decent idea, terrible execution. I don't know if I'll ever come back to this, but we'll see.
The TARDIS library was lovely and had nearly every book in the universe, but the Doctor sometimes went to the Library of Eden, on the planet of Atlas. It held biographies of many humans, aliens, and other beings of every single being that was ever in existence, including himself, from any given moment in time, based on memories of the certain individual. Sometimes, he liked seeing his own biography, which already held so much, to the point where each regeneration had a book. He strode through the Library of Eden by himself one time, as he was questioning as to why he felt as though a chunk of him had disappeared. A large chunk specifically, and a tug in his heart every single time he thought of the strange feeling.
He went past the numerous shelves of biographies, most of them collecting dust, as there weren't many people that were aware of this place. He took many turns and staircases, before finally getting to where his biographies were stored. He never bothered looking into the future, as he would rather keep it a surprise. He counted the spines of the books, some of them thick, and others a little thinner. He got to the thirteenth, pulling it off the shelf and placing it onto a nearby table. The first thing he realized was the lack of pages. He knew he was roughly two thousand and some, but he didn't remember some of it. Most of it, of this regeneration, really.
He ran his hand up and down the cover, his mind racking to determine the plot holes in his head. He wasn't sure of anything.
He wasn't even sure how he existed, the more he thought about it. He was only supposed to have twelve regenerations. He was on his thirteenth, with all the technicalities involved. He wasn't sure of the beginnings of his regeneration, as it just seemed like a blur. His regeneration was not violent, he knew that, but what else was there to say? He knew he altered his original layout of his beloved TARDIS, but he didn't remember why. He knew the grief of losing Amy and Rory came to mind, but he wasn't entirely sure what happened after that. What did happen? He just hoped the book had answers. He sighed before opening the book.
If anything, it asked more questions than gave answers.
Pages were torn from the biography, all the way to some chapter which started off with Bill and Nardole, his on and off companions. He had thought the book was much thicker, but so many pages seemed to have been torn, not revealing anything about his origins as the twelfth Doctor but thirteenth regeneration. He went back to the shelf and pulled out the thick book of the eleventh Doctor. He placed it next to his own book and opened the book to a random page, first realizing that a few pages around the middle had also been torn out. He flipped to the end, but that was also torn. No explanation for anything. He frowned and looked back to his tampered biography, searching for clues that could possibly explain this.
These biographies couldn't be tampered with, not unless there was a sincerely valid reason.
He noticed on the back of the cover, there was a name that was etched into the leather. It wasn't very large and he had partially expected River's name to be on there.
It wasn't.
Clara Oswald, it read, in feminine script, burned into the leather. He raised an eyebrow as the name brought an odd feeling to his hearts. Why did the name seem so important? He frowned. It was a human name, but it brought nothing to him in terms of answers. Perhaps Clara Oswald would be in this place as well. He stood and looked around his area, as most of his companions were also grouped around him, when he wanted to see how their lives were and he didn't want to see them personally, or couldn't due to other...reasons.
After searching for several minutes of the spines, searching for a Clara Oswald and was about to give up, when he peered above. A book on the very top of the shelf had been haphazardly thrown over. He took it and dusted the dust off.
Clara Oswald, it said in bold golden letters on a red hardback cover.
He had found her biography. Whoever she was. Her novel was actually quite long for a human. He placed it down onto the table and the first thing he noticed was a paper sticking out in a very specific place. He opened the book to that portion and a letter, written in the same script as the name in the leather was there. He began to read:
There should only be one person reading this novel, which, is you, the Doctor.
If not, you are either a curious traveler and wondering why my name is etched onto the leather of the 12th Doctor's novel and you were so curious you searched for this novel that I have attempted to hide. You could also be me, rereading how stupid it was to make a letter of this sort and rip out the pages of my life in the 11th and 12th Doctor's biographies.
But, because both are unlikely, so I will assume you are the Doctor.
I am 400 years into my time locked state and I don't feel a day over twenty-eight, all the way up to that almost last moment at Trap Street. Amazing, isn't it? I know, that makes no sense to you, because of the loss of your memories. I understand, so it is alright. It must be some time after you have forgotten about me and either you came to the library on your partially annual visits, or because you feel a gaping hole in your mind. It could be both, or neither. I don't really know, I've stopped myself from seeing you. Ever. Even if I see you on the radar, I force myself to ignore you. Even if you were on the same planet- I force myself to look away.
It is the main reason as to why I wrote this, why I tore out the pages- for closure. I hope you also find the same.
Before you divulge into my book, there are a few things.
One, it is an autobiography, unlike most of the books in the Library of Eden. I wrote this, yet kept the original for myself. Every single line in this autobiography is true. I didn't like how I was portrayed in the biography- my nose is not funny!
Two, I left the letter at the first beginning of my adventures with you, from myself, the original Clara Oswald. None of the echos, not Victorian London me, Dalek Asylum me, nor the me from Gallifrey. There's a separate short story novel that with my echos and their simple autobiographies, all ending with saving you. I hid it much better than this one. Probably because I'm still partially hoping you'd want to know who I was.
Third, once you read this, please, do not search for me. I have already accepted my fate and I have most likely faced my death at Trap Street. I plan to come back to that, you know. We can't fulfill the prophecy of the Hybrid or see each other again, no matter how much in pains me that we cannot. I hope you will just be glad of the closure rather than try to open old wounds. We cannot let that happen, after all.
I can't tell if I'm doing this for myself or you, but just know, this is because I love you, Doctor. I love you too much to the point where I had to let you go, just like you, with me. You will probably agree with me once you read my story. Take this autobiography with you, into the TARDIS if you'd like. It is a lot of material to cover.
Please, once you read this, do not blame yourself either. We both went through with what happened and we cannot stop anything. Just know that I never forgot you, my impossible man. This is a bit cheesy, but I am an English teacher. What do you expect?
Just run. Run you clever boy and be a Doctor. Just like you always should.
The letter ends there, with the signature of the supposed Clara Oswald.
Most of the words made no sense. What prophecy? What echos? Who was she?
All the answers of the feeling of emptiness lay in this book. He decided that he was going to read it, not in a musty library, but the TARDIS. He replaced the two novels of his own life and took the large autobiography of Clara Oswald with him.