A/N: Just a drabble I wrote about the statement, "The Doctor never asks for a thank you." And he never gets one. What happens when even the Universe you guard turns its back on you?

Disclaimer: I don't own ~ Please enjoy!


Sometimes, you just don't fit in.

Nobody looks and yet everyone sees. They don't hate you, per say, but they don't love you, either. They won't thank you, no, never you, they won't stop and think twice about you. It's like water thrown on fire - after the flames are put out, what more is there to do among the soot and ashes and debris? What more are you, then, than another blemish that needs to be cleaned up - a far cry from the lifesaver you were but minutes ago. What you thought you were. What you aren't.

And sometimes, you wonder why you even bothered. You've seen the End and Beginning and everything in between. You knew, you knew, you knew, but you hoped you didn't. You hate the one who bound you to this, but you were the one who shackled yourself, collar and everything. And oh, how the chains weigh heavy on your body, taking their tolls on your mind.

You wonder why. But you still know. It's always the smoke that calls you - it's your goal and your beacon and life and judge and jury and executioner, and finally, your nothing. It kills by doing nothing, by being nothing. You jumped off a cliff and you're let all alone, face planted in the dirt and rubble, thinking of the unspoken lies that have been fed to you, ones of a better world and rewards untold or maybe just a thank you.

But there is nothing. There was never anything. You jumped for this nothing. You're lying there, broken, for something that never existed. And somewhere, you know, someone must be laughing. But there is nothing you can see, nothing you can do - and you still don't belong.

Why do you kid yourself? Things were going on without you. They had always gone on without you and they will continue to go on without you. Some things you cannot change, and most of the time, those are the only things you want to change anymore. You try so hard, but you can only do so much, and nobody cares about what you can do - only about what you can't, and sometimes, those things seem to go on forever.

Often, there is grace in destruction. There is beauty in death. If you were the maudlin type, you would wax poetic. But what does any of that mean? Once upon a time, you gave a damn. Now all you see are words, words nobody else can read anymore, words that went up in the precious smoke that kills you now. And look, there's another one: Poison in hope.

(Or maybe that's just the way of the Universe.)


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