It is the white of nothing, of lack, of trapped. Smooth and blank and she is gone, she is gone, only one who ever cared...
There were the others. Companions. She was not. A companion. She was nice, funny, brilliant. Not. Not here anymore.
Other, darker; not whitepaleblank too white, white of condescension, white of uncaring.
But that doesn't matter because he's the Doctor, he fixes things, and he's okay because he can fix himself now. He can.
They're gone now. She said, but so is she and what is not there hurts the most. Can't hurt you any more.
He locked them away, locked them away forever and ever and ever. Can't hurt him any more.
The other doesn't help. Doesn't protect him, doesn't chase away the big bad wolf. Just stitches him all up afterward. A Doctor, just like him. But maybe not. Not really.
And the next, redredred like blood, like roses. Pretty. He doesn't touch her, afraid she will burn. But she is brilliant. Bark is worse than bite, but bark is bad enough. Almost him. Almost a Doctor even if she isn't really.
And she is here! Things are good, brilliant, fantastic, molto bene. Great! Very, very good!
But not for long.
The universe never did like him. Wasn't he the one stitching it up?
Every song ends. I'm sorry...
And the Doctor is, too...
But the madman in the white room is the one crying.
Basically the Doctor's an abused human who accidentally murdered his parents, his best friend (Romana) and almost his brother (the Master; he doesn't know about the 'almost' part). This sends him spiraling into insanity, which he really hadn't been far from in the first place. DW canon is his insanity at work, as are the italics in the story, and Rose is his doctor with the bold being things she'd said to him. She leaves and then Martha and later Donna are his doctors and she comes back to see him but it doesn't help much.