He's angry at me. Very angry. I don't know why or what , but he is. That blased book. My book. Melody Malone. This book. A book I've written yat am still to read, and now he's angry at me.
"Get your wrist out. You get your wrist out without braking it."
Oh he's very angry.
Problem is, it's impossible. Believe me,I've tried. I've pulled and wiggled and twisted to no ends and I can't. There's a gap in the angels fist, the length of half its thumb, where the thumb itself has curled in and presses against my pulse point, hard. but my wrist it too wide to fit.
Whole.
They've been gone a minute, but he still won't be happy, where it's self harm or caused by him...
Self harm.
Because that's what this is.
Because I have no choice.
Because the Doctor needs me, and that's all the confirmation I have need.
That doesn't stop my scream as I snap my wrist in half.