contracted — that would explain how I had passed through ones in the middle of the day at school and yet the one that was seemingly in Alice's doorway only opened at 2:30 in the morning. As it was nowhere near that time, we decided to use that very gate as a means to test the theory.

Aril gave me an overly-technical explanation of how he passed between worlds, but it went right over my head, and it involved some sort of technology from his people, anyway. I figured that if I was one of his group of "Crusaders" I might have had a clue what he was on about, but I wasn't, and I didn't.

He sighed at the bewildered look on my face.

"Look," he said, "it's basically down to willpower. You have to let go of the world you're leaving and reach out for the one you're heading for. Your body will follow your will."

I still didn't really understand, but I was at least willing to give it a try.

I opened the door to Alice's room and peered inside. It was just as it always was — empty and devoid of life. I looked around the frame of the door and didn't see anything unusual — of course I didn't, why would I? — and grit my teeth ready to make an attempt.

"Focus," said Aril in a low voice. "You can do this."

I clenched my fists, though I wasn't sure why, and closed my eyes. I pictured walking through the doorway into Alice's room as I had done in the past, and seeing her sitting up in the bed.

I opened my eyes. I was standing in Alice's bedroom. There was no-one here. I turned around. Aril was leaning against the wall casually, shaking his head.

"No," he said. "Try again."

I walked back out of the room and tried again.

Let go, I thought. I don't belong here. I want to be with Alice.

I stepped through the doorway, and again nothing happened.

"Clear your mind," said Aril. "You're trying to reach out for another world, not for your sister. Your sister exists in this world still, too, as a concept at least, so wanting to be with her isn't going to help this."

I nodded, stepped out of the room, closed my eyes and blanked my mind as well as I could possibly manage. Then I walked through the doorway again.

This time I felt a strange sensation. It was like the uneasy feeling I'd experienced the very first time this had happened to me, but this time there was a strange tingling all over my body, too. It felt oddly pleasurable in a perverse sort of way.

Then I felt a "bump" as I collided with something, and a voice that I recognised. I fell forward and onto something soft and sweet-smelling.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" said Alice. "Where the fuck did you come from? And also, get off me!"

I opened my eyes and pulled back from whatever I had fallen onto. I saw bare skin and a bellybutton. I immediately blushed and stood up hastily, turning back towards the door with a sickening feeling in my stomach.

I heard the sound of Alice frantically putting clothes on behind me as I gazed out of the doorway. Aril was nowhere to be seen.

"You know," she said, her voice sounding a little calmer now, "I do appreciate these little visits, you know that, but at least when you were coming at predictable times you were less likely to walk in on me getting dressed after a shower. You may be from a different world or whatever, but you're still my brother, so it's still weird."

"Yes," I said, mortified. "Sorry."

"It's all right," she said with a slight laugh. I felt her hand on my shoulder. "You weren't to know. But I'm surprised; what are you doing here now? It's normally the middle of the night when you show up."

I sat down on her bed and gestured for her to join me. I explained about the conversations I'd had with Aril, and about our attempts to make use of my… strange properties to help sort out the whole situation. She seemed to take the whole explanation in her stride. I guess Aril was right; her inner strength and ability to deal with unusual, strange and terrifying situations was something else.

Something was bothering me, though.

"Um," I began, not quite sure how to raise it. "I'm… sorry about earlier."

"Earlier?" she said. "What about earlier?"

"In the bathroom," I said. "When you… you know, saw me."

"Saw you?" she said with a laugh. "I think seeing you in the bathroom probably would traumatise me, but no, that didn't happen. Did it? I don't think so. I think I would have remembered that."

It was strange. I definitely had a memory of her creeped-out face looking disgusted at me kneeling naked on the floor, but apparently she did not. But then Laura had no memory of what had supposedly happened between us, either, so perhaps it wasn't so unusual. Was this the power of chaos?

"Forget it," I said. "Too many strange things have been happening to me lately. It's getting difficult to keep track of them."

There was something else, though; something else that had been bothering me for a while now and I hadn't had the chance to ask.

"Alice," I said. "There's something else I wanted to ask you."

"Shoot," she said.

"When I first… appeared to you, it sounded like you were calling out to someone, as if you weren't surprised to see a person in your room. But if what you and Aril have told me about what happened here is true…"

"Oh, that," she said casually. "Yeah, I thought you were Aril. He'd been paying me regular visits since all this stuff started happening. I thought I was going mad from loneliness at first, hallucinating an imaginary friend or something, but it started happening too often for me to dismiss as just something my brain was cooking up. Unless all of this is a hallucination or nightmare that either or both of us is having. That'd be funny, wouldn't it?"

She laughed half-heartedly. I did the same. It didn't seem very funny. I sort of wished that was actually what was going on, because that meant it would all go away and life would go back to normal once the root cause was dealt with. I started to think that was sort of true anyway — but no, even if Aril and I were able to deal with the chaos thing, that was never going to bring Alice and my parents back. And it wouldn't bring this world's me back to Alice, either.

But Aril already knew Alice and had been visiting her? Somehow this news didn't surprise me, but I sort of resented the fact that neither of them had told me prior to this point. It seemed like something that might be a big deal. But apparently it wasn't. I bit my tongue before I made a sarcastic comment at Alice.

"So," she said. "What now? You're here, and I think this is the longest you've managed to stay without getting pulled back against your will. What's the plan?"

The first part of the plan was to get me into a situation where I was able to pass through these "gates" more easily without having to rely on them opening and closing. Beyond that, Aril had had a few ideas about how to proceed, but I wasn't sure I quite understood them just yet.

"I need to talk to Aril," I said. "Now that I can apparently do this, I imagine he's got something terrifying lined up for me to do in order to attract this chaos thing."

"Probably," said Alice. "If I can help, let me know, though I'm not sure what good I can do from here."

"Hmm," I said. "You've come through into my world before, though, right?"

"Yes," she said. "But I've no idea how that happened or if I could do it again."

"Can I try something?" I asked.

"Nothing weird," she said.

"Does passing between planes of existence count as 'weird'?" I said with a slight smile.

"These days? No, sadly," she said.

I stood up and offered her my hand. She seemed to know what I was thinking, and took it. I closed my eyes, grit my teeth and willed myself back to my own world as I pulled her through the doorway. I felt the oddly pleasurable tingling sensation once again, and a slight giggle behind me confirmed that Alice had felt it too. When I opened my eyes, Aril was still leaning against the wall, looking rather bored.

"Ah, welcome back," he said. "Not so difficult, is it? I'd say you're a natural. And hello to you, Alice. Hope you're well."

"As well as can be expected," she said, bowing her head slightly. "Sorry I didn't tell you about us sooner," she added, giving me a sheepish look.

"It's fine," I said. I gave Aril a sour look, but he said nothing. "So what now?"

"Well, actually, you might have done us a bit of a favour by bringing Alice here," said Aril. "You've sort of upset the natural order of things. She's not supposed to be here in this world; she shouldn't exist. I'd say that probably qualifies as something that might attract the attention of a chaotic entity, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh," I said limply. "Right. So, uh, what do we do? We fight it?"

"It's not quite that simple, I'm afraid," said Aril. Of course it isn't. "In its current state, there's no guarantee it'll want to show itself directly. It's already messed with you once, so it might lay low for a little while. There's no way to know for the moment."

"So that doesn't really help us that much," I said.

"Perhaps not," said Aril. "But in the long-term, it's more likely to be attracted to this thing that shouldn't be here–"

"I have a name," interrupted Alice.

"–and try to use that as a focal point for any future chaos it intends to sow in this world."

"I still don't understand why it's doing what it's doing," I said. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"That's because you're thinking too rationally," said Aril, "too like a sentient, living being. What we're dealing with here is not like a human; it's a primal force that exists only for a single-minded purpose. While it may come across as malicious, it's simply doing what comes naturally to it. Unfortunately, 'what comes naturally' coupled with its own innate power is a spectacularly dangerous combination."

"Yes, I get that," I said. "I just wish we could get this over and done with."

"There's no quick fix," said Aril. "I wish there was. But I believe that if we all work together, we'll be able to deal with it."

"I hope you're right," I said. I put a hand on Alice's shoulder, and she placed one of her own hands on it. I was grateful for the support. I knew this wasn't "my" sister, but for now, it sure felt like she was.

The post 1034: Chapter 17 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I was so confused, and I was ashamed of myself for dwelling too much on whether or not I had actually had my first kiss and my first sexual experience or not. But it felt like it mattered. I knew it was an old-fashioned thought to have, but I wanted both of those things to carry some sort of meaning. Thinking back on it happening — or not happening as the case may be — I repeatedly remembered that strange feeling of detachment, like I was watching from the outside and not really… participating.

My mind wandered to the words that the strange shadowy figure had said to me previously. It had told me about a being of chaos, a being that it was pursuing and trying to stop. A being that had something to do with these strange… gateways, portals, whatever they were. It had sowed chaos through the previous worlds it had visited, and now it was trying to do so here.

The experience I had just been through certainly struck me as fairly "chaotic." It didn't make any sense. It confused me, it confused Laura, it confused Alice, and it threatened to tear us apart. It looked like it had already torn me and Laura apart, and I didn't know what to do about that. We hadn't really had a fight before; it was a new experience for me, and I'm not sure about her. If she was as alone as she'd told me, it's entirely possible that she was in a similar state to me right now, not knowing what to do, wondering what I was thinking and how to resolve it.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through the "recent calls" list. Laura was the only entry. I stared at her name for a few minutes. What would I say? How could I possibly come back from that? How could I possibly make this right?

I was doing my old trick — mentally having a conversation in my head and assuming the worst possible outcome before it had actually taken place. It was the main reason I had so few friends, and I knew it. But it didn't stop me from doing it. It was a habit, and no-one ever corrected me — largely because there was no-one who knew I did it. A vicious circle.

I closed my eyes and just tapped the screen. I would never get around to it if I didn't try.

I raised the phone to my ear. After a moment, I heard it connect, and the ringing started.

Ring, ring.

No answer yet.

Ring, ring.

Still no answer.

Ring, ring.

She wasn't going to answer me.

Ring, ring.

I didn't blame her.

Ring, ring.

"Hi!" came her bright and cheerful voice down the phone.

"Hello," I said hesitantly. "Look, about earlier, I'm sor–"

"Got you!" she giggled. "I'm not here really. Leave me a message and I'll call you back."

A joke message. I smiled to myself, then felt a little sad when I thought that I might be one of the few people to have heard it.

I hung up before the message finished, waited a moment and then dialled again.

Ring, ring.

Please answer.

Ring, ring.

Come on.

Ring, ring.

Please.

Ring, ring.

"Hi!" came her voice again, and I recognised it as the message again. I hung up before the joke.

Of course she wasn't answering. Why would she want to talk to me after that? After I'd said we'd had sex when she firmly believed that we hadn't? Oh, Christ, I thought, that must have been fucking creepy. Ugh.

I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. How was I going to get out of this one?

"Hello," said the infuriatingly calm voice, and I knew that the shadowy figure was there. I didn't get up.

"Hello," I said wearily. "I am not having a good day, so I hope this is important."

"I know," it said. "I came as quickly as I could, but I needed to be sure that it was… safe."

I sat up at that word.

"Safe?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"I think you already know," said the figure. "What you experienced was just a small taste of the chaos you can expect once our adversary returns to full strength."

"Full strength?" I swallowed. I had just about come to terms with the fact that the peculiar happenings of the day could be attributed to the strange "chaos" creature, whatever it was. But knowing that this thing wasn't at full strength, and could become more powerful?

"Yes," it said. "Are you ready to help me out yet?"

I scratched my head and thought for a moment, then I looked right at my companion and spoke a single word in a tone more decisive and final than I'd ever heard myself use.

"Yes," I said.

"All right," said the figure, a little less impressed than I was hoping it would be. "Then we need to start formulating some sort of plan. But before that, I think we need to formalise our working arrangement with one another."

It sat down on the bed next to me and raised its hand to my face. It felt curiously similar to when Laura–

No. It wouldn't do to dwell on that now.

The figure touched my face with its long fingers, and I felt a strange sensation in my head. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it also felt strangely unnerving. Suddenly, without any words being exchanged between us, I knew that its… his name was Aril, that he was technically sexless but preferred to be referred to as a male when it was necessary, that he was a member of an organisation that referred to themselves as the Crusaders, that he had spent his life travelling between worlds tracking down interdimensional beasts such as the one that was apparently tormenting me now… and that he was afraid. I could feel that he was slightly ashamed of the last part, but he didn't make any attempt to hide it from me.

"I assume you now know everything about me, too," I said, feeling slightly dizzy as Aril released his hand from my face. "If you didn't already."

"Of course," he said. "I've been… keeping an eye on you for a while now."

"Great," I said sarcastically. But there was no point in getting indignant now. Aril's existence was so hugely different from my own that it was almost impossible to contemplate what he must have been through, and for how long. If someone had just told me the stories I now knew, I would have laughed in their face at how far-fetched they were, dismissed them as science fiction. But after… whatever Aril had just done, I knew that they were true.

Aril paced back and forth a little, looking a little more at ease and less… "formal", somehow.

"So tell me about this chaos… thing," I said. "I don't really understand. You said something about it not being at full power?"

"Yes," said Aril, spinning around on one foot and turning to face me in an overly-flamboyant gesture. "Yes, indeed. It's a worry. But it also means that we have some time, particularly if it keeps pulling little stunts like it did today."

"You're going to have to explain more than that," I said honestly.

"Basically," said Aril, "passing between worlds as we — I hasten to throw myself in the same category as that… thing — do is a rather demanding process. It expends an enormous amount of energy to do it right. And by 'do it right' I mean 'not leaving holes in existence' like you've been encountering."

I nodded. It probably said something that I was no longer bothered by discussion of "holes in existence", but I shook off the thought before I dwelled on it too much. Aril continued speaking.

"Basically, what this… thing has been doing is moving from world to world, sowing as much chaos as it possibly can, hopping to the next world to try and 'hide' while it recharges itself, then repeating the process," he explained. "The last world it went to I believe you're already familiar with."

I nodded, and an image of Alice's creeped-out face entered my mind for a moment. Then it was gone.

"So," I said, "what exactly do you mean by 'sowing chaos'?"

"Well it varies," replied Aril. "Sometimes it sows the seeds of conflict between important people in the world, and then simply sits back to see what happens. Sometimes it messes with people's minds around the world, making them believe things that aren't true or making them forget things they ought to know."

Aril paused for a moment and turned away from me.

"What it did in the last world was the worst thing it's done yet," he said. His voice sounded sad rather than smug for once. He didn't elaborate.

"What happened?" I asked. I had a feeling I already knew, but I wanted to be sure, however unpleasant it sounded.

Aril didn't say anything for a moment. I was about to ask the question again, but he turned round and looked me right in the eyes.

"It took an interest in your sister and the way she responded to chaos," he said. "It started by killing the people dearest to her — not directly, mind — and gradually tried to drive her insane by, piece by piece, wiping out everyone else in that world."

"Everyone else?" I asked, my mouth hanging open. Could something… do that?

"Yes," said Aril, the sad tone creeping into his voice again. "It started by arranging increasingly-chaotic, inexplicable accidents. But as it saw the terror and horror in people as more and more awful things happened to more and more people, it started playing a more… active role."

"But what has my sister got to do with this?" I said, an unpleasant crawling sensation creeping up my back. "Why is she still–"

"Well, remember that it initially took an interest in your sister and how she was responding to chaos," explained Aril. "It turns out she was handling it well. A little too well. Her inner strength was infuriating it, frustrating it. It resorted to increasingly-outlandish measures to try and make her respond, but she wouldn't — not in any way that satisfied it. Eventually, it made one last-ditch attempt to drive her mad — to make her the last person alive."

"It can really do that? Just… get rid of everyone?" The thought was not a pleasant one. I already felt out of my depth, and this wasn't helping.

"Yes," said Aril. "It's horrid to think about, I know. But despite how awful what it did was, it's actually given us a bit of breathing room. After it made its last 'jump' to this world to hide out and recharge, it was utterly exhausted. Wiping out an entire world of people is not, as you might expect, a particularly easy thing to do, so it's significantly weakened at the moment. In this state, we could deal with it. Of course, we have to actually find it first."

I sighed. "Let me guess. That's where I come in?"

"Precisely," said Aril. "For one reason or another, it has taken an interest to you and your family. Not just in this world. Not just in the other one you're familiar with. But it always seems to start somewhere around your family. I guess you have to start somewhere, even with chaos."

"All right," I said. "So how do we go about finding this thing and dealing with it?"

"I have an idea," said Aril. "But I don't think you're going to like it."

I knew that, without a doubt, he would be right. And I also knew that not going along with it would probably be a very bad idea. I took a deep breath, grit my teeth for a moment, and then looked Aril straight in the eyes.

"I'll do whatever it takes," I said. "For Alice. For Laura. Let's do this."

The post 1033: Chapter 16 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"Yeah, it was good," I said absentmindedly. I hadn't really been paying attention. It was some sort of science fiction thing, presumably chosen for my benefit, but I just couldn't get into it. My tiredness was getting the better of me, and it was all I could do to not fall asleep in the dark, even with the loud surround-sound explosions and rumbles reverberating all around me.

"Come on," said Laura, tugging on my sleeve. "How about some food? I'm going to make you smile by the end of today, so don't think you'll get off that easily."

"Uh-huh," I said, not really listening. Her enthusiasm today was bugging me a little bit, but I humoured her. She was trying her best, after all, so I couldn't be too bitter or annoyed at her. She couldn't understand what I was going through, however much I explained the situation. I still felt self-conscious talking about it, even though we'd already discussed it in depth and she had seen proof with her own eyes.

She dragged me to some awful greasy fried-chicken place near the cinema, sat me down and, after a moment or two, returned from the counter with a bucket full of chicken thighs and drumsticks. Dripping with grease, they didn't look particularly appealing, but they tasted pretty good, so I gratefully ate them. I could have probably done with something a little more nutritious given the crap I'd been eating recently — and some days barely eating at all — but for now, this tasted good.

"Wow, you're putting that away," said Laura with an expression that I couldn't quite read — it was either her being impressed or disgusted with me devouring the chicken at a rate roughly twice hers.

I put down the bone I'd been gnawing on and looked at her with tired eyes.

"Feel any better?" she said.

"A little," I said. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," she said. "Still no smile though, huh? I meant what I said, you know."

"I don't doubt it," I said, with a slight smile.

"Hey, there's one!" she said gleefully. "That doesn't count, though. That was more of a sneer."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a little put out. I always found smiling to be rather unnatural when I was conscious of it, and comments like that didn't help.

"Sorry," she said, giggling. She was in a good mood. "Anything else you want to do while we're out, or shall we just go and chill at your place for a bit?"

I could tell that I wasn't going to get rid of her easily. I just wanted to go back home and sleep for about a week, but that wasn't going to happen. I compromised and agreed that she should take me home and we should just "chill" for a bit.

We didn't say much to each other on the way home, but I felt her occasionally glance over at me during the drive. She followed me in to my house, and then took the lead, taking my hand and leading me upstairs. I wasn't sure what she was doing, but there was an odd feeling in the air.

She led me into my bedroom, and sat down next to me on the bed.

"Laura, what–"

I was interrupted by her grabbing my face, pulling it towards her and kissing me.

My first kiss. I'd always suspected it would be with Laura, but I'd never considered the circumstances, or that it was a serious possibility, to be honest. But now it was happening, and all I could feel was a curious detachment from the situation, like I was watching it from outside.

Her lips were soft, and there was a pleasant scent about her. Her hands were clasping my face firmly but not roughly so, and the sensations weren't unpleasant. I felt something stirring and immediately wished I hadn't noticed it. Ugh, what if she saw?

She pulled away from me for a moment and looked at me with an expression I'd never seen on her face before. But before I could say anything or consider what it meant, she'd pushed me down on the bed and was straddling me. There was no way that I could hide my body's excitement now. She was brushing against it. It felt good. But still I felt that odd detachment, that feeling like I wasn't quite "present" while all this was going on. It just seemed to be happening, unfolding without any input from me. I wasn't sure I liked it.

Correction. My mind wasn't sure it liked what was going on, but my body sure did.

*

She climbed off me, her face reddened and beads of sweat visible on her cheeks. I collapsed back onto my pillow, panting like I'd just run for several miles.

So that was what it felt like.

