How does one write a story about Death?
Growing up, I quickly learned, thanks to the stories that were read to me as a child, that each story, each poem, each piece of written literature all had a single thing in common.
And that was that they all had a beginning, middle and an end. However, not always in that order.
But how do you begin to write a story that has already had its ending? Do you start from the end and work your way forward? But at the same time you're working backwards. Or do you plop yourself down right in the middle of crisis, beginning your work at the dawn of the happiest memory.
Growing up, and even now, I did not have these answers - but I did however, have someone I could ask; even if he, at the time, did not have the answers either.
I can remember clearly, now what it had felt like to ask.
But before I get into that, I suppose I should sit you down in the middle of this chaos that is life and explain to you what's happening, and despite the complicated and inner workings of the situation it can be described in a single sentence:
My nanny is, and was, dying.
He'd explained it quite simply - when he sat us all down to read us out the situation, but his explanation is not my story to tell, all that belongs to me is the small amount of time I had spent with her as a child - with Clara Oswald.
I can remember the morning - a crisp, and clean, foggy morning in the beginning of May. I'd miss the bus for school but in the back of my mind I had known my father would excuse it, after all he'd understand why I had missed it. I had walked into the room, and unsurprisingly, he'd been sitting with her - cradling her; his head bent and pressed against the side of hers - she was sleeping, and he was weeping.
I'd known he was weeping – not from the sound, because there was only silence in that room – but from the way his features had switched from clay to porcelain when he lifted his head to greet my gaze; this mad man, this – stranger, who had waltzed into my life.
I had come to know him, quite well; well enough, at the time, to see the sadness that he had covered up.
It was most obvious in his eyes; a strange shade of green and blue, almost grey, that sparkled when they were damp; and the barest hint of tear stains etching their way underneath his eyes.
But however, in that moment; the room seemed to thrive and suddenly, we were ageless – I was not a child, and he was not a man; we were simply – souls, struggling to hold onto the one that was disappearing.
And for a few moments, the room seemed timeless; that the time with Clara would last forever.
But then I had moved, breaking the spell casted over it; and he had spoken, we both knew at the time that we had to move forward, in the end. All we could do was live besides her; we could stop living once she had – but not before.
So in a way of moving forward, I let my bag slide from my shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thump, the sound of unread books and not done homework hitting the floor and bending from within the cocoon made of fabric. I'd crossed the room, and answered his questions; although both of us were not truly engaging in the conversation.
That was, until I asked a question that I already knew the answer to – that he already knew the answer to; but I had asked anyway, simply because it needed to be.
"Can you fix her?"
The lack of proper grammar due to my age was unimportant at the time, it was simply the question itself that held the spotlight as I sat down on the bed – a bed I had sat on many times, but each time since she'd come home, with this man – it felt like the first time, it was a foreign place of rest. The two people housing it were now foreign also.
I'd taken her hand; which surprisingly, was still warm and soft, run my fingers across the back of her hand; felt the veins, felt her knuckles; for I knew that later, touch would be a luxury I would no longer have when it came to her.
And then, I looked up at him; at the man who called himself the Doctor, and yet, could not heal the woman in his arms.
That specific question, had gone unanswered; he'd brushed it away, hiding it under the rug with all the other things no one wishes to see; and now, I understand why he had done it – because, just like humanity, he too was selfish when it came to certain things, and discussing pain, more specifically, Clara's pain, was one of them. He'd been open about it before this day; but now, she was beginning to slip away and so was he. His way of coping was just not to talk about it, to sweep it under the rug.
So I asked another one; in several different forms when he tried to avoid it, but it all boiled down to something quite simple:
"How did this happen?" Or versions of why – and when, and where.
And this; he had answered, verbally, but again, not my story to tell; but however I had gotten a better answer in the look on his face.
When I had asked, I had watched him closely; not knowing it – but documenting his every movement, every change in his feature; and I had seen the way his brow rolled together, how his eyes nearly squeezed shut for a moment – as if, if he closed his eyes the memory would cease to be before him; I watched and learned; he would tell me a story, he would begin at the beginning of course, to make it simple for myself but he told the story from the end – and the middle. He lived in it all, the beginning, middle and end; he thrived in it, and before he began speaking I watched as he lived in it – through all the unspoken memories of Clara Oswald, things he kept for himself; moments of love and adoration.
As he told the story, he would put in an order; but he would also – live in it, and always would.
So I guess, the important thing here is to not how to write a story of Death – but, to show that the people around us are always alive; always living, always with us, in one point of time or another, just as it shows in hand with hand that they are always dead as well, long gone and dust covered stories; ghosts and echoes of themselves.
He did more than show that – he lived in it.
But that however did not stop him from telling it; because the Doctor, being the brilliant and amazing, outstanding man he is, could do both. He had the strength to live, and to tell.
And I only hope I can do the same; so, without further ado this is how the story of Clara Oswald properly begins.
Sincerely and with love,
Artie Maitland.
