I do not own Doctor who, or any content created by the BBC.

Eleven. It seems infinite, in a weird way. Even upside down and backwards, 11 is still 11. Eleven is the last hour before midnight. Eleven is the number of bodies worn by one man- each tiring eventually and removing its burden to the next in line. Eleven has a system. Eleven is orderly.

So then why is everything falling apart?

—

She sat in her room, in the closet, reading Harry Potter for the 9th time that month. Her flashlight warm in her hand, and the scent of old paper filling her nostrils. She inhaled deeply.

"Fuck." Came her quiet whisper as blood began to drip from a fresh paper cut. "Not again."

She pushed herself off the ground, opening the closet door to her room. Setting the worn book and flashlight on her desk, she looked around for her bandaids.

Her eyes glanced over her shockingly small living space. Her single bed lay in the corner of the room, facing the door, and her desk and chair were against the other wall. This was all the furniture in the room aside from a small, and very old dresser next to the desk. The main purpose of this dresser, aside from housing her entire wardrobe(and currently a box of newly purchased bandaids) was to provide support for the several dishes she brought into the room and never bothered to bring back out. An exasperated rush of air escaped her lips, and she quickly crossed to the dresser.

After stopping the flow of blood from her palm, she proceeded into the rest of her flat."The rest" of course being about 2 square feet that somehow managed to fit a couch, a small television, and various kitchen appliances. And, of course, her favorite item in her possession: her father's cello.

She grabbed it by the neck and moved to her couch, already feeling the potential tingling in her fingertips. As she began to play, all the pain and heartbreak of the past year faded, leaving only a dull ache. She played and played, and when she looked up from her work, exactly 4 hours and 21 minutes later, if was raining.

"Fuck it!" She yelled at the walls. "I'm gonna order pizza!"

"Um, Penny?" The walls replied. Wait. "It's about 11:00. Are you sure you want pizza?"

Aspen spun around, knowing only one person called her penny in the whole world. One person who could not possibly be standing exactly where she was standing- in the doorway to an incredibly tiny flat in London, England.

Alright, I know it's an incredibly slow start- but bear with me. I promise it gets better!