I felt curiously unfulfilled. The feeling of detachment had only continued as she did more and more pleasurable things to me; the more erotic the situation had gotten, the further away I felt. She didn't seem to care, though — she just carried on as if she had planned all this and was following a script.

Perhaps it was the tiredness. I had gone from having my first kiss to losing my virginity in the space of an afternoon. That should be a big deal. It was with my best friend, too. That should be a big deal, too. And perhaps it was. I just couldn't process it right now.

She got up and went to the bathroom. I was left alone to contemplate things further, but just found myself wanting to close my eyes and fall asleep.

Sleep didn't come — it would have probably been quite disrespectful for her to walk back in on me and find me snoring away after what had just happened — but I realised that it had been several minutes since she'd left, and she hadn't come back. I didn't hear any sounds coming from the bathroom, either.

I opened my eyes again, sat up and walked to the bathroom. The door was closed, but not locked. I still couldn't hear anything.

"Laura?" I called. "You there?"

There was no response. I was starting to get a bad feeling. The feeling of detachment was slowly being replaced by a gnawing, uneasy sensation.

"Laura?"

Still nothing. I couldn't hear her moving inside. Was she all right?

"Laura, I'm… coming in, okay?"

I opened the door slowly. It creaked as I did so — all the doors in this house creaked to one degree or another, but the bathroom was particularly noisy. Despite the noise the door was making, I still pushed it open slowly, just in case Laura wasn't ready for me.

Instead I wasn't ready for what I saw.

Laura was lying face-down on the floor, still naked. She wasn't moving. I couldn't tell if she was breathing or not, but it didn't look good.

"Shit," I said, racing into the room to be by her side. I tried frantically to remember the few things about first aid I'd learned in the past. I knelt beside her to try and work out if she was actually breathing or not, but I couldn't tell with her lying face down. I reached out to touch her and turn her over, but as I did so, I was assailed by a feeling of absolute terror. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make me want to close my eyes and blot out the world.

I knew before I opened them again that the situation had changed. Sure enough, there was no sign of Laura's naked body on the floor before me, and the light that had been on previously was now off. I stood up slowly and just stared at the floor.

The door creaked behind me and I suddenly turned around.

"Oh my God," came Alice's voice before I saw her. "What the fuck are you doing? Put some fucking clothes on!"

I frantically looked around for something to cover myself with and could only find a towel that wasn't really big enough to cover me completely.

"Sorry," I said, looking up at where Alice had been standing a moment before. She was gone. The light was back on. "What?"

I span back around to look for Laura's prone body, but it was no longer on the floor.

What was happening?

"You all right?" came Laura's voice from around the corner. I heard her footsteps, and then she was there in the doorway, fully clothed. I was still holding the towel around my waist. "Whoa, what are you…"

"I don't know!" I yelled, a little more harshly than I intended. "I just… it all happened so fast! After we… you know… you went to the bathroom and you were gone a long time, so I came to make sure you were all right, and you were lying on the floor and–"

"Whoa," she said. "Back up. After we what?"

I blinked. This was not happening. Or, more accurately, what I thought had happened had not really happened. Or had it? I certainly remembered it, and the current state I was in seemed to suggest that my mind was not playing tricks on me, but–

"No, come on," she said, sounding a little more agitated now. "After we what?"

"You want me to say it?" I asked, my voice becoming meek. I didn't like where this conversation was going.

"Yes," she said. "You're freaking me out a bit right now, if I'm honest, so I'd appreciate an explanation."

"But we… you know…" Did she really not know?

"No, I don't know!"

"We… did it," I said, feeling my cheeks flush as I said it. What a ridiculous, childish way to put it. "We had sex."

"What?" Her face contorted; she looked like she was laughing and incredulous at the same time. "We most certainly did not. I think I would have remembered something like that. What is wrong with you?"

Something was very wrong here.

"What?" I said. "You really don't…"

"No!" she cried. "You honestly think that I would want to do that with you? Particularly with the state your life is in right now? I don't think that would be the most productive use of our time, now, would it?"

Her words stung me. She didn't need to be so cold about it.

"I think I should go," she said. "I'll see you around. Sometime. Not for a while. Don't contact me. I… need some space."

She stormed off. I heard her go down the stairs, and shortly afterwards the front door opened and then slammed.

I fell to my knees on the floor of the bathroom. The towel fell to the floor, forgotten. I could feel the stress, anxiety, fear and confusion rise up through my body. I gulped a little as the tears sprang to my eyes, then simply exploded with all that pent-up emotion. I wailed and sobbed, and the tears wouldn't stop flowing. I was a pathetic figure right then, but I didn't care.

"You have a weak connection to your world," the mysterious figure had said to me. It felt like that last connection had just been cut.

The post 1032: Chapter 15 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I closed my eyes. The car gave an occasional bump on uneven parts of the road, but the motion was mostly fairly relaxing.

"So, did you have a good time?" I heard my mother's voice saying. "You look exhausted. Hope you didn't spend all your time drinking and carousing."

"No," I grunted, in a vain attempt to try and close off the conversation before it began. I really wasn't in the mood.

"So what was the best bit?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," I said. "It was all pretty fun."

I was going to think back on what had occurred over the last few days, but the bubbling feeling in my stomach wasn't going away, so I just found myself thinking about that. Thinking about it didn't help, of course, since focusing on it just made the feelings worse. The more conscious I was of them, the more I thought I was going to throw up. I tried to think about something — anything — else.

"Oh, come on, Jan," said my father slightly irritably. "Can't you see he's knackered? Let him rest. We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I'm sure we can talk about it in the morning."

"Sorry! Sorry!" said my mother in a mock-flustered tone, as if she had somehow offended me with her questions. "I'll shut up."

My father didn't rise to her bait, and instead turned the radio up. Whatever it was the voice was talking about was terribly boring, but I was thankful for the distraction — both for my own gurgling stomach and from my mother's incessant questioning. She never did quite know when to stop.

A few minutes passed, and no-one except the droning bore on the radio said anything. Eventually his programme came to an end, and it was time for the news. The radio gave the distinctive "pips" that signalled it was on the hour, and the newsreader announced that it was two o' clock in the morning. I didn't really listen to the bulletin; the smooth, soothing voice of the female newsreader washed over me and made me relax.

Patterns swirled behind my eyes. I recognised this as a sure sign I was tired. I knew that if I opened my eyes again, those patterns would still be there; hypnotic, washing over my vision. I focused on them, trying to make sense of them, and felt my consciousness slowly, gradually drifting away. I was falling asleep at last. Hopefully by the time I woke up again, we'd be home and I could just get into bed.

I don't know how long I slept for, but I was awoken with a start by a sudden noise. It was my mother screaming. My eyes snapped open, but it took a moment for me to figure out what was going on. My mother was frantically grabbing for the steering wheel and there, in the driver's seat, where my father should have been… was no-one at all. At least, that's what it seemed like.

I blinked, and he was back again, wrestling with the wheel. But it was too late. The car was in a skid, and it was heading for the barrier at the side of the road. I didn't know what was beyond it as it was still dark, but I had a bad feeling.

The car, which was still moving at a fair speed, crashed straight through the barrier and into the blackness beyond. I felt the world spin sideways, and I knew that there was a drop beyond the barrier. I didn't know how big it was or how long we would fall, but I knew that we were probably not coming back from it.

My stomach felt like it was in my mouth as the car went into freefall, still spinning and rolling in the air. The world felt like it was in slow motion. I wanted to look around, to work out what was going on, but I couldn't — I was being thrown around too much.

I couldn't hear anything. I was sure my mother and father were both screaming in terror at the inevitable fate that seemed to await us, but somehow everything seemed to be muted; a silent, frightening world with no future.

The last sounds I heard were shattering glass, crumpling metal and the sickening crunch of bones. The pain that shot through my body left me in no doubt that at least some of those cracking bones were my own.

I blacked out. And didn't wake up.

*

I came to on the floor of my bedroom. I was lying face-down with my mouth open; my tongue was covered in bits of carpet. I was breathing quickly and my heart was racing. I felt something wet on my face and wondered if I'd hurt myself in the fall from my bed, but I was too afraid to move. I just lay there motionless on the floor for a moment, trying desperately to tell my mind and body that what I had experienced was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

I closed my eyes and tried to take some deep breaths, but just ended up inhaling some dust and fluff from the carpet. I coughed a little, and the spasms were enough to "unlock" my body and let me move. Slowly, gradually, I pushed myself up off the floor and knelt up. My room was dark, again illuminated only by the glow of the clock radio. I looked up towards the source of the light, more out of habit now than anything. For once, it didn't read 2:30.

That meant I couldn't go and see Alice. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to right now, anyhow, but I was feeling scared and very alone.

I hauled myself up onto the bed and pulled myself back under the covers. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.

That was a bad dream, I thought. The worst I've ever had. It felt so real. Like I was actually there. Like it was a memory. But it couldn't be a memory, because…

Because that was what happened to Alice, and not me.

Except…

In Alice's world, I was the one who had been in that situation. I was the one who had failed to come home that night. I was the one who had…

This didn't make sense. Was that dream a work of my own imagination, or something else? Could it be a memory from that other world?

No, of course it couldn't. I wasn't from that other world, so how could I possibly have any memories from it? I certainly couldn't have the memory of the moment that Iost my life.

It must be my imagination, I thought. It must be.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep until morning. All I managed to do was stare at the inside of my eyelids for several hours.

*

Once the sun was up, I groggily got out of bed and trudged downstairs to get myself some breakfast, which would consist mostly of a very large, very strong cup of coffee.

My phone rang while I was nursing the cup of hot liquid. It was Laura.

"You all right?" she asked immediately.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I growled.

"You don't sound fine," she said. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just didn't sleep well, that's all."

"Oh," she said. "All right. Hey, listen, you want to do something today?"

"Huh?"

"Do you want to go out and do something? I figured you could probably do with a change of scenery. Fancy going to the pictures or something?"

I hadn't been to the cinema for probably a good three or four years. The people there annoyed me. I wanted to watch a film, not grit my teeth at people fiddling with phones, eating sweets noisily and laughing at bits of the film that weren't funny.

"Yeah, all right," I found myself saying. "Why not?"

"Okay," she said brightly. "I'll come pick you up in an hour or so. Be ready!"

"All right," I said. "See ya."

She hung up. I drained my coffee cup and put some bread in the toaster. I still felt exhausted from events of the previous day. It had been emotionally and physically tiring, and that awful dream hadn't helped either. I still didn't know what it meant, and was in two minds as to whether or not I should bring it up with Laura. After a bit of internal arguing, I decided that she'd probably get it out of me eventually anyway, so for a quiet life, I should probably just tell her. I would pick my moment carefully, though. No sense telling her before the film; she'd only spend the rest of it worrying, then.

"Urgh," I said out loud to no-one in particular, leaning my head down on the table. "I'm so tired."

I was no nearer to any answers on what the meaning of this whole "alternate existences" thing, and the strange figure hadn't showed up again to offer any further explanations. I resolved that it would probably be sensible to try and forget about it all just for today, and to try and relax and have a good time with Laura.

I smiled to myself in spite of the exhaustion I was feeling. Yes, that was probably the right thing to do. I'd enjoy myself today, then we could worry about things afterwards. I'd earned that much. I deserved a break.

Unfortunately, I already knew for a fact that the moment you start thinking you "deserve" a break is the moment all possibility of actually getting a break departs forever.

The post 1031: Chapter 14 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I looked up and was unsurprised to see the strange figure from before leaning nonchalantly against the doors of the supermarket. Escape was so frustratingly close, but so long as there was no power I couldn't get out. I was stuck with… whatever this thing was.

I said nothing.

"Fine," it said. "I'll talk. You listen."

It pushed itself off the door and stood up straight, then took a couple of steps towards me.

"Do you know where you are?" it asked in a tone that sounded slightly mocking. "Other than the supermarket, I mean."

I nodded. I didn't really feel up to saying much right now.

"So you've probably figured out that you've 'crossed over', right?" it continued.

I nodded again.

"While we wait here, I should probably explain a couple of things," it said. "I mean, it's not as if you look like you have anything better to do right now."

It was true. While I was trapped in here, there was literally nothing else I could do. Well, I guess I could try and break the doors open, but I didn't feel like my body had enough strength to heft anything that might break that thick glass.

"Fine," I said, with a deep sigh. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves. "Explain."

The figure turned around and presented its back to me — proof enough that it clearly didn't consider me a threat.

"We… have a problem," it said after a moment's pause. "And, from what I've been observing, you might be instrumental in fixing it."

It paused and turned around again to look at me. I felt a chill as I felt those eyes on me.

"How to explain this," it pondered, nibbling absentmindedly on a slender fingertip. "There's a 'boundary' that stops all these alternate existences from crashing into one another and interfering with each other, you see. And in certain places, it's weakening."

I nodded dumbly.

"Most of the time, these weakened boundaries don't affect anyone, as most people are firmly stuck on their own timeline," it continued. "Their destiny is set, as it were. They're secure in where they're going, and where they're going to end up — even if they don't know it just yet."

I blinked. What?

"You're a little different, though," it continued, looking through narrowed eyes at me as if it was trying to analyse me. "You have… a curiously weak attachment to your own world. The weakened parts of the boundary ebb and flow like the tides of the sea; when they're at their widest, you have something of a habit of being pulled through, you see."

I blinked again. This sounded completely unbelievable.

"Pulled through?" I asked. "Because of my weak attachment to my world." The fear that had been gripping me was fast diminishing and being replaced with slight annoyance. I couldn't tell if this mysterious, shadowy figure was just toying with me and trying to make me believe any old thing, or if it was really telling the truth.

"Yes," it said. "I appreciate it all sounds very strange, but that's really the simplest way I can put it. There is a lot more to it, obviously, but yes. The fact is that your connection to your world is weak, and this means that you often find yourself… paying others a visit. Specifically, this one. This dark, depressing, deserted…"

"Hold on," I interrupted. "Why just this one? If these 'boundaries' are weak, why do I keep coming to this same world?"

"Several reasons," the figure answered, scratching its cheek with a long finger. "One, you have some sort of attachment to this world as well as your own."

"Alice," I muttered to myself.

"And two — this is the complicated bit — all these alternate existences exist on a sort of 'continuum', and this world is, hmm, 'closest' to your own world."

I said nothing for a moment. The silence hung heavily over us.

"So," I said eventually. "Uh, so what? What exactly does all this have to do with me?"

"Well," said the figure. "I'm still trying to work out exactly what your role in all this will be. But suffice to say your ability to 'cross over' between these existences is almost completely unique in the universe. In fact, I only know of two others who have similar capabilities, myself and my people excepted — we're a… special case. One of them is that sister of yours you've been paying a visit to, though her ability doesn't seem anywhere near as strong as yours."

I blinked, but I wasn't surprised to hear this. I'd seen her, after all.

"So who is the other?" I asked.

"That's the thing," it said. "I don't know. And that's where these problems are coming from. We have a… rogue element, shall we say. They could be hiding anywhere, and they're very powerful."

"Powerful?" I asked. "How do you mean?"

"Difficult to say right now," it said. "But know that they've already crossed through several possible alternate existences at will, and are currently hiding out in your world somewhere."

"Why?" I asked. "Why are they doing… whatever it is they're doing?"

"Chaos," said the figure simply. "They simply desire to sow chaos. In their own existence, they revelled in the chaos they created; now, they seek to spread it through the other possible existences, one world at a time."

"That's it?" I asked. "Just to… sow chaos and mess things up?"

"The multiverse is a strange and mysterious place," said the figure with a grandiose gesture. "Some beings have… purer intentions than others. Your people are complex beasts, filled with many different motivations. Others, like this creature we're talking about here, are rather more single-minded."

"And what about you?" I said finally. "Where do you fit in?"

"I just try and keep everyone safe," it said.

The lights flicked on and suddenly people appeared around me. A security guard nearly tripped over me, cowering as I was in the corner.

"You all right there, sir?" he asked, offering me his hand, a curious expression on his face.

"Yes," I said. "I'm fine."

I felt dizzy and confused. This was all a bit much to take in. Parallel existences? Beasts of pure chaos? Me having a "weak connection" to my own world? And that figure being a member of a "special case" race who apparently could jump back and forth between all these existences at will?

I took the guard's hand and stood up unsteadily, and staggered out of the shop without any of the things I had come in to buy.

Outside, I took a deep breath and let the cool, crisp air fill my lungs. I leaned back against the wall of the supermarket and just breathed for a few minutes. Then I opened my eyes and started to walk home.

*

The walk had given me time to think and try to make sense of some of the things the strange figure had told me.

Okay, I said to myself. So here's what's happening. I have a weaker connection to my own world than most people, which means that I get pulled through weaknesses in the "boundary" between worlds when they ebb and flow in just the right way. The world that is "next" to mine is the one where Alice is all alone, and the main differences between that one and my own is that 1) Alice is alive and well and 2) everyone else has disappeared.

Alice also has the same strange property that she, too, can be pulled through these weak points in the boundary between worlds, though apparently less frequently than I do. And somewhere else out there is a being that enjoys sowing chaos who has already passed through several different existences, doing God knows what along the way, and is supposedly currently hiding out somewhere in my world.

Also, there is a whole race of what appears to be multiverse "caretakers" who chase miscreants like this chaos-sower between worlds and try, apparently, to keep everyone "safe".

That about covers it, I thought.

It didn't bring me any closer to an understanding of what on Earth it was I was supposed to do about all this though, and whether or not my sister had anything to do with it.

*

At 2:30, I paid Alice a visit as usual. She was unsurprised to see me, and it transpired she'd also had a visit from the strange figure. She didn't know its name and whether or not it had a gender either, but she didn't seem quite so uneasy about it as me. I guessed that she probably enjoyed having some company, whoever it might be.

The thought reminded me; she never finished her story of how everyone disappeared.

"I can't explain it for sure," she said. "It was just… after I got that phone call, I was really upset, you know?"

I nodded. I knew exactly how she felt.

"And then… the next day I went out to try and get some air and get my head together… and there was just no-one around," she explained. "I went to the shop and there was no-one there. I tried to call my friends, and no-one answered. Little by little, the power and phones started going down, leaving most places dark. For some reason, the power's always stayed on here, though. It's like this place is a sort of beacon in the night or something."

I frowned. I wondered if this "chaos" thing had deliberately set all this up. I raised the possibility to Alice, who seemed unperturbed by the existence of beings of pure chaos hopping between worlds and doing their chaotic thing.

"I couldn't say," she said. "If that's really the case, I don't really understand what it's trying to do. I guess drive me mental or something? I'm sure there are far easier ways it could do that. I mean, you know, this situation sucks, and I spent a good few weeks doing nothing much but crying my eyes out, but in a weird way it's not so bad. I've got food, I've still got water, I don't have to do anything, and I get to see you sometimes."

I admired how calmly she was taking all this. I thought to myself that if I was in her situation I probably wouldn't be dealing with it anywhere near as well as she was.

"Hey," I said. "I want to try something, and I think we should probably be quick about it. Come with me."

I took her hand, pulled her out of bed and pushed her out of the door before she could protest. I went to follow her and was surprised to see her disappear before my eyes. I walked out of the door and she reappeared in front of me.

"Whoa," she said. "Yeah, it felt weird the last time I did it, but it's even weirder seeing you coming through like tha–"

She disappeared again. I looked back through the door behind me. The room was dark; the bed was empty. It looked like one of those "weak points" the figure had been talking about was over that doorway, and that it went through one of those "ebb and flows" some time between 2:30 and a little after 2:45 every night. Whenever the weak point… "closed" or whatever it did, we got pulled back into our respective existences — the ones we were supposed to be "attached" to.

I let out a wordless shout to the silent house. I staggered back into my own room and fell face-down on the bed. I was asleep again within minutes, my brain completely exhausted from the bewildering things it had been told. Inwardly I hoped that I would wake up in the morning and this would all have been a figment of my own imagination.

I knew that wasn't going to happen, though. This was probably going to get worse before it got better.

The post 1030: Chapter 13 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I slumped back down on the sofa and turned on the TV for the first time in ages. I wasn't sure what was on, but I just felt the need for some background noise of some description. It was starting to feel a bit "too quiet" again, so I broke the silence with what looked like some sort of vapid reality TV nonsense. I had no idea — I hadn't kept up to date with popular culture at all, so I really didn't know what it was that everyone was watching these days. It didn't appear to have improved much since the last time I had turned the television on. Some floppy-haired guy with rippling abdominal muscles looked like he was eating insects while everyone else alternated between laughing hysterically and looking like they were about to vomit.

