Again.
Blood seeping through my fingers, pouring from my body. Slowly it eases, there is no blood left in me now. These last moments, before the darkness, these precious seconds – they are the hardest.
In these seconds, I am scared.
I have never become used to dying. There is always the fear that it might be the last time that I die. But at the same time as I am scared, I am hopeful too. There is always hope that it might be the last time I die.
I can feel the cold creeping over me, the tendrils of ice that always surround me.
It's better when I am alone.
It can't stand the hurt, the pain, the agony that I put them through.
They are scared too.
Scared they will get used it. Scared I won't return. Scared of what I am.
They hold me tight, begging me to stay. Their tears mix with mine.
It's better when it's fast.
I don't have the chance to die in their arms, no chance to look at them, to feel the guilt.
When I wake up, it's worse when I'm alone.
An empty warehouse, a wet tunnel, a hungry animal. And I can't escape.
The pain of returning is worse than dying.
I am told again that I cannot die, cannot sleep forever, cannot escape the pain there will always be. And every time I return this is shouted, screamed, at me.
I want a way out. But there isn't.
They say there is no shame in death, that it comes to every one, in time. But I have no time. Or I have too much of it. I am in a void. A void that has sucked all of what I once was from my body, sucked me dry.
And I have to continue my parched, barren existence. Creature comforts, fleeting romance, friendships that will inevitably be torn from me. They mean nothing. I try to make them real, but I can never escape from the fact they won't last. They cannot last. There is no hope in the end, for them to imprint themselves in me.
All the memories that I have, they are agonising. It hurts to remember that I lost them, for a while. I scream with red hot pain when I remember them, not for them, but for they are just one of many from my past, that will be replaced with more in the future.
We all die. But they stay that way.
They never have to spends years digging themselves from a grave, dying over and over again, being smothered, choking on the ground that should have consumed me. Accepted me. Dissolved me.
But I am rejected from its embrace, again and again.
My deaths are not meaningful. I won't ever be remembered with the soft mournful thoughts that every one else will.
I want some one that I can love, to tell them that nothing can ever tear us apart. I want them to tell me that too, for them to mean it and for us to experience it. Every one else can.
The Doctor understands. He has lived on his own, understanding his mortality. But it isn't them same. He cheats death. He has never experienced the final pain. The end of life is the end of everything. Even for him.
I hate him.
He can choose whether to live or die. He can choose when. He can choose how. He could end himself. Like a controller of life, he could press stop.
I can only pause. Every time I pause, I stretch a little more. Like the useless, out of date video tapes and cassettes. Maybe one day I will snap.
All I want in the world is to snap. To be torn into oblivion, to never return.
Oblivion would be payment. Numbness in return for the pain that I had paid thousands of times over.
But I can never have oblivion. I can only die. Blood pouring from my body, waking up alone, watching their tears.
Again.
