Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC
Author's Note: (oh god why do I keep killing my babies) Someday, I am going to write something that isn't a drabble (and isn't an OC fic) for this fandom. I've got seven-thousand words saved on my computer. You just watch.
So anyway, please drop a review.
(This fic is Un-betaed)
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[the girl in the garden]
WelcomeToLondon
/
The house is quiet, cold, and creaking. Dust gathers on the tables and the worn expanses of the stairs. Moonlight falls through the windowpanes, dulled by the grime that coats the glass. Outside, the swing set is rotting, much in the same way that the furniture is being eaten away by moths.
The girl's mouth is dry. Her hands itch for the faucet, but she cannot grasp it fully. Her nightgown is faded and stained. The days are static, blending into each other, days into weeks into months into years. She wanders through the empty house, cracked lips and palms moving senselessly, always twitching either to the faucet or to the front window.
The garden grows.
Amelia does not.
/
People leave the house alone. Potential buyers cite strange noises and drafts, structural damage and the forest of a front yard as their reasons for searching elsewhere. The locals do not go near the place, crossing themselves as they pass the drive on the street. Only Rory comes, once. He is older, and his nose, if possible, has grown bigger. Little white daisies are clutched in his palm. He is shaking, stumbling, bumbling by the time he gets to the porch. He drops the flowers on the worn concrete, and trips over himself in his haste to get away.
She watches from the window until he has disappeared down the street.
She feels some irritation, some sadness, and she feels overwhelmingly empty.
Mechanically, her eyes turn back to the corner of the yard. Vines have long since overtaken the planks of rotting wood, but she knows the place well enough.
He'll come back. He promised.
With a tick of the minute hand, another two years go by.
/
Aunt Sharon left everything in the house when she moved out. She couldn't bear to take any of it with her, not with the memories of her missing niece so close at hand.
She never returns for the things either.
The sofas are so covered in dust by the time the seventh year comes to an end that she can no longer makes out the floral patterns that so entranced – and disgusted – her when she Was. She tries everything to remove the dust and bare the colors, but she cannot. The picture fades in her mind, and she can no longer quite remember the exact curve of the roses or the exact shades of blue and green and red. She cannot remember what Aunt Sharon's face looked like, or how it felt to have a foot firmly planted on the stairs.
But oh, she remembers the Raggedy Man.
/
Sometimes she will catch a glimpse of her face in the hallway mirror, and then she will remain there for hours, staring intently at her features. They cannot be correct. They are too old, too sculpted for a girl of ten years. Brilliant red hair cascades over her thin, pale shoulders, contrasting to the dulled ivory of her nightie and the darker red spread down the front of it. Her lips are full. Eyes a murky green. A chuckling hiss comes from upstairs, and she swallows. Or thinks she swallows.
She is not right. This girl cannot be her.
The garden grows.
Amelia cannot.
But, in passing, she thinks she looks like her mother.
/
"Amelia Pond has not lived here in a long time," she says, eyes wide as she stands at the top of the stairs, staring down at the man in the doorway. She cocks her head to the side, taking in the confused furrow of his face. He shakes his head.
"No, no, no, that can't be right," he looks at her, and mounts the first step of the stairs. His little glowing stick buzzes in her direction before sputtering out. He groans, and slaps it in a frustrated manner. He turns his gaze back to her in an imploring manner. "You're talking to me now."
She blinks. "Amelia Pond has not lived her in a long time," she repeats. He scales another step, and she marvels at how unchanged his face is, even after all the years. He's like her, maybe. The chill of the house bears down on her, and she shivers, shifting unconsciously closer to the Raggedy Man, with his heat and his lifeblood and the beating of his two hearts.
How she didn't notice that Before, she does not know.
On the fourth step, he freezes. She does not know what triggers it, perhaps he notices the way the sunlight is falling through her hair and not on it, maybe he smells the rot coming from upstairs, sickly and sweet. His eyes widen, and a look of indescribable horror and anger flashes over his face. In this split-second, she knows that he knows now. He barrels up past the stairs, right through her, screaming "NO!" with his little blue stick held in front of him like a sword.
She settles down in the corner, swaying with the draft. She knows what room he's gone to, knows that he'll be back as soon as his business is done. She can wait.
She's gotten awfully good at waiting.
/
~end