I leaned back against the arm of the sofa and just stared at the blaring nonsense for a few minutes. I didn't find myself drawn in by the programme at all — it was just noise, a distraction. I guess that was sort of the point. No-one in their right mind would watch something like this deliberately, would they?

I closed my eyes and let the giggling and screaming from the TV wash over me. For once, it felt like I was surrounded by people. Obnoxious, loathsome, awful people, of course, but people nonetheless. It was a nice change to normal. Even at college, I felt like I was in my own little bubble at times, and Laura was the only one who could ever break through and get in. I didn't mind too much; more often than not, I found other people to be irritating and frustrating, but there were times when I felt lonely.

I thought back to what Laura had said to me, that she, too, was alone. It occurred to me that I never saw her hanging around with anyone else. Did she even have any other friends? She certainly always seemed to be available whenever I needed her.

I started to feel a little bad about the way I'd been treating her. I'd been selfishly concentrating on my own problems and not considering the way she might be feeling. She didn't seem to mind, but perhaps it really was frustrating her, and she just found it difficult to express. That would certainly account for the mood swings she seemed to have been having recently. Perhaps I should talk to her about it. She seemed to want to talk about it — otherwise she wouldn't have brought it up, I thought.

*

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. I stared at the TV for a few hours in the end — the awful celebrity "reality" show was eventually replaced by a rerun of a TV comedy from a few years back that I had always enjoyed, so I appreciated the chance to relive some fond memories and laugh for what felt like the first time in forever.

I started to feel tired around eleven o'clock or so, just as some "update" show for the awful celebrity thing was coming on, so I flicked off the TV and trudged up the stairs to bed. I undressed and lay down under the covers. I was asleep within minutes.

I wasn't surprised to awaken what felt like a few minutes later when, sure enough, the time on the clock radio read 2:30. I wearily rubbed my eyes and sat up on the side of my bed. Was I going to do this again? It was starting to feel like a routine. The last few times I'd paid her a visit, Alice hadn't been surprised to see me. Did she appreciate it? Or did it hurt?

I asked myself the same question. The first time I saw her, I was shocked and upset. I didn't know what to do with the knowledge that apparently somewhere, somehow, she was still alive. But now I found myself looking forward to seeing her again, even though my visits only seemed to be able to last for a few minutes. I appreciated the chance to see her again, and the pain I felt when we were pulled apart had lessened somewhat — I knew that I'd be able to see her again the next night, so it wasn't so bad. Perhaps she felt the same way. She apparently had the same ability to… "cross over" and see me, as she'd turned up in here, that one time — but if that was the case, why hadn't she done it more often?

I shook off the rogue thoughts. They probably weren't important right now. I stood up, pulled on my discarded trousers and a wrinkled T-shirt and headed for her room. I opened the door and walked in. She flicked the light on as soon as I entered.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," I said.

"I thought you'd be back," she said.

"Yeah," I said.

She patted an area of the covers on the side of the bed, indicating I should sit down. I did so.

"Alice," I said. "I'm sorry to just jump into this, but going by the last few times we might not have long to talk about it. Can you explain what you meant by… being all alone?"

She sighed.

"Fine," she said. "You're doubting me, aren't you? It's okay. It's a pretty weird story. And I'm not sure I can answer your question, really, to be honest."

"It's okay," I said. "Just tell me what you know."

"Well," she began. "It was, hmm, let me think… probably two or three months ago now."

"What?" I interjected. "But that… No, never mind. Sorry, carry on."

"Yeah," she said, giving me a strange look. "About two or three months ago, I was in bed. You and Mum and Dad were out somewhere — they were picking you up from some thing you'd been doing — and told me not to wait up for you all. So I'd gone to bed. I was pretty tired, so I fell asleep pretty quickly."

This was starting to sound a little too familiar, but I kept my mouth shut for now.

"I woke up in the middle of the night," she continued. "My phone was ringing. It was about 2:30 in the morning — I remember because I saw it on the clock on my phone when I picked it up. I was a bit scared. No-one ever phoned me, and I'd only ever heard about bad things happening from phone calls that happened in the middle of the night. I didn't want to answer it. I knew it would be bad news."

"Okay," I said, stopping her. "Just hold up there. What you're describing is exactly what happened to me, only I was the one who was waiting back home for Mum and Dad to bring you back. And then…"

The lights went out, and I was left on my own again.

"Fuck!" I shouted at the empty room. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

*

The next morning, I awoke groggily. It was the weekend, so my alarm didn't go off. I sat up in bed, my joints aching like I'd been running a marathon. The digits on the clock radio indicated that it was after eleven in the morning. It had been a while since I'd had a decent lie-in, and it felt good. I wanted to lie back down and sleep through most of Saturday, but knew that if I shut my eyes again that's exactly what I would do, and that wouldn't really help anyone.

I got up and walked downstairs to prepare some breakfast. I used the last of the milk in the fridge on a cup of strong coffee to try and make myself feel more alert, and decided that today might be a good day to go shopping. I considered calling Laura and asking her to give me a lift, but eventually decided against it. The fresh air and the walk would probably do me good.

After breakfast, I washed my face, cleaned my teeth and put on some clean clothes. Then I checked my pockets several times to ensure I had my phone, wallet and keys on me, and left the house. It was a brisk, breezy day outside, but the crisp air felt good against my face. I breathed in deeply. The smell of the outdoors felt much better than the stagnant, dusty air inside my house, so I found myself thinking that I should probably try and get out a bit more.

I walked the familiar route to the supermarket. The roads were busy — it was a Saturday, after all — and traffic was backed all the way up the street. I never understood why everyone wanted to do their shopping on a Saturday, not when most of the supermarkets around here were open twenty-four hours, but then I realised that I was part of that group of people also. I smiled wryly to myself.

Eventually, I came into the supermarket car park, which was chock full of cars. There wasn't a single space to be seen, so people were just abandoning their vehicles wherever they could find a space — in the "pick-up" area, on the double yellow lines outside the store entrance, and one motorcyclist had even parked his bike in one of the trolley bays.

I grit my teeth. I wasn't a fan of crowds at the best of times, but I needed to pick up a few things. I resolved to try and get in and out as soon as possible. I'd been here by myself enough times and often enough to know exactly where everything I needed was, so I should be able to manage without too much difficulty.

With a feeling of slight anxiety at the sight of all the people bustling around inside the store, I stepped through the front doors, and headed straight for the refrigerated sections to grab some milk.

Just as I reached for the milk, my nose was assailed by an awful stench. It made me gag and retch; I staggered away in a random direction, trying to get away from it. My eyes were blurred with tears from the terrible smell. I closed them and leaned on the counter I knew was at the back of the store to try and steady myself, and it was around then that I realised something was definitely amiss, stench aside.

I opened my eyes and stood up unsteadily. With a sinking feeling, I looked around the deserted supermarket and noted that all of the lights had gone off. The only light coming in was through the skylights in the ceiling, and the awful smell was presumably coming from the rotting food in the long-abandoned refrigerators, which were no longer working.

My pulse and breathing quickened, and I felt a sudden urge to get out of there as soon as possible. I took off at a run towards the exit and ran straight into the doors.

Of course. They were automatic, electrically-powered doors, and if there was nothing to power them, they wouldn't open.

I tried frantically to pry them open with my fingers, but it wasn't happening. There was only one real option here — to break my way out. That was the only thing I could do.

Fear got the better of me instead. I sat down in the corner by the door and just hid my face in my hands. My body shivered and my heart raced.

Why was this happening to me? And what was the connection with that time?

The post 1029: Chapter 12 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

As I continued explaining all the strange happenings in as much detail as I can, it felt like someone had opened a valve in my mind, and the pressure was gradually releasing. All of these pent-up emotions, worries, anxieties and feelings — all of them were coming out now, and Laura was just listening as I let them out without any sense of shame. I was long past that. Keeping quiet wasn't helping me, and I needed help.

I smiled to myself at that thought. Just a few days ago I'd been so resistant to the idea of asking for help or talking about this, but now I was speaking freely like this — speaking about things that would probably get me committed to a mental institute if I were talking to anyone but Laura.

I wrapped up with the details of my last conversation with Alice, and how she had told me that she was all alone in her world, all by herself. I stopped and waited.

There was silence for a moment. Laura gazed at me, then took a sip of her tea with a soft "slurp" sound. Then she put the cup down on the coffee table next to the chair she was sitting in.

"Here's one part that doesn't make sense," she said, frowning. "You said that the first time you went into Alice's room, she sounded like she thought you were someone else, like she wasn't surprised to see someone else coming in."

I nibbled on the tip of my finger. I had said that. How did I not notice this before? That was a clear inconsistency in Alice's story. The first time I went into her world, she'd asked me what I was doing, asked me what time it was. She didn't know it was me when she said those words, so who was she talking to? If everyone else in her world was gone, as she'd said, then surely she wouldn't have anyone to talk to. So who was she expecting to come into her room that night?

There were several possible explanations, and I didn't know how likely any of them were. The first was that she was simply sleepy and disoriented when she woke up and spoke without thinking, but this didn't seem plausible. Surely even in a bleary-eyed state, she'd know that no-one was around to hear her words.

The second was that she was talking to herself. This seemed equally unlikely, as she'd asked me directly what I was doing, even though she didn't know who it was that had come into her room. So that one was out of the window.

The third was that there was actually someone else in her world and that she had lied to me. As much as I didn't want to think about it, this was probably the most plausible explanation. She didn't sound surprised to hear someone coming into her room in the middle of the night, but she froze solid when she discovered it was me. Perhaps she was expecting my… her… our parents or something.

The fourth and final possibility, so far as I could make out, was that there was someone else out there in a similar situation to me — another "visitor," as it were — who had been paying her occasional visits before my first appearance. I didn't know how likely this was, as I wasn't any closer to figuring out exactly why I was able to visit her in the first place, so I had no idea if anyone else would be able to do it.

I explained my thoughts on these four possibilities to Laura, who looked deep in thought for a moment, and took another swig of tea.

"Hmm," she said. I was impressed how unfazed by all of this she seemed to be. I'd said some pretty outlandish things, but it didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. For some reason, it made me slightly anxious.

"Hmm?" I said.

"Yes, hmm," she said, setting the teacup down again. "I don't think we have enough information to go on just yet. The only real thing we seem to know about when you can… cross over, or whatever it is you're doing… is that it happens at, what, around 2:30?"

"Yeah," I said. But that didn't explain the few exceptions to that rule — the bathroom in college, and that time Alice had come into my room just after the sun had set one day. I said as much.

"Uh-huh," she said. "Let's focus on the 2:30 thing for the moment, then we can think about the others. Does the time 2:30 have some sort of… meaning?"

I racked my brains, trying to think if there was anything relevant that might explain it. 2:30. 2:30 in the morning. Half-past two. What was–

"Holy fuck," I said, more to myself than to Laura.

"What is it?" she asked eagerly. "Did you think of something?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I did."

*

My eyes snapped open. I'd been having a nightmare. It was one of those ill-defined nightmares that was just born from depression and anxiety, not anything specific. There was no sense of narrative to it, no purpose, not even anything I'd be able to talk about. It was just the emotion of fear, running away from something terrible that was coming for me. I didn't know what it was or why it was after me, but I knew I needed to be as far away from it as possible.

My body was drenched with sweat, and my pulse was racing. It felt as if I really had been exerting myself; fleeing in terror from whatever terrible fate was pursuing me. I was short of breath; I gasped and tried to calm down, but I couldn't. I was on edge. I felt scared and worried. I couldn't explain why. I just had a terrible feeling, and it wouldn't go away.

I sat up unsteadily and leaned back against the wall. The room was dark, as usual, the only illumination coming from the glowing digits of the battered old clock radio. They gave off a cold, green light, but I found the sight of them to be oddly comforting — a pleasing constant in my life.

I didn't have a bad life, really, but it wasn't particularly good either. I was doing well at my new college, though I was having trouble making friends and felt a bit lonely. I felt anxious about my future, though. I wanted to do the very best I possibly could, and I was never sure if what I was doing was good enough. Was I trying hard enough?

I glanced at the clock radio just as the digits ticked over from 2:29 to 2:30 a.m. I knew I should probably get back to sleep, but I was far too awake and alert right now for that — I was in full-on "fight or flight" mode, and lying down while I was in this state would doubtless just lead to a panic attack and a completely sleepless night. Best that I tried to calm myself down rather than making things difficult for myself.

Suddenly, a piercing sound from the other side of the room. It took me a moment to identify it as the ringtone of my phone which, as usual, I'd put out of reach so I'd have to get up and turn it off in the morning. I jumped to my feet and dove for the phone. The sound was shattering the silence of my room, just as I was getting used to it, and I wanted it to go away.

I didn't recognise the number that was coming up on the screen. I didn't want to answer, but I figured if someone was calling at this hour it was probably important. So, with some trepidation, I tapped the option on the screen to answer the call.

"Hello?" I said in a cracked voice.

*

Laura's eyes had widened yet further.

"Holy fuck," she said, echoing my earlier words. "Yeah. Yeah, that would make sense. Well, not sense, but…"

I scowled at her.

"Sense?" I snapped. "None of this makes any sense. What possible connection could… that… have to what's going on now?"

"Well, not to state the obvious, but… Alice?" said Laura bluntly.

Damn. She was right. But it still didn't really make sense. What was the connection between the events of that night and the other Alice? They shouldn't have anything to do with each other, right? After all, the other Alice was convinced that I was the one who had… departed — me, along with, apparently, everyone else in the world.

Could that have happened at the same time as…

"I can tell you're thinking what I'm thinking," said Laura. "But we have no way of knowing right now."

"Yeah," I said. "The only way I'd be able to find out would be to talk to her and find out, and even then, there's no guarantee that she'd remember the exact time something as awful as…"

I trailed off for a moment. It occurred to me that Alice hadn't explained exactly what had happened to everyone else in her world. She claimed they were all gone, but before she'd had the chance to explain herself, we were torn apart again.

I made a mental note. The next time I saw her, that would be the thing to talk about.

I slumped back against the arm of the sofa and looked wearily at Laura.

"I don't get you," I said quietly.

"What's not to get?" she said softly.

"One minute you're hysterical and upset about me; the next, I feel like you're looking at me as if I'm mad; the next, you're trying your hardest to help me. I guess… I'm just wondering what you're really thinking."

"I want to help," she said simply. "I honestly don't know what to believe right now, even after seeing you disappear from in front of my eyes that time… but the one thing I do know is that I want to help. However I can."

"Just… please promise me one thing," I said.

"Sure," she said.

"Please don't even think about getting me taken away as some sort of nutcase until we've figured this all out," I said. "I know there's the distinct possibility that all of this is some sort of fucking crazy hallucination I'm having from lack of sleep or something, but I need to know for sure. If it looks like, beyond a doubt, I'm going insane, then sure. Do what you need to do. But for now, please, trust me. Believe me. Even if it's difficult. Even if it makes no sense."

"I do," she said without hesitation. "I believe in you. We're going to get through this."

The post 1028: Chapter 11 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"2:30?" I said to myself as I pulled the covers off my head and emerged into a dark room illuminated only by the digits of the clock radio. "2:30," I said, confirming my suspicion via a glance at the glowing numbers.

"Let's get this over with," I said, climbing out of bed. I'm not sure at what point I had become so complacent about these strange happenings — after all, it was just yesterday that I had been yelling at the mysterious figure about how much I wasn't ready to deal with whatever its stupid plan was. Perhaps it was just mental exhaustion — not having anything more left to "give" — or perhaps it was a sign that I really was growing accustomed to this strange and unnatural existence.

I walked slowly and carefully down the hallway in the direction of my sister's room. Without hesitating this time, I grasped the door handle and opened it. I felt the same sense of nervous tension as I always did when doing this, and I knew that she'd be there waiting for me. I didn't sit down on the bed, and I didn't reach out to touch her; I just spoke in a soft voice.

"Alice," I said. "Are you there?"

"Yes," she said, apparently unsurprised to hear my voice. "Come on in. Not that I think I have a choice in all this, huh?"

"No, I guess not," I said with a slight chuckle. "But I don't really have a choice either."

I sat down on the side of the bed.

"Shut your eyes," she said.

"What?" I asked, and was promptly answered by Alice flicking the light on, dazzling me. I snapped my eyes shut.

"I warned you," she said. "Now, is there a reason you keep bothering me in the middle of the night like this?"

I thought about this for a moment.

"Well, if I'm honest, not really," I said. "But I wanted to see you again, and it helps to have someone else to talk about these weird happenings with."

"I suppose you're right," she said. "After all, whatever it is that's happening to you happened to me that one time. I managed to come in and see you in your room."

"Oh, so that was you," I said.

"Of course it was me, you big lunk," she said. "You recognised me and everything."

"Right, right," I said. "That's not what I meant, though."

I took a deep breath and started to recount my strange conversation with the shadowy figure from yesterday — including the part about how we were different "versions" of each other from the ones we knew.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up there," she said. "So I was right, then. This is some sort of weird parallel universe thing."

It sounded utterly ridiculous in the blunt manner she said it. But I had to admit that there weren't many alternative explanations.

"Yes," I said. "I suppose so. You're convinced I'm… you know."

"Dead?" she said, slightly irritably. "Stop pussy-footing around it and just say it. I thought you were dead, yes. And you apparently thought I was dead. And?"

"Well, then," I said. "That there doesn't add up. We can't both be right. Unless we are. The only way in which we could both be right is if one version of each of us is…"

"Dead," she said, finishing my sentence. I thanked her silently for not making me say it. "Man. My head is spinning. And, I gotta say, if it is the whole 'parallel universe' thing going on, I think I'm the one who got the shitty end of the stick here."

"Why?" I asked, a little more indignantly than I intended. "You're alive, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said. "But you're dead. And so is everyone else."

"You mean Mum and Dad?" I asked.

"Uh-huh," she said. "Along with pretty much everyone I've ever known, ever. I'm all alone. And not just all alone in an 'I'm so depressed so I'm going to lock myself in my room' sort of way. I mean literally all alone. There is no-one else here at all. They are all dead. They are all gone. I am the only person alive. Are you getting this yet? Are you understanding me?"

My blood ran cold as her increasingly-agitated words reached my ears and my brain decoded their meaning.

"Holy shit," I said. Then the lights went out, and I was left sitting on the side of her bed back in my own reality.

*

I couldn't get back to sleep after that revelation, so I had spent the rest of the night making myself strong cups of coffee and staring at the clock on the oven. As the sun began to rise, I dug around for my phone and sent Laura a message saying that I'd be all right to go to college today. This empty house was starting to feel like a prison — though it couldn't possibly compare to what Alice must be feeling.

I felt a little guilty about the amount of self-pitying I had done over the course of the last few days. I thought I had it bad, but at least I still had Laura, and at least I was still living in a world that actually had people in it.

I had considered the possibility that Alice might have been playing a cruel prank on me, of course, but I remembered the curiously empty, dark college campus I'd seen. There was certainly no sign of human life there — was that part of the same strange phenomenon that was, for some reason, bringing me together with this… "other Alice"? If so, it would certainly seem to match up with her story.

I had too many questions to be able to draw firm conclusions. I never stayed long enough in what I was coming to think of as "Alice's world" to be able to tell if she was telling the truth or not. I didn't even know for sure that the deserted campus and the darkened room in which she was still alive were the same… parallel world, or whatever they were. I got the feeling Alice wanted to say more to me last night, but she didn't get the chance to. Why was she the only one left alive? How did everyone else die? What was so special about her? And what was so special about me, who was able to… cross over and see her?

I lay my head down on the kitchen table as I grasped my latest cup of coffee — I'd lost count somewhere around the fifth or sixth — and closed my eyes. I groaned to myself. This was not getting any easier to deal with, but somehow my past feelings of fear were starting to seem like a distant memory. I was mentally and physically exhausted, and right now I just wanted to get out of here. The prospect of going to college and immersing myself in some tedious coursework was just what I needed right now — a semblance of normality in a completely chaotic existence.

There was a knock at the door, and I recognised the distinctive pattern as Laura's. I got up, tossed my now-cold coffee into the sink and went to answer it. Sure enough, there she was on the doorstep, looking as tired as I felt.

"You all right?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I've just been… worrying, you know."

"Yeah," I said. I felt bad. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she said. "I don't think. I don't know. Hey. You're probably right. Getting out of here is probably a good idea, but do you think we could talk about this later?"

"Sure," I said. "But it's not really making any more sense now than it was before. In fact, it's probably making less sense."

"That's okay," she said. "I just want to… feel like I'm in the loop, you know? I don't want you to get dragged away by whatever weird shit is going on. I want to help. If I can."

"I'm not sure you can," I said. "But thanks. How about you come back here after classes today and we'll talk about it?"

She smiled at me.

"You've changed a little," she said. "I like it."

I felt my cheeks flush slightly and got a sudden urge to change the subject.

"Shall we go, then?" I asked.

"Yep," she said, visibly brighter, though still with massive bags under her eyes.

*

The passed uneventfully. I was grateful for the lack of weird incidents, and happy for the opportunity to throw myself into the surprisingly tiresome task of writing 1,500 words on the subject of "taboo language". It turned out that exploring the etymology of the word "fuck" wasn't nearly as interesting as it sounded.

Laura met up with me outside the front door of the college once the day had come to an end. She looked a little more lively than she had done earlier.

"All right?" she said. "Still okay to come by for a bit?"

"Yeah," I said. I felt a slight sense of nervousness at the difficult, bizarre conversation I had waiting for me at the end of the drive home, but also grateful for the fact that Laura was willing and able to stick by me through all this. I wasn't quite sure if I'd be able to handle it all by myself.

I thought to myself, with a not-inconsiderable amount of guilt, that handling it by herself was exactly what Alice was doing right now. Her words — if they turned out to be true, of course, and I didn't really want to doubt her — meant that she really was all alone, rather than having someone who was apparently willing to stick by me even as I came out with the most outlandish-sounding nonsense about why I was acting so strangely.

"Hey Laura," I said as I got into her car. "I probably don't say this enough, but… thanks."

"What for?" she said, smiling.

"Everything," I said. "I really appreciate you being there for me. You're always there for me. You've got my back, I know that."

"It's fine," she said, starting the engine. "You know, it's not entirely selfless on my part, either, as you've probably noticed."

I hadn't. Should I have?

"Oh?" I said.

"Yeah," she said, pulling the car out onto the road. "You're not the only one who feels alone, you know. While I really like spending time with you, I don't hang around with you so much just because of that. Outside of my parents, I haven't really got anyone else either."

"Oh, wow," I said, quietly. I felt awful. I'd never even thought of that. I'd always just thought of Laura as "my friend" and not even considered the question of who — if anyone — she might be hanging around with when I wasn't around. So that was why she'd been so upset at the weird happenings the other night. She thought she was losing… her only friend?

"It's okay," she said. "You've had your own stuff to deal with, so I never brought it up. But… since strange stuff is going on, I'd like you to remember it if you can. I know I got a bit hysterical the other night, but I meant what I said. I don't want you to go anywhere. I'm not sure what I'd do without you so please… whatever it is you're involved with, and I'm hoping we'll have a good talk about this when we get home, please try and stay safe."

"I will," I promised. "I will."

The post 1027: Chapter 10 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The silence seemed oddly oppressive, but I couldn't be bothered to get up and put on something that made noise. I was used to the silence by now. This house was always quiet. Most of the time I didn't notice it, but for now it seemed particularly noticeable.

I blinked a few times and continued to gaze at the featureless patch of ceiling above my bed. My mind started to wander as I considered everything that had happened so far.

Things were starting to come together in my mind, but they seemed highly improbable, if not impossible. How was this all happening?

I made a mental checklist in my mind.

Okay, I thought. Let's go through these things one at a time.

The main mystery was how on Earth I was suddenly able to see and speak with my sister. This was something that should be impossible, and yet it wasn't. She seemed just as bewildered as I did at the concept.

That led on to the second mystery: our apparently different memories of what had happened in the past. My memory clearly believed that she was… gone, along with my parents. That was surely a fact that couldn't be argued with. The house I was in was so silent right now because they were gone. If they were still here, I'd have been able to hear my parents talking and my sister probably listening to whatever God-awful pop group she'd seen on the television that week. But they weren't I was here, alone.

And yet she seemed to think that I was the one who was not around any more. Her reaction to me was very similar to my reaction to seeing her again. She seemed to think that my presence was the thing that should be impossible.

That was the part that didn't really make sense to me. How could we both be right? Because we both clearly believed that we were right.

There was only one real possibility, but I couldn't even bring myself to think it, it seemed so ludicrous. And yet it continually crept in to the corner of my mind, begging me to consider it further.

"Ah," came a familiar and unwelcome voice; an oddly-soothing voice. "So you're starting to get it."

I sat up suddenly and looked around. I couldn't see where the voice was coming from. It seemed to fill my mind rather than my ears; to come from all around me, everywhere and nowhere.

"What is this?" I asked in an unsteady voice. "Who are you?"

"Oh, you've found your voice at last," said the voice. It was taking a somewhat patronising tone that I didn't much care for, but the feeling of fear was overriding annoyance at the moment. "Good. That will make conversing with you much easier."

"You didn't answer my question," I said, trying to sound assertive but just ending up painfully aware of how much my voice was quavering.

"Calm down," said the voice. It was as smooth as butter, and I couldn't help feeling soothed by its tones, even though it also scared me. "My name is not important right now. I mean you no harm, though."

Somehow I wasn't entirely convinced, but I said nothing in response to it.

"Doubtless you are trying to make sense of what is, after all, a very strange situation, correct?" it continued. "And doubtless you are rapidly coming to the conclusion that something that appears to be fairly implausible must, in fact, be the explanation, yes?"

"Yes," I said meekly.

"Tell me what you think is happening," said the voice bluntly. "And then we'll go from there."

I paused. I felt ridiculous even contemplating saying these things out loud. And yet here I was talking to some sort of presence that may or may not be a figment of my own imagination. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.

"All right," I said. "Clearly I am… going somewhere sometimes. Otherwise Laura wouldn't have seen me disappear."

"Go on," said the voice, goading me.

"And when I… go somewhere, it's a place where my sister is."

"Yes."

"When I meet my sister, she has no memory of… that night. Instead, she seems to be convinced that I am the one who… passed on."

"Continue."

"Therefore, the only possible explanation for all this is that…"

"Yes?"

"Is that…"

"Just say it."

I swallowed, grit my teeth and remained silent for a moment.

"The only possible explanation," I said again after a moment, "is that the 'sister' I'm seeing is… a different version of her to the one I lost back then."

"Bravo!" said the voice. I heard what sounded like a slow clap, and a figure that absolutely wasn't there before was suddenly standing by my bed. It was indeed giving me a slow clap. I instinctively recoiled and pressed myself into the corner of my bed, as far away from the figure as I could possibly get.

I could tell it was the same figure I'd seen in the mirror the other day. I avoided looking at it. It freaked me out then, and it was freaking me out now, not least because it had appeared out of nowhere and was now standing in the middle of my room as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn't belong here, and I very much wanted it gone, but I had the feeling that wasn't going to happen until it had finished whatever its business was with me right now.

"Yes, indeed," it said, turning to face me. "And do stop cowering. I told you I didn't mean you any harm and I mean it. You're far too interesting for me to let you get hurt."

Interesting? Me? I thought it, but didn't say it.

"Yes, you," it said, apparently reading my thoughts. This didn't make me feel any better. "You're an intriguing one, which is why I'm here now."

"Are you… the one who is making these strange things happen?" I asked uneasily.

"Heavens, no," said the figure with a ghastly laugh that chilled me right up my spine. "I don't have that sort of power. I'm just… keeping an eye on things, shall we say. You see, the things that are happening to you are… a bit of a concern. They're not supposed to happen, in short. You shouldn't be able to do the things that you're doing. But you are."

"And… what am I doing?" I asked. I wasn't sure I actually wanted to know, but I felt like the figure was expecting that I should ask it.

"Hmm, how to put this in terms you can understand," said the voice in a condescending tone. "Basically every so often you're crossing a 'threshold' — a boundary between worlds, I guess you'd call it — and that, not to put too fine a point on it, is causing problems."

"What kind of problems?" I said.

"That's… not important right now," said the figure. "For the moment, I'm simply studying what is happening with you and then we'll work out what the best thing to do is. In the meantime, you get to see your sister again when you thought that became impossible the moment she died. Pretty great, right?"

Something snapped in my mind and the fear was gone, replaced with anger. I looked at the figure for the first time. It was oddly androgynous, dressed all in black. I couldn't tell from either its figure or voice whether it was male or female. Its skin was pale as snow, and its eyes, which were looking straight at me, were a sparkling ruby red. It was both beautiful and terrifying to look at.

"Pretty great, you say?" I growled. "Pretty great? Do you have any idea what I've been going through? How difficult this all is to deal with, how much of a complete and utter headfuck it is to be seeing Alice again?"

"Yes," said the figure simply and calmly. "I've been watching all of this since it started. I've tried to appear to you a few times before this but you… well, you showed that you weren't quite ready to process the information just yet."

"And you think I am now?" I said, the volume of my voice rising. "You think I'm 'ready' for whatever your weird little plan is? Well, I'm not. I'm out. I just want some peace. I want a normal life. I want to be able to grieve properly for the people I have lost and move on. I want to be able to concentrate on my future rather than being constantly reminded of the most painful thing in my past. I just want to live, for fuck's sake."

I wasn't sure, but I thought the figure looked slightly impressed at my outburst.

"Okay, okay," it said, brushing something off its arm with a dismissive expression. "Perhaps this was a bad idea to come here and talk to you today. You're still clearly… dealing with a lot of things. I will leave you in peace for now, but like I say, the strange things that have been happening to you are nothing to do with me. Or, rather, I should say, they're not caused by me. And they are going to keep happening to you until you're ready to deal with what's going on. I'll ask you one last time before I let you go back to staring at the ceiling with that vacant expression on your face: are you ready to deal with this?"

"No!" I yelled. "Please! Leave me alone!"

"That's all I needed to know," said the figure. Then it was gone.

I had no idea what had just happened to me. I wasn't sure if I had actually just experienced that utterly bizarre conversation, and Laura wasn't here to tell me whether or not anything strange had happened from her perspective.

Suddenly I felt very alone and isolated, and I didn't know what to do.

I simply climbed under the covers of my bed and hid in the warm darkness. I would be safe here. Nothing could get me here.

It was a childish thought, of course — I used to hide under the covers when I was a kid and afraid of monsters in the dark. But right now, the monsters seemed that little bit too real, and I wasn't ready to fight them head-on. I didn't know if I would ever be ready. Perhaps I would get there. That strange figure, whoever it was, seemed to think I would. But right now, all I wanted to do was hide away from everything and never come out.

So I hid.

The post 1026: Still-Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 9 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

We — well, she, mostly — decided that she should stay over and keep an eye on me. If something weird happened, I said I'd tell her, and she'd tell me if she could see anything. If nothing else, it would help to establish if I was really seeing Alice, or if I was just going a bit weird in the head. I didn't really want to think about what it meant if she didn't see anything when I did, but at least it would be proof that this was maybe something I couldn't handle on my own.

But then what if she did see something? What would that mean then?

These questions swam around inside my head as I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes. I heard Laura rustling in the sleeping bag on the floor. She said she'd try and stay awake, but she already sounded like she was getting comfortable.

Within a few minutes, her breathing became soft and regular, and it was clear that she was asleep.

I smiled bitterly to myself. Most people my age would probably be thrilled to have a girl in their bedroom. But these were hardly normal circumstances. Laura was here — let's not be under any illusions about this — to determine whether or not I was going insane.

I scrunched up my eyes tightly and tried to banish the thoughts from my head, but it wasn't really working. I rolled over onto my front and buried my head in the pillow, but it was hard to breathe. Was I ever going to get to sleep tonight?

What felt like minutes later, I woke up with a start. I could hear Laura's soft snoring still coming from down on the floor. The room was noticeably darker than it had been when I was trying to get to sleep. I looked at the clock radio; sure enough, as I expected, it was 2:30.

I sat on the edge of my bed and stretched my aching muscles. Then I nudged Laura with my foot. She gave a mumble but didn't stir.

Possibilities crossed my mind. Should I just not wake her? If she didn't wake up, I could just say I slept through the night and nothing happened. It's possible that nothing will happen anyway, but perhaps it would just be easier if she…

"Oh, hey," she groaned. I heard the sleeping bag rustle as she sat up. "What time is it?"

That answered that.

"2:30," I said. "I keep waking up at this time for some reason."

"Is something…" she began, then hesitated. "Have you seen anything?"

"No," I said. "But the last few times I've woken up at this time, I've… I've seen Alice in her room."

Laura was silent for a moment. The only sound was her gentle breathing. There was something delicate and feminine about it. I felt a strong and sudden urge to try and keep her safe.

"Do you want to go and look?" she asked eventually.

"Yes," I said, almost immediately. I felt the same usual sense of unease and fear, but rather than stopping me from acting, now it felt like it was spurring me on into action. I had to see her again. I had to see her. "Yes. Come on."

"All right," said Laura. She yawned. "Let's get this over with."

She braced herself on the side of my bed and stood up, shaking the sleeping bag off her legs. I couldn't stop myself from stealing a glance at her in the dull glow of the digits from the clock radio. She was wearing one of my T-shirts to sleep in, and nothing else. My eyes followed the contours of her shapely legs for a moment before I stopped myself. I shouldn't look at her like that.

"Hey," she said. "You all right?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to shake the impure thoughts out of my mind. "Yeah. Let's go."

We walked out into the hallway, and I led the way to my sister's room. I paused in front of the door as usual. I felt Laura place her hand on my shoulder behind me, and I felt somewhat reassured, but still uneasily.

I put my hand on the doorknob and opened it. I stepped over the threshold into the darkness of my sister's room. I felt Laura's hand release me as I stepped inside, and I knew she was hanging back to wait for me rather than intruding on this.

I sat down on the side of the bed as I had done before and reached over to try and stir my sister. She was already awake.

"Hello again," she said. "Is this going to be a habit? It would be nice to get a full night's sleep one of these days, you know."

"Sorry," I said. "I'm trying to work all this out."

"I'm just joking," she said, her voice softening a little. "I want to know what's going on too. And I know it probably means at least a few nights of interrupted sleep."

"I'm still sorry," I said. I felt a wave of emotion rising up inside me. I felt like I wanted to cry, but I held myself back from the brink. "I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have saved you."

"Whoa, wait, what?" she said. "Save me? From what? I'm here! I'm safe. See? Here."

I felt her small hand touch me on the cheek. It was freezing cold, but she was definitely there. A tear fell from my eye.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry, I…"

"Yeah, something funny's definitely going on here," she said. "It's like… you're convinced I'm dead, right?"

"Yeah," I said in a voice that wasn't much more than a whisper.

"And… I'm convinced you're dead," she continued.

"Yeah," I repeated.

There was a momentary silence.

"No, I got nothing," she said. "Well, nothing that makes any sense, anyway."

"This isn't exactly a situation that makes sense anyway," I said to her, wiping my eyes. "So let's hear your situations that don't make sense."

"No, they're too stupid," she said. "They couldn't possibly be happening."

"Come on," I said. "You can tell me."

There was no response.

"Alice?"

I wondered what weird suggestions she had, and my mind started wandering, trying to think of some of my own. All of them just seemed too ridiculous to even consider. But like I said to her, this whole situation didn't make sense. When you rule out all of the plausible things, what you're left with, however implausible or impossible-seeming, must be the truth. I'd heard that somewhere.

She wasn't saying anything.

"Alice?" I called. I reached out to touch her, but found only bedding.

She was gone again. But now there was a different sound coming from outside the room. It sounded like someone crying.

Laura?

I stood up from Alice's bed and pulled the door open. Laura was kneeling on the floor of the hallway, sobbing.

"Hey, uh, you all right?" I said. Her head snapped up and she gazed at me with wide, tear-filled eyes — eyes that looked afraid.

"How the fuck did you do that?" she whispered in a broken voice.

"Do… what?" I asked.

She stood up and walked slowly towards me until she was so close our bodies were almost touching. Her hands moved to my face, her slender fingers caressing my cheeks, as if she was a blind girl trying to visualise the appearance of someone she would never see with her eyes. She was breathing raggedly through her mouth, and I felt her hot breath against me.

"You're really here, right?" she said.

"Yes," I whispered. Her face was very close to me. I didn't know what was happening. She put her arms around me and pressed herself against me.

"Please," she said. "Just hold me until morning."

*

I woke up as the sun was rising. My bed felt more cramped than normal, and it took my sleepy mind a moment to realise that there was something in my bed with me, another moment to realise that it was a person and yet another to remember that it was Laura.

She was still sound asleep, facing away from me towards the wall.

I had only dim memories of exactly what had happened last night, but as my brain went through its startup sequence I remembered Laura's words, her request, her plea for me to hold her until morning. I remembered how scared she'd looked. What happened?

She looked peaceful now, at least, so I decided not to wake her. I honoured her request as best I could, though, and hesitantly draped an arm over her sleeping figure.

I closed my eyes and found myself drifting off again.

*

The next time I awoke, Laura's face was right in front of me. Her hair was a mess and her eyes looked tired.

"Hey," she said. "I'm, uh, sorry about last night. Not that I imagine you're complaining."

I was suddenly very conscious of the "morning glory" erection I had, and tried discreetly to ensure that I didn't poke her with it inadvertently.

"It's, um, all right," I said. There was an awkward silence that I felt the need to fill as soon as possible. "You seemed pretty upset about something… did you see my sister?"

"No," she said, the cheeky smile from a moment ago fading instantly. "In fact, I didn't see anything."

I felt an unpleasant feeling, like icy-cold fingers crawling up my spine.

"So… I am going mad, then?" I asked.

"No," she said, her voice becoming a little more agitated. "No, you don't understand. I didn't see anything at all. You weren't there. You just disappeared, right in front of me."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"You went away," she said again. "You disappeared. I couldn't see you, couldn't find you. You were gone. You left me. Please don't leave me. Please don't go away."

She buried her face in my chest, and all I could do was put my arms around her and hold her as she broke down completely. I'd never seen her like this before, and I hated myself for the fact that I was the one who had done it to her.

"Please don't go away," she kept saying. "Please don't leave me."

The post 1025: Still-Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 8 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I walked towards the table — there was nowhere else to go — and stood in the small pool of light around it.

Nothing happened for a moment. I looked around with some curiosity, but for some reason I didn't feel uneasy or scared. I felt like I should just wait, so I did.

There was no sound. The room, wherever it was, just was. It simply existed. I couldn't hear any sounds from outside, nor any noise from in here. Even the slightly-flickering candle flame wasn't making a sound.

Then, suddenly, I heard something. Footsteps? They were slow and tentative, and they sounded like bare feet on a tile floor. I looked down at my own feet, but the light from the candle wasn't enough to tell what I was actually standing on. I tried to move my feet and make a sound with them, but I found I was rooted to the spot. I couldn't move.

I still felt curious rather than scared or uneasy. This was happening and there was nothing I could do about it.

The footsteps were coming closer now. They sounded like they were slow; tired.

I knew who they would belong to before the shadowy figure emerged from the impenetrable darkness.

"Alice," I said quietly, in a calm, emotionless voice. She looked up and continued walking towards me slowly but regularly; not quite stumbling, but looking like she had walked for a long time and just wanted to rest. Her eyes looked at me, but there was no spark behind them, no glimmer of recognition. She looked, to all intents and purposes, like she was–

As she stepped into the visible pool of light around the table, suddenly she vanished, her body seemingly shattering into a pale smoke. I watched it rise into the air and gradually disappear into the darkness–

–and then my eyes flicked open, and I was gazing at the ceiling of my room again. The familiar sounds of the middle of the night — the gurgling of the radiators, the occasional sound of a car driving past in the distance — were back once again.

I rubbed my face and sat up, groaning to myself. I glanced over at the clock. 2:30 again. What was it about this time?

I decided to go downstairs and get myself a glass of water, as my throat felt completely parched. I did so, the cool yet not-that-nice water from the tap washing down smoothly, feeling like it was filling me with life.

The details of the dream were fast fading from my mind, but I knew that Alice was involved in there somehow. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it all. Perhaps it meant something, or perhaps it was just my unconscious mind struggling to make sense of what was, after all, an inexplicable series of events that had taken place over the last few days.

I began to wonder if Alice would be in her room again tonight. I wasn't sure what I'd do if I saw her, but I felt a powerful urge to check in on her anyway. The prospect of seeing her again still caused my guts to tie themselves in knots and my heart to begin pounding, but tonight felt different somehow — like I was expecting, wanting it to happen. I walked quietly up the stairs and hesitated outside her room just as I had done several times before.

I pushed the door open slowly and it gave its usual little creak. Inside, it was dark; the moon was clouded over again, so there wasn't much light coming in through the crack in the curtains. I could tell from the strange feeling I was getting that Alice would be in her bed, though.

I sat down on the side of it and reached out to touch her. She groaned a little and rolled over, then I heard her take a sharp breath.

"You're here again," she whispered. "Why?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," I said in a low voice.

"I don't have a clue either," she said. "It's weird. It's like… I don't know. One minute you're here, the next you're not. Or one minute I'm there, or the next I'm not. What's going on?"

I paused in thought for a moment. Could it be–

"Wait," I said. "Is something… strange happening to you?"

"Besides my dead brother creeping into my room in the middle of the night?" she hissed sarcastically. "No, things are just peachy." She paused. "Yes, of course something strange is happening to me, you prick. I was hoping you'd be able to explain why you keep showing up like this."

"I… was actually hoping the same thing," I admit. "I don't understand what's going on. So far as I'm concerned, you're…"

"Dead?" she said. Her bluntness stung a little. "No, I'm not dead. Look."

I couldn't see what she was doing in the darkness but I heard and felt her moving around in the bed. I figured it might be best that I didn't see exactly what she was doing.

"Well, I'm… still here, too," I said. I reached out my hand and touched where I assumed her arm was.

"Ew!" came the response. "Don't be weird. Also, your hands are cold."

Evidently that wasn't her arm.

We both sat in silence for a moment. I cleared my throat a couple of times to let her know I was still there. It seemed that we were being allowed to stay together for a little longer than usual.

"You know," she said after a while, "I know I give… gave, whatever… you shit all the time, but I am glad to know that you're sort of alive somewhere."

It was a clumsy sentiment, but it was a strange situation and there really wasn't a better way for her to express it.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm glad too. I thought you were gone forever."

There was no response, and I knew that we'd been torn apart once again.

*

The next morning, Laura showed up as usual, but when I opened the door she came in.

"You're taking the day off," she said. "You need rest. Lots of rest. And I'm going to make sure you get it."

She said it in a tone that indicated there was to be no arguing with this arrangement. I knew that it was futile to resist.

"Fine," I said. "But is it okay?"

"I called Gladwell," she said. She was on good terms with our tutor. "He'd noticed you'd been a bit out of sorts recently, so I arranged it all with him. Don't worry."

I instantly found myself wondering exactly what she'd said to him.

"I said don't worry!" she said, seeing my face. "I didn't tell him anything specific. Not that I really know anything specific, either. Come on. Talk to me. Please?"

"I'll try," I said. "At least come in properly. Take your shoes off."

She obliged. I closed the front door behind her and I led her into the lounge. I plopped myself down in one of the armchairs and she sprawled on the sofa.

"Make yourself at home," I said sarcastically. I didn't mind, really. I spent very little time in this room. There was no real reason to. When I was at home, I spent most of my time in my room, and when I wasn't here, I was at college. This was what my life, such as it was, had become.

"So," she said, sitting up and propping herself up on the sofa arm. "Let's try and have this conversation again. Before you start, I know it's tough. And I know it hurts. I also know you. I know you're trying to be strong and carry all this on your own shoulders because you feel that you have to for some weird reason. But I'm telling you that you don't have to. I'm here. I want to help."

I sighed. Rationally speaking, I knew she was right; I was being an idiot, and that was probably what was leading to these tricks my brain was playing on me — assuming they were tricks — but it was difficult. I didn't "do" opening up to people. I didn't "do" talking. It wasn't that I didn't want to. I couldn't. Laura had been literally my only friend for a long time now, so I'd had very little practice at expressing myself properly.

It was a strange feeling. Often I could imagine the conversation I'd want to have with her, or at least the way I'd want to start it, but would end up choking on the words. Not literally. Well, not quite. But I would feel my throat tighten and become dry, and the words would be impossible to get out. I'd either end up just staring at a wall or making an excuse, and the things that probably needed to be said were left unsaid. This was starting to develop a strong risk of becoming one of those times.

"Laura, I–" I began, then paused. "Thank you," I said simply. "You've always been there for me, and I don't deserve it. I treat you like shit, but you're still around."

"That's not true," she said. "You know me well enough by now, surely. I wouldn't stick around if I actually thought you were treating me like shit. I'd tell you off first, but yeah. If you kept it up, I'd be off."

I smiled a little. Her words weren't overly convincing. I did worry a little about her.

"Really," she reassured me. "I promise. I would tell you if you were taking the piss."

"All right," I said.

I paused and contemplated what I should say next for a moment.

Then I released the safety catch on my mind, and started talking.

I explained about the previous evenings, how I'd been absolutely convinced that I'd seen my sister, alive and well, in her bedroom. I explained about the weird darkness I'd experienced at school. I even told her about the voice I'd heard in the classroom, and the weird figure in the mirror. I just kept going and going and going because I knew that if I stopped, I wouldn't be able to start again. I had to get this all out of my head. I had to tell someone. I had to release this tension. I had to–

"Holy shit," she said eventually. "I… I'm not quite sure how to respond to that."

There was an awkward silence.

"You think I've actually gone insane, don't you?" I said wearily. My tirade had taken all of my mental strength, and now I felt exhausted, despite the fact it was barely an hour since I'd got out of bed.

"Well, no…" said Laura. "I don't know. No. You're not insane. If you'd actually gone crazy I doubt you'd be able to talk about this right now. But something's going on, and — don't hate me for saying this, I know you don't like it — you could probably do with some help."

"You might be right," I said, closing my eyes and leaning back in the chair. It was a moment before I spoke again. I sat up again and looked at her. "I honestly don't know what to do. It happened again last night. I saw her, spoke to her, but then we were pulled apart again. And the weird thing is, the same thing seems to be happening to her. She seems to think that I'm the one who's… you know."

"That is strange," said Laura. She swung her legs down off the sofa and stood up. Then she walked over to me, leaned over me and put her arms around me. "We're going to get through this. You're going to be fine."

At that moment, I believed her.

The post 1024: Still-Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 7 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"Here," she said, reaching into her bag and handing me a foil-wrapped lump. I tentatively unwrapped it and discovered a sandwich inside. It looked good — turkey and ham, accompanied by some lettuce and cucumber, with a drizzling of mayonnaise over the top. Simple but tasty. I took a bite and it made me all the more painfully aware that I hadn't eaten properly since yesterday lunchtime.

"This is good," I mumbled with my mouth full. Laura grimaced. I remembered that people talking with their mouth full bugged her, but it was already too late. She smiled and chuckled.

"I figured you could do with something nice," she said. "But I can't afford to buy you lunch every day. So you got this."

"Thanks," I said, making sure to swallow first this time. She took out another foil-wrapped package from her bag and unwrapped it to reveal another identical-looking sandwich. She started eating it, and we both sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the simple but comforting food and each other's company.

"I–" I began, before realising that I wasn't sure what I wanted to say. Unusually for me, I felt like I wanted to actually talk about the things I'd been thinking and feeling, but found myself completely unable to express them. Where to begin? And was it even a good idea to bring it up? It was so much easier to just shoulder it all by myself, but–

"You…?" Laura replied, putting the last of her sandwich in her mouth and looking at me quizzically.

I paused for a moment, then figured I'd test the waters.

"I've… I've not been doing so great recently," I said.

"I know," said Laura gently. "It's okay."

"Well," I said, "I'm not sure it is. I'm kind of worried."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Uh-huh. Is this anything to do with you working yourself to the point of exhaustion and scaring the crap out of me?"

"Partly," I said. I hesitated. Where to go from here? "I've… Well, my mind has been going back to that time, you know?"

"Mm," she said, leaning in a little closer. "Yeah. I'm not surprised. I can't even begin to imagine how much it must hurt."

This was probably the first time we'd actually had a serious conversation about all this. Laura knew how much I hurt, of course, because she'd borne the brunt of my irrational lashing out when I was at my worst. But we'd never really talked about it. It was always just implicit understandings and mutual avoidance of difficult topics. Today felt different, though. I felt like I'd opened the floodgates a little, and just behind them was a torrent of… what? Feelings? Emotions? Memories? Something was waiting to burst out, and I wasn't quite sure I was ready for it.

"It does," I said. "It does hurt. And I thought I was dealing well with it, but now I'm not so sure."

She nodded and waited for me to continue.

"I've… I've been…" I faltered. I wanted to say that I'd been seeing things, that I'd been seeing my sister, but I just couldn't. It just sounded too insane. I still didn't know how she'd react, and I wasn't quite ready to find out.

"You've been what?" she asked. She reached out her hand and took mine. "It's all right."

"I've just been… thinking about her a lot," I said eventually. "My sister. Alice. I miss her."

It wasn't, strictly speaking, a lie. But there was enough padding between it and the actual truth to protect me from coming across as a complete madman. My eyes were stinging a little. I really didn't want to start crying.

"I know you do," she said softly. "And it's okay. It's okay to miss her."

She stood up, walked around the desk and put her arms around my neck and shoulders from behind. I could feel the warmth of her body pressing against mine. It was comforting.

Something burst inside my head and I started to cry; big, gulping, undignified sobs. The emotions I'd been bottling up and keeping to myself were breaking through and crashing through the barriers I'd built up. I couldn't speak. I couldn't explain. I couldn't tell Laura why I was putting on such an undignified display in front of her, but she didn't seem to mind. She simply held me more tightly, but that just made me want to cry more.

After several minutes, the outpouring of emotion started to subside a little. Laura passed me a tissue that she'd produced from somewhere, and I wiped my tear-soaked face. She knelt down beside me.

"Did that help?" she asked quietly.

"Uh?" I said dumbly.

"Did that help? Letting all that out? You've clearly been bottling that all up for a while now," she said. "I didn't want to push you too hard because I figured you should probably come to that conclusion yourself. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry you're suffering. I wish I could do more for you."

"Uh-huh," I said, sniffing. I wiped my dripping nose with the now-sodden tissue. Laura passed me another one without a word.

"Are you all right for this afternoon?" she asked. "Or do you want me to take you home?"

I thought about it for a minute, and decided that I really didn't feel up to the afternoon. I didn't want everyone staring at me, even though I had a sneaking suspicion that no-one really gave a shit.

"Home," I said. "Please."

"All right," said Laura. "Let me go sort some things out, then I'll take you home. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Okay," I said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. She smiled at me and walked out the door, closing it behind her. I was left alone in the classroom.

I leaned forward and rested my head on the desk, then closed my eyes for a moment. I took some deep breaths, trying as hard as I could to compose myself.

When I sat back up and opened my eyes again, I was confronted with an unwelcome sight. The lights in the room had gone off, and the muted background sound of students milling around the building at lunchtime had gone. I felt a crawling sensation on my spine as I recognised this strange phenomenon from what had happened before.

"Hello," came an unfamiliar voice from somewhere behind me. "How are you feeling?"

I froze in shock. There was no-one else in this classroom a moment ago. Who was this?

"You know, it's rude to ignore someone when they're talking to you."

I closed my eyes. This wasn't happening. I was not hearing voices. I was not hearing voices. I was not hearing voices.

"Fine," said the voice, which was soft, gentle and oddly soothing despite the shivers it sent down my spine, yet now displaying the slightest hint of irritability. "Have it your way. This isn't over. And eventually you're going to have to face this head-on. But I can see now that you're not ready yet."

I said nothing. I was too afraid. I closed my eyes and screwed up my face. I wanted to cry again, but no tears would come.

I heard the door open. When I opened my eyes, Laura was standing there.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you home. You look like crap."

It was a light-hearted jibe, but I was pretty sure it was the truth, too. I got to my feet and found that my legs were shaking. My heart was pounding. I was afraid. But Laura was here now. I could always rely on Laura. She'd keep me safe.

*

Laura stayed with me for several hours when I got home. We didn't say anything to one another. I just lay on my bed and she sat on the side holding my hand, occasionally squeezing it a little more strongly to remind me she was still there. Her presence was a comfort. I didn't want her to go away, but I knew she'd have to eventually.

That time came as the light was starting to fade.

"I'd better get home," she said. "I'm sorry. I wish I could stay longer, but my folks will worry otherwise."

"Okay," I whispered, not moving.

"I'll see myself out," she said. "Take care of yourself."

Then she was gone. I heard the front door open, then close again a moment later. I had no idea what time it was. I felt I should probably sleep, but it wasn't happening. I closed my eyes and all I found myself doing was remembering that chilling voice from earlier.

"What the… what happened?" came a voice suddenly. I jumped and my heart began to race as I recognised the voice as Alice's. "Whoa. You're there. Again. This is… wow. This is messed up. I…"

She'd walked into my room. Or appeared from somewhere. I don't know what had happened, but Alice was standing by the side of my bed looking at me with wide eyes. She didn't look scared or tearful this time, just curious. She always was stronger than me.

I couldn't move. This was all too much. I felt the weight on my bed shift as she sat down beside me.

"It's really you, isn't it?" she said. "I don't know how it's happened or why, but I'm glad I got to see you again."

I turned my head to look up at her face. She was smiling slightly.

"I'm glad too," I said quietly.

Her smile broadened a little.

Then, to my surprise, she simply disappeared. The weight on the side of my bed was gone, and that smile was gone too.

I sat up immediately and climbed out of bed.

"Alice?" I called. "Alice! Where are you?"

I got no response. She was gone. Once again, I was alone in an empty house. I was starting to get tired of constantly regaining and losing the things that were important to me. All I wanted more than anything else right now was some stability, but I had a strange feeling that I wouldn't be seeing any of that for quite some time.

I flopped back down onto my bed face-down and closed my eyes.

I just wanted to sleep in peace. I just wanted all this to go away. How could I make it go away?

A dark thought crossed my mind, and not for the first time, but I pushed it back hastily as I always did. There was one way that all this could go away and I wouldn't have to worry any more. But that was no way out. I couldn't do that to the people who cared about me.

"The people who cared about me." That implied there was more than one. But really, there was just Laura. I couldn't bear the thought of making her cry again, though. So I couldn't do… that.

I just wanted peace, though. Simple, pure, peace. Why couldn't I be left in peace? Why couldn't I just get on with my life?

"I can see now that you're not ready yet," the voice had said to me.

Ready for what?

That was the last thought I had before the world faded out and I succumbed once again to deep, exhausted sleep.

The post 1023: Still-Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 6 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I didn't know what to do. Was what she had just said to me true? Was I–

No, I thought. That couldn't possibly be true. Otherwise how could I be here right now?

But then how is she here? She's supposed to be–

I closed my eyes and suddenly fell forward, landing face-first on her bed. Dust went up my nose, but I didn't move. I didn't want to get up and confirm my suspicions about what had just happened. I didn't want to get up and find her gone again. But I knew that when I eventually did, I would be all alone once again, and that the room would be back as it was before; deserted, dark and dusty.

I groaned wearily to myself and pushed myself up off the bed, my eyes still shut. I took a deep breath and held it, then opened them.

Darkness. An empty room, long-abandoned. Just as I thought. She was gone again.

Or was it me who was gone? Her words had cut deep into my soul and filled me with doubt, even though I knew how insane and ridiculous it was to wonder whether or not I was actually alive. I pinched myself and it hurt. I certainly felt like I was alive, and Laura certainly hadn't made any weird comments apart from fussing over me as usual.

I lay down on Alice's now-empty bed and closed my eyes. I was too mentally exhausted to make it back to my room. The world faded out, and I was asleep in minutes.

*

I wasn't sure what time it was when I woke up, but the sun was up; the light was just peeping through the gap in the curtains. I roused myself slowly and groggily — I didn't feel like I'd slept particularly well, but I obviously had, as there was a big gap in my memory after I lay down on the bed.

I stood up and wandered down the hallway to my room. The clock radio indicated that I had about ten minutes before Laura was due to arrive. I considered just lying down and trying to sleep again, but I knew it was futile at this stage. I was up and about, and there was no way my brain was going to calm down enough to let me sleep now. Last night I had passed out from sheer mental and emotional exhaustion; this morning I just felt like a husk. I didn't know what to feel, what was real or what was my addled brain playing tricks on me. It still didn't make any sense.

I walked to the bathroom, turned on the cold tap and splashed some water on my face. It didn't do much to help the way I looked, but it at least made me feel a little more alert. I splashed it again and kept my head in the sink for a moment; temporarily mesmerised by the droplets falling from my cheeks into the bowl. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, turned the tap off and looked up.

I felt a sudden sharp, stabbing sensation of absolute terror. When I looked in the mirror above the sink, there was a figure standing behind me; it was dressed in black, its face, as pale as snow, contrasting sharply with its dark clothes. Its piercing, oddly beautiful eyes were looking straight at me.

I looked away immediately. My heart was suddenly racing, and my stomach felt like it was full of angry bees. I didn't want to look in that mirror again. I couldn't. But I had to know. I had to know if I had just imagined that, or–

Deliberately banishing such thoughts from my mind, I tentatively glanced back into the mirror… and all was normal. There was no sign of the shadowy, pale-faced figure whose eyes had felt like they were burrowing into my soul. It was just me. Now I was the one with the pale face. I looked positively green, in fact.

Suddenly, uncontrollably, I felt the urge to vomit. I doubled over and threw up into the sink. I'd eaten so little that it was mostly just acrid, bitter liquid, and it burned as it came up. The suddenness of the attack left me breathless, panting into the sink. I rested my head on the edge and supported myself with my arm, trying desperately to compose myself.

"You're a fucking state," I whispered to myself. I knew talking to myself was one of probably many signs that I was losing my grip on reality, but right now I didn't care. "Come on. Pull yourself together."

I heard Laura banging on the door downstairs. Should I go–

Yes, I thought, interrupting myself. I should go. Otherwise she'll only worry and fuss. She doesn't need to know about this. I'll just clean myself up and go.

I rinsed out my mouth with water, then mouthwash, and washed my face with cold water once again. It didn't help my pale appearance, but it was better than having flecks of vomit dripping from the corner of my mouth. I sighed as I looked at my reflection, my heart still beating quickly from the fright it had had before, but gradually subsiding as the rational part of my brain kept repeating that it couldn't be real, couldn't be real, couldn't be real…

Laura banged on the door again.

"Coming!" I shouted in a cracked voice, even though I knew she couldn't hear. I picked up my bag from where Laura had left it in my room yesterday and headed downstairs. By the time I opened the door, Laura was already turning to leave.

"Sorry," I said. "Overslept."

"It's okay," she said, smiling at me. "I guess you needed the sleep. You sure you're all right to come today?"

"Yeah," I said. "I feel like I need to get out for a bit."

"Uh-huh," she said. "All right. But don't overdo it. Let me know if you feel like crap and we'll… I don't know. We'll sort something out. If you're sure, let's get moving, otherwise we'll be late."

I tried to display a convincing smile, then gave up, turned around and locked the door behind me. Another day was beginning, and I inwardly hoped that it would be calmer than the previous — although going by what had already happened before I'd even left the house, I wasn't feeling too confident.

We said nothing during the ride to school and walked to our respective classrooms for the first sessions of the day in silence. It wasn't a tense silence — Laura had learned long ago that there were times when it was okay to push me and times when it wasn't, and today was one of the latter times. Instead we sat in a comfortable, familiar silence, not needing to make a sound or fill the space with inane conversation. We sometimes joked that we were like an old married couple whose need to communicate constantly had long since faded away; one of those couples who were happy to just sit there in peace and quiet.

The conversations usually got a little awkward and embarrassed around that point, so one or both of us usually changed the subject.

I'd never quite sorted out my feelings towards Laura. We had been together for a very long time — I couldn't even remember quite how we had first met — but things had never progressed beyond the close friendship we had. I wasn't sure if I wanted them to, and had even less idea if she did. She was a pretty girl, sure — and she'd only improved as she'd gotten older — but I honestly felt a little strange about thinking about her in "that way." She was kind of like–

I dropped my pen and it clattered onto the desk. I tutted to myself.

Yes. She was kind of like my sister. Except not. In many ways she was the opposite of Alice. Alice was always louder, more confident, almost brash at times. She always said what she was thinking — I winced at the memory of her using the "d" word so unashamedly — while Laura was quiet, calm and respectful of my feelings most of the time. The most upset I'd ever seen her was yesterday when I woke up in the nurse's office. I felt bad about getting her into that state, because she was normally so composed, so calm, so cool about everything. I didn't want to make her worry any more, but I was starting to grow afraid that whatever was happening to me was going to affect her too.

I had to solve this problem — whatever it was — by myself, the same as always. I couldn't rely on others. I could be strong — I'd survived this long, after all — so all I had to do was endure it until it passed. Until it passed.

If it passed.

The thought occurred to me that I had no idea what was causing the strange incidents, and thus there was no guarantee that they would ever go away. Rationally, I figured that they were symptoms of the combination of grief, depression, anxiety and exhaustion that I was suffering — there was no other reasonable, practical explanation, after all — but irrationally, I wondered if there was really something strange happening, as impossible as it seemed. Could my sister — could Alice — really be out there somewhere, occasionally visible to me? And if so, what was causing it?

A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered the shadowy figure in the mirror this morning. There really was no explanation for that. Unless, of course, it was just another hallucination. It disappeared after the first time I saw it, after all, though that didn't stop it having a profound physical effect on me.

I'd tuned out completely and had no idea what the teacher was saying any more. I picked up my pen from the desk and started twiddling it absent-mindedly. I became engrossed in the strange optical illusion of the pen appearing to "bend" as I moved it rapidly. I don't know how long I just watched it, but before I knew it everyone around me was getting up and leaving for lunch.

I stood up and followed the other students out of the room. I wanted to get out of there quickly in case the teacher had noticed that I had been spacing out and hadn't written a single thing in my notebook. Fortunately, he said nothing, and I was out into the freedom of the corridors before long. I had automatically set my course for Mr Gladwell's room to meet up with Laura, but she caught up with me before I got there.

"You all right?" she said, linking arms with me. "You look a bit better than you did this morning."

"Yeah," I said, though I wasn't sure how much I meant it. Too many things were still racing around my mind.

We walked together, our arms linked. It was an oddly comforting feeling to be in such close physical contact with Laura. I felt safe, for once; simply touching her made me feel… less alone. I didn't want to let go. But I knew that eventually I'd have to. I had to solve my problems by myself.

For now, though, I decided to enjoy the short-lived feeling while it lasted.

The post 1022: Still-Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 5 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Why couldn't I just lead a nor–

No, I thought, interrupting myself. I gave up a "normal" life long ago. It wasn't entirely voluntarily, of course, but there was always the possibility of moving in with some distant far-off relative that I didn't really know. I had put my foot down, though; I had no desire whatsoever to do that. I struggled enough to make friends as it was; uprooting myself from the home I'd known since I'd been born would be too difficult. Enough money had been left for me to continue living here, so that is what I decided to do. It was the most assertive I'd ever been.

The money would run out eventually, of course, but that was a bridge I would cross when I came to it — and it was also the main reason I was still sticking with college and attempting to better myself. I knew that 18-year olds were supposed to prioritise socialising and getting drunk or something — judging from the conversations I often overheard in the common room, anyway — but for me, left all alone, the priority was getting my life in order. Forced to grow up too fast, as people tended to say in this sort of situation.

I sighed again. No, the "normal life" ship had sailed long ago, but that didn't mean that I had to suffer from these constantly-disturbed sleep patterns and… whatever it was that had happened yesterday. I was trying not to think about it too much, but the more I tried to put it out of my mind, the more I remembered. The strange, sudden darkness; the feeling of desertion, of being all alone — what had happened? Had it really happened at all?

And then there was the matter of the night before, too. I still couldn't explain what had gone on there, and I was still uneasy about it. But alongside the uneasiness, a feeling of curiosity was starting to creep in — the same feeling you get when you know that there's a massive spider in a hole in the wall and that it will freak you out when you see it, but you find yourself wanting to peek in anyway.

I had to know. Or I had to try and find out, anyway.

I stood up. I was still wearing my clothes from earlier. Laura and I were close, but she evidently drew the line at undressing me when putting me to bed. I was okay with that. As fond as I was of Laura, I didn't really feel comfortable with the idea of exposing myself to her like that. And she probably didn't either.

I shook my head to eject the stray thoughts and focus on the task at hand. I had to see what was going on. Would it happen again? Or would I have just imagined it all? It could go either way, and there was only one way to find out.

I paused at the door to my room. What would it mean if it did happen again? Would it mean my sister was… alive? And if so, how? And why? And where was she when she wasn't here? There were too many unanswered, unanswerable questions; questions that threatened to bog me down and prevent me from pushing forward to satisfy this gnawing sense of curiosity.

I flung open the door to my room rather more forcefully than I intended and stepped out into the hallway. A few steps later, I was outside the closed door of my sister's room. My heart was pounding. My breathing was rapid. I felt uneasy. And that peculiar sense of tension I'd experienced before was back once again, and stronger this time. It was hard to describe; I felt it deep in my stomach, and it wouldn't go away. If I had to attribute a particular feeling to it, it was as if I was being watched by something so horrifying that I would go mad if I ever saw it, that it was toying with me before it did something unspeakably awful, that it was biding its time, waiting to strike when I least expected it.

I swallowed. Concentrating on the feeling hadn't made me feel any more confident about what I was going to do. In fact, it had made me freeze up in terror. My hand hovered over the doorknob to my sister's old room and I found myself unable to move.

Keep it together, I thought. Keep it together. Come on. Come on. You can do this. It's just a room. Just a room.

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. I opened my eyes again, grasped the doorknob firmly and pushed it open.

Inside, the room was dark, and I couldn't make anything out. It was a cloudy night, so the moonlight was far fainter than it had been previously. I considered turning the light on, but thought better of it. Instead, I simply stood in the doorway, waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.

Vague shapes gradually started to swirl into view as my eyes adjusted themselves. I could see her bed resting against the far wall, but I couldn't tell if there was anyone in it from the doorway. I couldn't hear anything, but that didn't mean anything.

What was I expecting to find? What was I hoping to find? Did I want to find my sister in that bed, or would it be better to find just empty covers? What would it mean if she was there? What if she wasn't? Should I wake her if she was? Should I try again if she wasn't?

The questions started coming thick and fast in my mind, and they weren't helping with my already-frayed nerves. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath again, trying to clear my mind; in, two, three, four; out, two, three, four.

I took a step forward into the darkness. Then another. A floorboard creaked beneath my feet. I froze — I don't know how long for, but it felt like an eternity. When nothing happened, I relaxed a little and took another step forward. I was nearly at the edge of the bed now, and–

Suddenly, all at once, my eyes were assailed by bright light and I heard movement. I was dazzled by the light, but could tell it wasn't the main room's light. It was coming from the bed.

I heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh my God," came a familiar voice, little more than a whisper. "Oh my God. Oh my God. How…"

I froze again. There was no sense in running now. It would achieve nothing. My answers were sitting in front of me, shining some sort of bright light in my face so that I couldn't see.

"Is that you?" hissed the voice, still whispering. "Is that really you?"

Silence. I didn't quite know what to say. There was one obvious thing to say, of course, but it proved difficult to make my voice cooperate and actually say it.

The long silence was probably only a few seconds at most, but it felt as if time had stopped. Eventually, the voice broke it before I could get a word out.

"It is, isn't it?" it said, answering its own question. It sounded like it was cracking; was she crying? "How is this possible?"

"Yes," I managed to say eventually in a broken, dry voice. "It's me."

I heard that sharp intake of breath again. The bright light was still shining in my face, but it moved as I heard the owner of the voice shift. Was she getting up?

I heard footsteps on the floor coming towards me, and the light dropped as I felt a presence close to me. I heard her breathing, then I felt a delicate hand on my chest. Another gasp from her; I was too nervous to make another sound.

A moment later, I felt a pair of arms throw themselves around me and a head barge into my chest. The bright light fell to the floor with a "thump," its glow illuminating the area around us. There was no mistake; sobbing in my arms was my sister Alice, and as I hesitantly embraced her and placed my hands on her shoulders, I felt that she was warm; alive.

We stood like that for a few minutes, Alice crying into my shirt, me standing dumbly embracing her. She eventually released me from her iron grip and stepped backwards, slumping backwards to sit on the bed. She reached down and picked up the light from the floor, using it to guide her way to the lightswitch by the bed. She flicked it on and suddenly both our eyes were assaulted by an even brighter glow than before, this time from the room's main bulb.

I screwed up my eyes against the bright glow. The inside of my eyelids glowed red from the brilliance of the light. I gradually opened them a crack, a little more at a time until I was looking on a sight I thought I'd never see again.

My little sister Alice, her mousy-brown hair bedraggled and her face weary-looking, was sitting on the side of the bed in her nightdress. Her mobile phone — the source of the bright light from before — lay on the bed beside her. Her bare feet and legs were fidgeting uncomfortably, and she was looking to one side, seemingly trying to avoid looking in my direction. I couldn't take my eyes off her, though. I gazed at her, unblinking, for several minutes. Neither of us said anything, but I felt a tear fall from the corner of my eye. I didn't know if it was because I hadn't blinked or whether it was the sheer emotion of the moment. But she was there. There was no mistaking that fact.

After a moment, she turned her head and looked up at me at last. Her eyes were red, and the bags under them showed how tired she was. Tears had left streaks down her face, and she looked like she was in some distress.

"How…" she whispered to herself. "How…"

"I don't know," I said to her, finding my voice finally. "But however it's happened, it's happened. I'm here now, Alice, and I won't let you go again."

I knelt down on the floor in front of her and moved to embrace her again, but she stopped me. She steeled herself and spoke.

"Wait," she said softly, her voice wavering. "What do you mean?"

"I thought I'd lost you forever," I said. "I thought I'd never see you again. But now that you're here… Alice, I'll do everything I can to keep you safe."

Her face loosened and I could see that she was starting to cry again.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice breaking and her words coming more quickly, more urgently. "You never lost me. I never left you. You never failed to keep me safe."

She swallowed deeply and looked straight at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

"You never lost me," she said again. "I'm the one who lost you. You were dead, at least I thought you were, but you're not. Why are you not dead? Why are you here now? I don't understand!"

She broke down in uncontrollable tears and was unable to say anything else. I took her in my arms and hugged her sobbing face to my chest. But comforting her was far from my mind; I held onto her feeling nothing but a horrible sense of nauseous shock at what she had just said to me.

The post 1021: Still-Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 4 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Laura came and found me as I was leaving the classroom.

"C'mon," she said. "I'm buying you lunch, and you can talk about what's eating you."

I considered protesting for a moment, but thought better of it. Laura usually knew better than to pester me, but when she had made her mind up that she was going to "help", she was difficult to get rid of. And besides, I'd been thinking that talking about it all might actually help.

I still didn't know how I was going to bring it up, though. It was all too weird, still.

I followed Laura through the bustling lunchtime corridors to the cafeteria. She bought us each a plate of the goopy but delicious macaroni cheese that they served here every Monday, and led me out of the busy cafeteria back in the direction of our tutor group's classroom. It was always deserted at lunchtime, and our tutor Mr "Call Me Bob" Gladwell didn't mind us borrowing it as a nice private hangout on occasion.

Today, it was empty as usual. Laura set down her plate at one of the desks and sat down. I pulled a chair around and sat across from her. We took our first few mouthfuls in silence. Then, she laid her fork down, and I knew the interrogation was about to begin.

"So what's up?" she asked bluntly. "You looked like crap this morning and you still look pretty knackered now. Did something happen?"

I took another bite of my lunch, considering the best way to tackle this. Just telling the truth — or what I thought was the truth, at least — would surely make me seem like I was going mad, so I decided to be vague.

"No, nothing happened," I said quietly. "I've just been… you know, thinking."

"Uh-huh," said Laura. "About… that time?"

"Yeah," I said. Neither of us liked saying it. Those words — the d-words — were all so final, so utterly without hope, that I just couldn't ever get them out of my mouth. Whenever possible, I used euphemisms like "passed on" or distancing words like "deceased" — or more commonly, simply referring vaguely back to "you know, that time". Laura had picked up on this quickly — she was always sharp — and followed suit. We knew each other well enough by now that we didn't have to make things explicit. It made me feel comfortable talking to her that I didn't have to explain these things. I had never been good with putting my feelings into words, but Laura understood me just fine.

"So what was it this time?" she asked. "Bad dreams? Dark thoughts?"

"Bit of both," I said, trying to brush it off. "I'm not sure. I think I'm just tired."

"That much is obvious," she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she leaned forwards to look more closely at me. "The bags under your eyes are so dark you look like you've been punched in the face."

I chuckled slightly at her blunt comments.

"You should take better care of yourself," she said. "I know you think you can handle all this stuff by yourself, but, you know, you can ask for help if you need it."

My face fell somewhat. I didn't like it when people had this conversation with me. I was resolved to surviving through my problems and not dragging anyone else down with me, but everyone always seemed so desperate to help all the time. I couldn't win. I felt guilty if I asked someone for help; I felt guilty when people suggested that I wasn't asking for enough help. It was easier to just hide away and deal with things myself.

"Hey, now, come on," said Laura. "Don't make that face. There's no shame in it. It's all right. People are looking out for you. People are worried about you."

I appreciated her attention, I really did, but this conversation was starting to make me feel uncomfortable. It always did, whoever had it with me, and I knew it was completely irrational, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was an automatic response. Any time it came up, I just found myself wanting to get away from it as quickly as possible.

"I, uh, I'll be right back," I said, pushing my plate away and standing up from the desk. "I just need to  go to the toilet."

Laura smiled. "You could have just excused yourself," she said. "I didn't need to know the details. But I'll be here. See you in a minute."

I walked out of the classroom. I wasn't running away, I just needed a breather. And I did kind of need the toilet, too.

I walked down the corridor, avoiding eye contact with my fellow students who were still wandering around aimlessly as the lunch break continued. Eventually, I came to the gents' bathroom door and went inside.

It was empty, brightly lit by the flickering fluorescent light on the ceiling and stank of piss as usual. I was pretty sure the cleaners had long since given up on trying to give this bathroom any kind of pleasant smell, because it always stank this bad in here. I wrinkled my nose and tried to ignore it as I pushed the door of a cubicle open, locked the door behind me and sat down on the toilet seat to compose myself.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. In, two, three, four… out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four… out, two, three, four.

I opened my eyes again. I blinked. And blinked again.

Something wasn't right.

For starters, the bright light of the fluorescent tube was gone. It was dark. Secondly, there was something strange in the air. Or, more to the point, the air seemed to be completely still. The stench of stale piss had gone, and there didn't seem to be the slightest breeze or movement in the air, even as I stood up and moved around.

I fumbled in front of me for the latch on the cubicle, which was difficult to find in the darkness, and popped it open. I pulled open the door and stepped out into the darkened bathroom. My footsteps echoed on the polished floor, but that was the only sound — I couldn't hear the plumbing, the heating or indeed the sounds of any people outside.

I carefully felt my way to the bathroom door, opened it and stepped out into the corridor. It was dark out there, too.

My throat went dry, and I started to get a familiar feeling of uneasiness. This obviously wasn't right, and I had absolutely no explanation of what was happening here. I swallowed deeply and felt my pulse quicken somewhat.

Laura, I thought. I should find Laura.

I walked back down the corridor towards where our classroom should be. This passageway was deep inside the building, so there wasn't much in the way of natural light, but the occasional recognisable glow of daylight off in the distance helped me to get my bearings. My senses felt like they were heightened; I could hear my blood pumping in my ears. Thump, thump; thump, thump. What was happening to me?

I reached the classroom door, grasped the handle, pushed it open and stepped inside–

–and Laura was there as if nothing had happened. The lights were back on, and she was there, smiling at me, obviously oblivious to the strange occurrence. I turned around and looked behind me, and the lights were back on in the corridor, too; the students were still milling to and fro, and the familiar ambient noise of the college at lunchtime was back once again.

Laura's smile quickly disappeared when she saw my face.

"Jesus Christ, you look white as a sheet," she said, standing up and rushing to my side. "Are you feeling all right?"

I staggered slightly. I felt a bit dizzy. I slumped to the side and steadied myself on the door frame.

"No," I said. "I'm not feeling all right. I… I don't feel well at all."

"Come on," she said. "We're off to the nurse's office."

Laura took me firmly by the hand and led me through the milling students — some of whom might have been giving us a strange look, but my head was too clouded to care by this point — until we reached the nurse's office. I didn't remember walking there — before I knew it, I was lying on the bench with the nurse peering at me over the top of a pair of thick spectacles.

I closed my eyes as she examined me. I couldn't hear anything any more. I just wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep. It was all too much. Just let me sleep.

*

I awoke several hours later, still on the bench. I sat up suddenly, which caused the woollen blanket that had been laid over me to fall to the floor.

"Where am I?" I blurted out. I blinked and tried to orient myself. My eyes were bleary and took a while to come into focus. "What happened?"

"You scared me half to death, that's what happened," came a familiar voice. I heard running footsteps and felt a pair of arms fling themselves around me long before I saw its source. "What's wrong with you?"

Laura was sobbing. I felt bad. I'd made her cry. This is exactly why I didn't want people to get involved. I only dragged them down and made them upset. I didn't deserve to be worried over. But still, there she was.

I heard the door open, and the nurse came back in.

"Ah, welcome back," she said. "I hope you feel better after a good rest. You clearly needed it."

I did feel a bit better. Evidently my body had just given up on trying to remain conscious and passed out.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry," I added, turning to Laura and sheepishly putting my hands on her waist.

"Look after yourself, for fuck's sake," Laura said, pulling back from me. I could see the tears streaming down her face. She was really worried. I felt awful. "Please."

"All right," I said. "I'll try."

"Are you all right to take him home, Miss?" said the nurse. "He should be all right now he's had a bit of a rest so I won't refer this to anyone else for now, but make sure he gets home safe and sound, all right? And come back if this happens again."

"Uh-huh," said Laura, sniffing. The two were talking about me as if I wasn't here, but I didn't really feel capable of saying anything meaningful right now, so I just let them carry on as if I was a sick child.

"Come on," said Laura, grabbing my hand and pulling me up off the bench. "Let's get you home."

I didn't remember much about the ride home. I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Laura helped me into my house and upstairs into my bed, and I fell asleep almost straight away. I don't know how long she sat there watching over me, but she was gone when I eventually awoke.

I turned my head and looked over to the bright green glow of the digits on my clock radio.

Hello again, 2:30 a.m. We meet again.

The post 1020: As-Yet Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 3 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

That couldn't have been true. It couldn't have happened. It just couldn't. She was… No. She was definitely gone. She couldn't have been there. It was just the tiredness in my mind playing tricks on me. Just the exhaustion.

I flew into my room and slammed the door behind me. I sat down on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes, trying to compose myself. I was hyperventilating; my heart was pounding. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears, and my senses were keenly alert.

What had just happened?

I took some deep breaths — in… out. In… out. In… out. I felt my pulse slow a little, but I still felt on edge, like something awful was about to happen, or something dangerous was about to "get" me.

The rational side of my brain said to me that this was ridiculous; even though what I saw should have been impossible, it wasn't dangerous, it was only my sister, after all. There wasn't anything strange about her, just that…

Just that she shouldn't have been there at all.

My mind kept coming back to that point. She shouldn't have been there. There was no way that she could have been there. It was impossible. Physically impossible. And yet I was finding it difficult to believe that right now, because if it had been some sort of hallucination, it was a damned realistic one.

I didn't have much experience with hallucinations. I'd had a couple brought on by tiredness, but there had been nothing with such clarity — in most cases the rational side of my brain had been able to win out and convince the irrational part that what it was seeing was, in fact, complete nonsense. It hadn't stopped me from hiding under the bedclothes in a panic, of course, but when I eventually emerged and found myself alone with nothing but my own thoughts as usual, I was able to relax… somewhat.

This felt different though.

I clenched my fists and opened my eyes. I had to know if what I had seen was real or not. Was I going mad? It was possible. I hadn't had any proper human contact for a few days now, so it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that my mind was conjuring up imaginary people for me to interact with, but…

I stood up, opened my door with an attempt at confidence and walked down the hallway, back towards my sister's old room. My hands were trembling. Every sound the creaky floor of the upstairs hallway made felt amplified, and the journey — one of just a few steps — felt like it was going on forever.

Eventually I arrived at her door. It was still slightly ajar from when I reached it, but there did not appear to be any light coming from within. Had she simply turned out the light and gone back to sleep? Or had I imagined the whole thing?

There was only one way to find out.

My hand hovered over the doorknob once again as I prepared to push it open. I felt uneasy and tense — my hands were still trembling slightly — but this was different from before. I didn't feel the same palpable sense of anxiety and fear that I did last time.

No more hesitating. I pushed the door open a little more forcefully, causing it to bang into the wall with a loud "thump."

Inside, the room was just as I expected it to be — the bed neatly made up, the lights off, nothing out of place.

And no sign of my sister.

I wasn't sure how I felt about it all. I sat down on the edge of the now-vacant bed and tried to clear my mind, tried to make some sense of what had happened. But there wasn't any sense to make of it. It absolutely did not make sense. At all.

"What is happening to me?" I said out loud to no-one in particular. The empty room did not answer. I rubbed my face and eyes in frustration and looked around the dark room, the small pool of moonlight creeping through the gap in the curtains still casting its eerie glow on the floor.

That's when I noticed something odd.

I remembered why I had originally come into this room in the first place — to get a book — and I suddenly remembered dropping it when I fled. But looking down at the floor right now… where was it?

It wasn't there.

I got down off the bed and onto my hands and knees, and crawled around on the floor, feeling around to see if I could find the distinctive lump that was the hardback book I'd pulled randomly out of the shelf before. I was too afraid to turn the light on, as it would confirm my suspicions beyond all doubt.

It wasn't there. It just wasn't there. All I could feel everywhere on the floor was carpet. There was nothing there. The book had gone.

I stood up and walked to the shelf where I had taken it from. I felt along the row of books on the top shelf — sure enough, there was the gap. But where was the book?

I swallowed deeply. My throat was dry again, but this time from fear rather than dehydration. My stomach was churning and I felt nauseous. I couldn't understand what was happening here. It was all too much.

I ran out of the room, back to my bedroom and hid under the covers. I closed my eyes and covered my ears, trying as hard as I could to will myself out of this strange and terrifying world that the night had become.

It wasn't long before I eventually succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a dreamless sleep.

*

I awoke several hours later as the alarm on my phone went off. I no longer trusted the old clock radio to wake me up reliably, so I tended to set my phone's alarm to be as loud and obnoxious as possible, then leave it on the other side of the room so I had to get up to make the noise stop. This morning it was some sort of awful klaxon noise. Groaning, I hauled myself out from under the covers into the welcome sight of daylight and staggered over to my desk where my phone lay, bellowing its obscene noises to anyone who would listen. I silenced it and just leaned on my desk for a moment.

I really didn't know what to make of last night. The only explanation I could think of was that I was so exhausted I had conjured up the whole scenario from my imagination. That had to be the case.

But it didn't explain the book.

That book. I didn't even know what book it was, having picked it up in the dark and dropped it in terror before I'd even seen the cover. I knew it was a hardback, slightly oversized volume, but that's it. It wasn't important what book it was, of course, but I found myself wondering whether even that was something my addled brain had imagined.

Was the whole thing a dream? I didn't think so. It felt far too vivid and there were far too many details that were still all-too-clear in my mind. Details that didn't make any sense, of course, but details nonetheless.

There was nothing to do, though; the weekend was over, and I was going to be late if I didn't get moving.

I pulled on the clothes that I'd left hanging semi-neatly over the back of the chair and made my way downstairs to get some breakfast. Laura would be here soon, and I didn't want her worrying about me any more than she already did. At least I'd managed to actually get some sleep last night for once, but I felt — and probably looked — like a wreck.

Laura was one of a few people who'd stuck by me through thick and thin. We'd been friends for a long time, and she'd been a particular pillar of support ever since that night. She came by every so often to make sure I was all right; sometimes I didn't want to see her, and she'd learned not to argue when that was the case. The fits of irrational anger born of my own sadness and frustrations had subsided somewhat recently, meaning that I hadn't yelled at her for a very long time — and still felt guilty about all the times I had — but still she watched out for me.

On weekdays, when I felt up to it, I went with her to college. The one thing I had refused to give up on even in my darkest hours was my own future, so I was determined to get through my course intact. I knew that the teachers and my peers trod carefully around me and tried not to do anything to put me out due to my circumstances. I kind of wished that they wouldn't. As cold and detached as I'd become — even more than I used to be — some days I just wanted to feel like I "fit in," that I had a normal life.

That was never going to happen any more, though. The idea of "normality" had been taken from me that night along with those dear to me. I'd come to accept it — mostly — but it was occasionally painful to be reminded of it.

As I sipped my coffee and put the last of my hot, slightly-burnt buttered toast into my mouth, the doorbell rang. I glanced up at the clock on the oven to see that Laura was right on time as usual. I drained my coffee cup and swallowed my toast hastily before walking out into the hallway, throwing on my coat and picking up my bag before opening the door.

"Hey," said Laura, her kind, gentle face looking up at me. "You ready?"

"Yep," I said. "Let's get out of here."

I closed and locked the door behind me and we walked together to her car, which was parked just outside on the road.

"You all right?" she asked as she fumbled with her keys in an attempt to unlock the door. I'd told her a thousand times that she really didn't need to lock her car for the minute it took to come and pick me up and walk back to it, but she never listened.

"Mm," I said, my mind elsewhere. The cool, early morning breeze was feeling surprisingly good today for some reason.

"You sure?" she said. "You look knackered."

"Didn't sleep well," I said. "I'm all right, though."

"Uh-huh. If you're sure," she said with a kind smile. She knew not to press me any further for now. If I felt like talking about it, I'd talk about it.

To be honest, I did feel like talking about it, but I had no idea what to say. I couldn't explain the strange events of the previous night at all. And I wasn't even sure that they'd actually happened. People probably already thought my mental state was fragile enough as it was; I didn't need Laura thinking that I'd gone completely nuts.

I resolved to try and figure out a way to bring it up later. For now, I'd just try and occupy myself as much as possible with college work and deal with it later.

I leaned back in the car seat and let the music on the stereo wash over me as Laura pulled away and we set off on our daily journey. I closed my eyes and tried to relax; I tried to smile.

But that smile wouldn't come. Moments after I closed my eyes, my mind just started picturing her face — that face I never thought I'd see again. My sister.

Where was she? Was she really out there somewhere? Or just in my mind?

The post 1019: As-Yet Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 2 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I turned my head to the side to glance at the dull green glow of my clock radio, that faithful old gizmo that didn't really work properly any more but which I'd always kept by the side of my bed for as long as I could remember. At least the clock part still worked, even if the radio didn't.

Half-past two in the morning. It was looking like another sleepless night.

It was the silence that did it. On nights like this, it just seemed oppressive, like it was palpable. The darkness seemed to close around my head, crushing me, suffocating me. Most of the time when this happened, I ended up getting up and doing something — anything — to try and occupy myself until the sun came up, at which point I'd start another day as if nothing happened. No-one ever commented on the obvious bags under my eyes. It wasn't that they didn't care; it's that people had long since learned to tread carefully around me. I hadn't taught them that. In many ways, I would have preferred it somewhat if people had taken a little more interest in my mental wellbeing, but I guess I'd always been somewhat aloof and standoffish, and my protestations that I could handle things by myself had led people to think that I was happier by myself.

I wasn't.

I groaned to myself and sat up on the side of the bed. The darkness continued to swirl around me, so I reached up and flicked on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness invading the room and chasing the shadows away.

I was so tired. I felt like I hadn't slept properly for… how long? I'd lost count. Eventually I usually did succumb to exhaustion after a day or two of tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, but it did worry me sometimes. I'd considered going to the doctor about it, but they'd only want to talk about it all and give me medicine. As much as it would probably help, I really didn't want to become dependent on medicine to get through activities like sleeping — things that, let's face it, normal people have absolutely no problems with.

My situation was far from normal, though. How many other 18 year olds had a huge house like this to themselves? Not many, I'd imagine. And those that did probably found themselves in possession of it in a similar manner to how I did. That didn't really make me feel any better.

The nightmares about that terrible evening had long since stopped and been replaced with the sort of numb feeling I was experiencing, but I still found myself reminiscing in a morbid sort of way sometimes. I found myself pondering if I could have done anything differently, but of course I couldn't. I was far away from being able to do anything, hearing the horrible details from an anonymous voice on the other end of the phone, completely helpless to do anything. I screamed and raged and cried solidly for the rest of the night, but it wouldn't help. There was nothing to do. They were gone — my mother, father and sister, all taken from me in one fell swoop. So senseless. So frustrating. Fate has no remorse.

I rubbed my face and stood up. It wouldn't do to dwell on those past events right now. What I needed to do was occupy my mind. Perhaps I could read a book or watch some terrible early-morning TV. My first priority was to get a drink for my dry throat, however. I always seemed to dehydrate when I was anxious, and tonight was no exception. My throat felt like it was lined with cut glass. It hurt to swallow.

The stairs made those familiar creaks as I walked down them. The first one would make a sort of "crunch" noise, the second would "click", the third would "groan". There wasn't anything wrong with them, they were just noisy stairs. I'd been hearing these noises ever since I'd been born, and I'd always found them strangely comforting. I'd always been able to tell how close someone was to the top floor simply by the sounds of the stairs, and over time I'd even learned to recognise the different sounds different people made on them.

Now, of course, there was only me to make a sound on them. I tried to vary my pattern every so often, but more often than not it was just the usual trudge, trudge, trudge; crunch, click, groan.

I flicked on the light in the kitchen and pulled out a glass from the cupboard above the microwave. It clinked loudly as I knocked it against another one. Sounds always seemed louder in the middle of the night. A long time ago, I had thought this was just because of trying to avoid being noticed by people who were asleep; but even now, everything always seems amplified when I'm doing it at the "wrong" time. The world should be asleep now, I found myself thinking. Why aren't I?

I filled up the glass with some water from the tap and gulped the whole thing down straight away, immediately refilling it. I took just a sip this time. The tap water wasn't particularly pleasant, but it helped soothe my dry throat somewhat. I swalllowed deeply, and after a few more mouthfuls of water, it ceased to hurt when I did so.

How was I going to while away the night this time? The green glow of the clock on the oven indicated that a quarter of an hour had passed since I'd decided to forgo sleep, and I wasn't any closer to making a decision on how I was going to pass the time. My brain felt woolly and numb and my eyelids felt heavy, but I knew that if I lay down I wouldn't be able to drift off. It would be pointless. I might as well do something. Anything.

Perhaps a book, I thought. And I know just where to find one.

I rinsed out the now-empty glass and put it upside-down on the draining board, then switched off the light in the kitchen and walked back upstairs. Trudge, trudge, trudge; groan, click, crunch. I didn't have the energy to do anything different.

My room was at the far end of the upstairs hallway. On the right was the door to what was once my parents' bedroom; on the left, the bathroom and my sister's former bedroom. I hadn't done anything with these rooms out of a combination of respect and laziness. Both were still made up as they were on that day, as if they were expecting their residents to just come home at any time. All of the doors were closed, which tended to mean they smelled a bit musty on the few occasions when I went in there, but I preferred it that way. I could look in on them, frozen in time as they were, and then simply close them off when I wanted to. Out of sight, out of mind. It may sound callous, but I preferred it that way.

Tonight, I decided I would look in on my sister's room. She had always had some well-stocked bookshelves, as she was an avid reader. I hadn't developed that trait until long after she was gone, but now I regularly raided her collection. I often found myself wishing that she was still here just so I could talk about the books I'd read with her — she loved to talk — but there was no helping it. Sometimes I just sat on her bed and talked to her anyway, just imagining she was there, hanging on her big brother's words. She was a good girl. I missed her more than my parents. I felt guilty every time I thought that to myself, but it was true. We'd spent much of our lives as bitter rivals who didn't really get along with one another, but I regretted that now. Now, I wanted nothing more than to give her what she had wanted all along — to be treated as an equal, as a peer, not as the annoying younger sister I'd always regarded her as.

My hand hesitated over the doorknob to her room for some reason. Something felt… strange. There was a curious feeling of tension in the air. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was, but it was there the moment I put my hand near her door. I removed it and it went away; I put it back, and there it was again. What was that?

Shaking it off as just my exhausted mind playing tricks on me, I steeled myself and grasped the doorknob again. I turned it to the side quietly and gently — those old night-time habits are hard to break — and pushed open the door, which made a slight "squeak" as it opened for what was probably the first time in several weeks.

Inside, it was dark, but I knew my way around well enough to not need the light. I'd done this several times in the past — just walked in, picked a random book in the dark, then decided to read it. I found it quite fun — it made me try some things that I might not have otherwise given a chance, and I found myself enjoying some surprising titles. My sister enjoyed everything from trashy pulp romances to epic, multi-part fantasy sagas, so there was always something new for me to try — and somehow, I hadn't pulled out the same book twice yet.

Tonight, I decided to pick one from the top shelf at the far end of the room, near the window. The bright moonlight was peeking in through the small gap I'd left in the curtains — I kept them shut most of the time — and casting a pool of light on the floor. I walked towards the far shelves, using the light from the window as my guide, and reached up to take a book. Hmm. Felt like a hardback. Glossy cover, slightly oversized format. I wonder what it could be. I pulled it out from the shelf and turned to leave.

The strange feeling of tension at the back of my mind was still irking me, and it felt like it had been getting stronger ever since I'd walked into the room. What was it? I couldn't put my finger on it, but something felt… wrong. Something felt weird. This wasn't right. Why wasn't it right? Was I cracking up? Was the stress of being alone finally taking its toll on my mind?

Clasping the book to my chest, I started to feel a growing sense of inexplicable, inescapable panic. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but that gnawing feeling of wrongness was starting to overtake me. I could feel my senses sharpening as my brain was clearly going into "fight or flight" mode. My pulse quickened, and cold sweat dripped down my back. What was the matter here? It was just me, getting a book from my sister's room, the same as I've done many times in the past. Why was this freaking me out so much? Why was–

"Hey, what are you doing…?" came a bleary voice from the other side of the room, shattering the silence. I froze on the spot. My heart felt like it had stopped. "What time is i–"

Click.

The room suddenly filled with the harsh but warm glow of artificial light, tinted slightly by the colourful shade on the ceiling. I stood there, utterly paralysed in terror, unable to believe my eyes, for there, sitting up in bed, staring at me wide-eyed and obviously feeling something similar to the emotions I was currently being wracked by, was my deceased sister.

The post 1018: As-Yet Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, Chapter 1 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Last year, the result of my productive november was a project called Wasteland Diaries, which you can read from the start here. This was an interesting experiment, in which I just started writing and "improvised" my way from start to finish. I didn't plan out where the story was going in advance (and that probably showed) — but in the end I feel that helped a bit with the deliberately confusing, mysterious nature of the whole thing. I specifically wanted the reader to be thrown off a bit by what was going on, and what better way to do that than by not knowing myself what was going to happen next?

I knew that attempting to keep that going for a whole month would be a difficult challenge, though, so gradually I introduced new elements — the other characters, the shifting narrators, the meta-plot — until eventually, by probably about halfway through the whole thing, I had a vague idea of where it was going and where it was going to end up. Perhaps not the best way to write a piece of fiction, but eh. It worked. Kinda. Of course, there were a few points where I remembered that I'd left a "plot hook" back in the first few chapters that I promptly hadn't resolved at all and now had no idea what to do with, but for the most part… yes. It worked.

This year, I already have an idea ready to go ahead of time. I haven't planned anything specifically, but I have at least thought about it. What I might do is figure out the beginning, midpoint and ending before I start and then work my way from one to the other over the course of the month. That strikes me like a good idea.

Naturally, I won't be sharing any details of what it's all about beforehand — if you want to find out what it is, you'll have to read for the whole of November. (Or, you know, look back on it afterwards and read it all in one go.) I'm quite excited about the basic idea behind it, though, so hopefully that should come across in my writing.

Decisions to make now, though. Character names? First or third person narrative? How much should I aim to write per day? What word count should I try and end up with? (To date, I'm still not entirely sure how many words a typical novel has in it… and I guess it varies a lot anyway. Also, am I aiming to write a novel? Or just an extended piece of fiction? I don't know. We'll see how it goes.)

Well, whatever happens, it should be an interesting month if nothing else. Plus I know a few of you out there enjoy my creative writing, so I hope you will like this project.

The post 1013: Heads Up appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

He had no idea how she felt about him. He was too young to understand the feelings rattling around inside his head, so how could he expect to make someone else understand them? His love lived purely in his imagination, and he was happy for it to remain that way. In reality, she was his friend; in his mind, every time he closed his eyes, she was so much more.

His imagination had always been powerful, but it seemed to outdo itself every time she entered his thoughts. As he drifted off to sleep at night, he would close his eyes and picture her face; shortly afterwards he would be involved in some grand adventure either with her, or in an attempt to rescue her. He had fought his way through caves, forests, dungeons, castles and surreal landscapes made of warped shapes and bizarre colours; always, she was there waiting for him at the end, or by his side as he struggled.

One day, the bad news came. "She's moving away," they said. "And soon." He didn't know what to do with this; he didn't think he could stop it, but he desperately wanted to. He had no idea how to start, though. He was still too young; too young to understand these confused feelings in his head; too young to understand the emotions welling up inside him. He wanted to talk about it to someone but couldn't muster up the courage. His love for her was locked away in the deepest, darkest, most private part of his soul, and he couldn't let anyone in, because he feared that he wouldn't be able to get them out again afterwards. He relished his inner peace, and resented anyone who tried to defile it without an invitation; he was the one in control of his feelings; he was the one who had to deal with them, always alone.

The fateful day approached, and he began to recognize the growing knot in his stomach as a yearning to be by her side; a longing to be the one she would always come home to; a desire to give her one of the few keys to that deep, dark, secret place within his soul. He knew that he had to tell her how he felt, and he knew that he would only get one chance to do it.

The day arrived. One by one, his classmates bade her farewell, and after what seemed like an eternity, it was his turn. He looked up into those sparkling eyes and she smiled at him the way she always did. He smiled back.

Though they had both only spent a few years together out of their own respectively short times on the planet, he knew she had had a profound effect on him, and he knew that he should say something meaningful at this point.

A tense feeling wrapped around his throat, like a noose trying to choke the life out of him. He tried to speak the words he longed to say — I love you, I'll miss you, please don't go — but they wouldn't come. They stuck in his throat, lodged beneath the invisible force that choked him so.

"Bye," he said quietly.

"Bye," she said, smiling.

He wanted so badly to embrace her; to kiss her; to tell her how he felt. But he couldn't. He smiled at her one last time, turned and walked away, knowing that he would probably never see her again.

He was sad for a long time after that. It felt like a piece of his very self had been ripped out and replaced with nothing but inky blackness. There was a void in his soul where she had once been; he had wanted to let her in, not realising that she was already there. And now she was gone.

The pair exchanged letters for a while; his heart raced every time one of those distinctive coloured envelopes plopped through the letterbox — he swore she either used perfumed envelopes or sprayed them with her favourite scents — and he wrote back as soon as he got some time to himself.

As time passed, though, the letters became less frequent and eventually stopped. His own life was moving on by now; moving too fast for him to keep up with, and certain things from his past started to fall by the wayside. He saw it happening and regretted it, but he knew deep down within his heart that she probably felt the same way too. The black void in his soul started to heal, and he focused on trying to enjoy the present rather than gazing into space reflecting on what once was, and what might of been.

New loves — always unconfessed, assumed to be unrequited — came and went, giving him the familiar feeling of butterflies in the stomach for a few fleeting weeks before disappointment set in. But though the gap she had left deep inside him had mostly healed, he still held a place for her, even though he knew it was futile. She was gone, far away by now, carried away by the winds of change to distant climes, well beyond his reach. The fog of forgotten friendship descended, and he no longer knew where to find her. She was gone.

He opened his eyes slowly. The light of the morning sun was streaming into his room through the window, blasting rays of light through the panes of glass and casting a pattern on the bedspread. It looked like a nice day outside, but he knew that this was all he would see of it.

He had lived a good life. If he could do it all over again, there were some things he would have done differently, but for the most part he had no regrets.

Except when it came to her. If he had confessed his love to her when he had had the chance, how might his life have unfolded? Would it have ended the same way? Would all the other trials had endured and good times he had enjoyed have come about? Or would it have been completely different?

There's no use wondering now, he thought to himself. It's much too late for anything but one last glimpse.

He closed his eyes again, and there she was, exactly as he remembered her all those years ago. He gazed into her sparkling eyes. which were now wet with tears.

"I love you," he said. "I always loved you. And I never stopped loving you. Not for one second."

"I know," she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek, but a cheerful smile still playing across her delicate lips. "I know."

As the flame within him flickered and dimmed, he smiled to himself. It didn't matter that it was all in his mind. That was where she had always lived for all these years; that was where she belonged. But it was time to say goodbye.

"I love you," she whispered.

Then he was gone.

The post #oneaday Day 951: First Love appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I decided that the project I was going to use it for was a visual novel. Regular readers will know that I find this simple but effective form of interactive storytelling to be a fascinating medium, and I have been toying with the idea of writing one for quite some time, usually falling at the first hurdle when I remember I have little-to-no graphical talent, which somewhat precludes me from incorporating the "visual" bit.

But, I figured, no sense worrying about graphics if there's nothing for them to visualise. So I decided to actually start writing it, and to use Scrivener to plan it out in advance.

Now, when I write, I must confess that I rarely go through a formal "planning" process. This is probably fairly evident in these daily blog posts, which tend to spew forth directly from my brain and out of my fingers in some sort of hideously unorganised stream of consciousness. But it's the way I've generally worked on more formal pieces over time, too. During A-Levels and university, I never "planned" an essay on a piece of paper beforehand. I never used the "outline" function of Word, I never scrawled things on Post-Its and then moved them around. I just wrote, then tweaked, fiddled and moved things around once I'd written a first draft. It worked for me.

Mostly.

That approach doesn't work so well with long-form fiction, whether you're attempting to create a linear narrative for a novel or a non-linear branching narrative for a game or visual novel. I have a number of stalled novel projects on the go simply because I'm not entirely sure where they're going. In some cases, I have an idea of what the end might be, but it's the stuff in the middle I haven't figured out. How to get from the beginning to the end, as it were.

So, as I decided to start work on this visual novel project (which, like an irritating PR agency for a company making an iOS game you don't give a shit about I'm "not ready to talk about yet") I also figured that I would give this whole "planning" thing a shot. I recalled seeing the spectacularly comprehensive flowchart for Katawa Shoujo (mild spoilers within), and knew that if I was going to put together even a relatively simple VN project, I would have to figure out some sort of way to keep it organised.

Fortunately, Scrivener has delivered just that brilliantly. In order to plan out the basic sequence of events, I've used the "corkboard" facility and its special mode where you can drag around virtual index cards as you please. I've written short synopses of each scene on each index card and laid them out in a logical fashion to depict the various routes the player might be able to take through the story. Each index card then corresponds to a separate "subdocument" in the whole Scrivener project, allowing scenes to easily be split up and composed a little bit at a time rather than simply being confronted with a daunting blank page and no idea where to start.

Then there's pleasing little touches that help with the actual writing process, too. When writing in "Script" mode (which I'm using to compose the VN), simple keyboard shortcuts allow you to easily switch from writing actions to character names to dialog and back again. You can create links to other subdocuments or your research (which you can also store within your Scrivener project). You can split the editor window so you can refer to a piece of source material as you write. And when it's all done you can "compile" your project ready for publishing as a physical product, ebook or other format.

I've barely scratched the surface of the features it offers, but already I can see it becoming an essential part of the writing process. Progress on the VN project is going well so far — I've synopsised (huh… according to spellcheck that IS a word) the whole of the first "act" of the game and am now starting on in-depth scripting for each scene. Following this, I'll work on the various diverging paths through the narrative and hopefully end up with a suitably comprehensive document ready to plug into Ren'Py and then flutter my eyelashes at someone who can draw. Following that, who knows? Perhaps I'll have a finished game one day.

The post #oneaday Day 941: Scrivenings appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I have written a veritable bucketload of words today (including this 5,000+ word epic for the Squadron of Shame) so you'll forgive me for taking "the easy option" and indulging in some freewriting again this evening. (Technically I guess it's not truly freewriting if I go back and add a link to that sentence I just wrote after the fact, but eh. I'm going to call it freewriting and there's nothing you can do about it, really.

Today has been a fairly quiet and unremarkable day, as most days tend to be. There's nothing wrong with that, of course; having remarkable days all the time would quickly make them unremarkable and thus boring, and you'd get yourself into a cycle of increasing awesomeness, whereby it would take more and more remarkable things happening on a daily basis to make you determine that you had indeed had a "remarkable" day. So yes. Today was fairly unremarkable, which is fine. Though it did see the arrival of our new, massive, comfy sofa, so that was nice. And I guess that qualifies as something vaguely out of the ordinary, though whether I'd actually call it "remarkable" or not is up for debate somewhat.

Today I reviewed Zynga's new game Ruby Blast on Facebook. As per usual for Zynga, the game lifts game mechanics from other titles wholesale, though in the case of Ruby Blast the game isn't a straight clone of Wooga's Diamond Dash (its primary inspiration) but instead combines it with the "Diamond Mine" mode from Bejeweled 3. It works pretty well, though it does all the things about social games that probably annoy you if you're not already engaged with that particular part of the market. It has an "energy" system to throttle how much you can play, it continually asks you to share things and invite friends, and there's something just "off" about the aesthetic that makes you want to strangle the personality-free main character. Objectively, however, it's not a bad example of a social game — it's fun, quick to play, likely to earn a fair amount of money and actually encourages people to play together with a weekly leaderboard a la Bejeweled Blitz, which still rules the roost for social puzzle titles as far as I'm concerned.

What else did I do? I wrote up that epic Squadron of Shame article I posted earlier. That was the result of an extended conversation between me and my good friend Mr Alex Connolly, who makes his home all the way over in Japan. It's pretty awesome that we can have such an in-depth conversation across thousands of miles and then publish the (lengthy) results for all to see. The piece even got a shout-out from the developers of the game we were discussing, which was nice.

I also put my foot down on Facebook and determined that I am not going to put up with the facile social marketing crap that most "brands" tend to indulge in on Facebook. My new policy is that the second a game/company/other brand posts something inane, like "what are you having for dinner tonight" or "I like ________" then I will immediately unlike them. This will have little impact on their user figures, but I'll feel better about it. This kind of social marketing is apparently A Thing, and me saying it is stupid (it is) is not going to make it go away, sadly, because it's proven to be effective. Just look at any brand page asking an asinine question about what colour sauce you prefer on your kebabs and you'll see several thousand "Likes" and at least a few hundred comments, possibly more. Meanwhile we struggle to get people out of the house to vote for things that actually matter. Oh well.

I'm not sure where this rambling is going but I haven't stopped typing yet so I may as well continue for now. It's been quite warm today, but the night has become a bit chilly. I have the window open as I type this and the cold breeze is actually quite pleasant. I popped into the bedroom to see Andie before I started typing this and it is incredibly hot in there — way hotter than the rest of the house. I'm not sure why, nor do you, my readership, care. So I will stop talking about this nonsense forthwith.

I have had the song "Winter Wrap-Up" from My Little Pony stuck in my head all day. This is partly due to the fact that the other day I had to review a Facebook "virtual world" where it was possible to choose YouTube videos to put on the walls, and naturally (naturally?) the first thing that sprang to mind was PONIES PONIES PONIES. As such, I haven't been able to get that earworm of a song out of my head ever since. It's not a bad song. It's catchy. It has silly lyrics, but let's not forget it was part of an episode of My Little Pony, so we can forgive it a bit of silliness I'm sure.

I am closing in on a thousand words so I will be stopping soon. I am going to end this post with an embedded video of Winter Wrap-Up so you can all suffer like I've been suffering. It's just a shame I can't make it auto-play. Oh God, do you remember Web pages that auto-played MIDI files and other stuff? Thank heavens we moved beyond that. Now, we just have superfluous Flash animations and other crap. But it's been a very long time since I visited a website that had a background MIDI. I sort of miss it. But at the same time, any website that did do that would doubtless get mercilessly mocked. It would probably be a viral sensation these days, to be honest, but for all the wrong reasons.

Anyway. That's really nearly a thousand words now so it's time to stop, and the only thing that remains for me to do is this, as promised:

Yeah. Yeah.

The post #oneaday Day 884: Just Write appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I have no idea what to write about today. So I've decided to just start typing and see what comes out. Doubtless it will be a ridiculous flow of consciousness nonsense post, but eh. What can you do.

I've used this technique before, of course. It's called "freewriting" and it's a good technique if you're planning on perfecting your creative writing craft. Well, maybe not perfecting, but it's a good means of practicing the art of getting ideas out of your head and onto the page as quickly as possible. This is an important thing to do, as ideas, if left unchecked, float around your head for a day or two and then dissipate without warning, often before you've had a chance to do anything with them. I find that I can generally hold A Good Idea in my head for up to a week at a time, but if I don't do anything about it (even if that "anything" is simply "make a note of it to come back to later") then it is gone forever. Usually. (Sometimes if it's a particularly powerful Good Idea, then it will be back with greater force. This is usually a sign that I should Do Something About It.)

Talking of creative writing, I downloaded an app for the Mac called Scrivener yesterday, and spent a little bit of time going through its tutorial and fiddling with it. It's a "writer's toolbox" sort of application, taking the approach that programming environments do for application development, only for creative projects. You have a "binder" in which you can organise the various bits that make up your work, and when it's all finished you "compile" it into its finished product, whether that's a short document or a full-length novel. There are all manner of different handy tools in there, including a corkboard where you can rearrange virtual notecards, the facility to store all your research within the single Scrivener project file and the ability to split your work up however you see fit for later recompilation. It looks pretty good, and I'm going to make use of it. I'm thinking that if I actually organise myself to start writing something, I might be able to finish it. Whether or not that will be sooner rather than later will depend on my own enthusiasm for the project and whether or not I'm able to maintain momentum. I made a start today with a couple of character sketches, so we'll see where I go from there. No, you're not getting a sneak peek yet.

And now I'm running out of things to say again. I have broken my freewriting streak by replying to someone on Twitter, which was an error on my part. I shouldn't leave Twitter open while writing. It is distracting. Everyone knows this. Perhaps I was thinking that it would provide me with inspiration for something to write. I guess it sort of has, now. You're probably wondering what I tweeted about. Well, it's all in the context, but I told Aubrey "Chupacaubrey" Norris that she is the "secret boss of PR". She was lamenting the fact that she wanted to be the Final Boss of something (Penny Arcade Report's Ben Kuchera had been referred to as the "Final Boss of Games Journalism" a few moments earlier) so I said that to be nice. Also she is awesome, and a fine example to the rest of the industry.

Anyway. I think that's enough for now. Sorry for the lame post (I'm not sorry at all) but it's very late, I'm tired, I just finished Quest for Glory II at last and now I want to go to bed. Maybe after I've sent all my Pocket Planes flights on their merry way.

Night night.

The post #oneaday Day 883: Freewriting appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

This had to be it.

He'd been stuck here for — how long? Days? Weeks? Months? Time had lost all meaning in these tunnels. He'd been here so long that he'd all but forgotten why he had been sent down here in the first place.

The only thing keeping him going was the thought of her. He knew that she'd be there waiting for him. She had promised. It was the one memory from his past life that he remembered. She would be there. She had to be there. Otherwise all this was meaningless.

He was the last survivor. He knew that much. None of the others had lasted. Some had died, some had succumbed to madness, others had simply disappeared, never to be seen again. He was alone. That knowledge made him all the more determined to succeed, to get out of this hell-hole.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been running, but he was breathless. He drew the pistol from its holster — he wasn't even sure if it still worked — and sat down with his back against the wall. The uneven rock wall was uncomfortable and dug into his back, but he didn't care. He just needed to rest for a little while. He felt the end was near, but he needed to be on top of his game for any last-minute challenges Fate might have in store for him.

He closed his eyes. Unconsciousness took him quickly, and his head slumped to the side. Visions swirled in his mind's eye. Past blended with present and with future, confused images flashing into his subconscious for a moment, then vanishing.

"Guilty."

The word echoed through his brain. It was the word that had sent him here. The word that no-one ever wanted to hear. The word that struck fear into the hearts of everyone.

What was he guilty of?

"Guilty."

How had this happened?

"Guilty."

Why had it–

He awoke with a start, his eyes flicking open. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but down here it didn't matter. All he had to do was press onward. The end had to be near. She would be waiting for him. She would be there. She had to be.

He stood unsteadily, bracing himself on the wall as he pulled himself up. He was hungry and thirsty, and his supplies were getting low. He holstered the pistol and started walking again for a few paces, before breaking into a light jog. His boots clip-clopped on the hard floor and echoed around the tunnel. They pinched his feet, but he had to keep going forward.

As he jogged, the never-changing scenery of the tunnel's walls either side of him, his mind wandered. Fragments of lost memories remained just out of reach, tantalising him with promises of truths perhaps best forgotten. But still her face was there, urging him onwards, pushing him forwards.

"Guilty."

The word that had haunted his dreams while he slept was pounding at the boundaries of repressed memories now. He knew that behind the walls his mind had put up, there was a torrent of pain and suffering. He didn't want to let it out. But every time—

"Guilty."

Thump.

Cracks were appearing.

"No," he said out loud to himself. "Please."

"Guilty."

Thump.

A flash. A vision. A room. Dark, with small shafts of light beaming in through the dirty window.

"Guilty."

Thump.

He was sitting in a chair. In front of him, there they were. Those who decided his fate, whether he liked it or not.

"Guilty."

Thump.

The walls were coming down. He couldn't stop them. He kept running, but the memories were seeping out. The horror.

"You stand accused of forbidden knowledge," said the voice. His blood chilled, and shivers ran down his spine. "How do you plead?"

He was speechless. He couldn't respond. Whatever he said would damn him. He had no control of this. The voices were coming in thick and fast now, flooding his brain — so much noise — and he couldn't stop them.

"Guilty," most of them were saying. "Guilty."

They had already made up their minds. There was nothing he could do that would make a difference.

"Guilty," he said. The voices stopped for a moment. Everything seemed to be frozen in time.

The memory faded. He was still running. He grit his teeth and tried to concentrate as best he could, willing the walls within his mind to push themselves back into place.

"Guilty," the voice still continued, softer this time.

He tripped on a loose stone and fell to the ground, skidding along the floor a short way. It hurt.

He lay on the floor and closed his eyes to concentrate fully. He had to control this.

Be still, he said to his troubled mind. Be silent.

The angry sea of images threatening to break into his mind's eye swelled and roared for a moment before calming, settling and quietening. He was in control. It was all right. He was safe, for now.

He couldn't think about the past. He couldn't. How he had discovered this ability, this curse. It was too much. The memories threatened to swell and overcome again, but he pushed them down forcefully, and they stayed quietened.

Focus, he said to himself. Calmness. That is what will get me through this.

Opening his eyes, he got to his feet and started walking. He did not break into a run this time, he simply walked, his back straight and upright, staring straight ahead. This was different. This was focus. He felt centred, at peace. But it was taking all his concentration and effort to remain that way. He didn't know if he'd be able to hold it. But he had to try.

Minutes flowed into hours as he walked. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, always straight ahead, never deviating from its course. When would it end?

He pushed the thought out of his mind and continued to walk. He had to stay absolutely focused, otherwise he would fail, and he would never get out of here.

Suddenly, a voice. He couldn't tell if it was in his mind or if he was actually hearing it. But it sounded like her.

"You're going to make it," she said. "I know you will. I'm waiting for you. Just a little further."

A door opened. Brilliant white light flooded into the tunnel from the other side. A silhouette stepped into it. A familiar silhouette. A comforting one.

He came ever closer, not breaking his focus for a moment. He had to take his time, to maintain his control, otherwise it would simply slip away from him. He was going to make it.

As he came closer to the blinding light, he saw her face. She was crying, but she was smiling. She extended her hand to him.

He kept walking. Closer now. It was definitely her. She had kept her word.

He reached out.

He took her hand.

And it was over.

The post #oneaday Day 857: Another Ending appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

The atmosphere in the room was solemn. Silence hung in the air, making it feel cloying, oppressive.

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. Not after what she'd done.

At least she'd admitted it, he thought to himself. But not without him putting her in a position where she had no choice but to admit it.

He hadn't expected things to go this way. He used to think that no challenge was insurmountable, that they'd always be able to make it through, together.

But not this time. Not after what she'd done.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and all he could see was the face of the one who had caused this whole mess. Of course, he didn't know what the Stranger looked like in real life, so the "face" he saw was obscured by shadow and mist. But he knew who it represented.

He felt himself gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, so he opened his eyes again to try and banish the unwanted intruder into his thoughts.

She gazed at him, her face a picture of abject misery. She really hadn't meant things to happen this way. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, but she knew from the beginning that what she'd been getting into carried that risk. And still she'd done it — why? For the thrill? No, that wasn't it; it was more a sense of ennui, dissatisfaction, of being stuck in a rut.

She hadn't felt comfortable raising the subject, so she'd simply started plotting behind his back. Before she realised that every little plan she made without his knowledge was just going to cut deeper, she was in too far. There was no going back.

She didn't regret doing what she did — the alternative was just sinking into a black mire of mutual resentment and depression, and she knew that he knew this too; he just didn't want to admit it, or didn't know how to tackle it. He'd never been good at that sort of thing.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, her voice cracking a little from the pair of them having been sat silently for so long. "I really am."

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it like she always used to. Still he didn't look at her. He seemed to be staring into the middle distance.

His eyes were filling with tears. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear the thought that this was it, that it was over. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn't. He loved her, even after everything that had happened. But he couldn't bring himself to turn her way and say it. It was too late. Too late.

She put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him towards her. He resisted a little to begin with, but then allowed himself to be pulled in. He buried his head in her shoulder and felt something snap inside his mind. He started to cry, big gulping sobs that he couldn't control. He'd never felt so utterly wretched in all his life, and here he was, baring his soul and showing himself completely helpless and vulnerable to this woman who had just an hour earlier crushed his dreams for the future.

She held him close, not saying a word as the waves of emotion rocked his whole body. Tears fell from her eyes, but she was silent. She needed to be strong. If she were to give in to this pitiful display before her, then she'd never be able to move on — and neither would he.

His sobs subsided, and she gently pushed him away, trying to get him to look at her. Still he wouldn't make eye contact. His body was limp, deflated, like all the fight had gone from him.

"You know this is for the best, right?" she said.

Gazing at the wall a few metres to her left, he simply nodded after a short pause. He closed his eyes, and the Stranger was there again, mocking him. I won, the cloudy vision seemed to say. I won.

He felt his mouth tighten as he struggled to hold back the pent-up emotions and once again failed, exploding into tears with a wailing sob that broke his companion's heart.

He slumped forward off the seat and onto his knees on the floor. He bent over until his head was on the carpet. Down here it felt safe, for some reason. He didn't want to get up. Everything above the floor was scary and upsetting. The world was out to get him, and he couldn't cope any more. He just couldn't take it.

He clenched his fist and slammed it as hard as he could into the floor. The impact boomed and rattled the room. Searing pain shot through his hand and he instantly regretted his outburst of aggression.

She just watched. There was nothing more she could do right now.

She stood.

She walked.

She left.

She didn't look back. He didn't even notice she'd gone to begin with. Down on the floor, in his own private little world, he was safe, but the face of the Stranger was threatening to invade. He crawled over to the seat and rested his head on the soft cushion, still warm from where she'd been sitting. The question as to where she had gone entered his mind, then was blown out again as quickly as it had come.

He slammed his fist into the cushion, imagining he was throwing a devastating punch at the face of the Stranger. Another. And another. And another. He roared with rage, yelling obscenities with each strike. It wasn't making him feel any better. Inside, he knew what he was doing was useless; impotent. But it didn't matter.

She was gone. And he knew she wasn't coming back.

The post #oneaday Day 856: An Ending appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

"Hey."

The voice startled him, though it was gentle in its tone. He looked up to see the source of the monosyllabic greeting, and there she was. He wasn't sure quite how long he'd been sitting on this bench staring at his feet, but it must have been some time, as the daylight streaming in from outside the concourse momentarily dazzled him.

"Hey," she said again, smiling. She was a pretty young woman, with coppery, curly ginger hair that fell around her shoulders, and a few girlish freckles still evident around her nose. He regarded her with curiosity, but his cheeks quickly flushed, causing him to reflexively turn back to the safety of contemplating his shoes.

She sat down next to him, bending forward to try and meet his floorward gaze.

"Hey!" she said again, a little more forcefully. "Are you all right?"