The two of you had escaped from a villain that dealt in psychiatric manipulation.
Once the two of you had figured out its trade, there was an unspoken agreement that you'd be the one to keep him busy while the Doctor did something clever to put an end to its stolen powers of the mind. He'd know what needed to be done to eliminate its powers, and there was less trauma in your head than his.
It only had you in its power for a moment, perhaps just under a minute, but it had resurfaced old memories that had never resolved in your mind. Old hurts that healed only by forgetting, and even then, that didn't really count as healing, did it? Does a bruise cease to exist because you forgot to check up on it, or does it vanish over time? You learned that all the bruises were still there. How could you have forgotten…You reason that you should have, and you did, and there was nothing wrong with this kind of distraction. And, boy, the distractions gave you the best times of your life. Adventures consumed your state of being every moment—identity defining, breathtaking—"Y/N? Are you hearing me? Honestly, being held in the grips of a black-market weapons dealer who just happens to be able to open the mental equivalent of Pandora's box of everything negatively mnemonic inside of your head shouldn't be enough to incapacitate your ability to communicate." Your head jerked up minutely at his voice, and your eyes met his, barely registering him through the fog thickening your mind. "Beg your pardon, what did you say?" Your perception of everything seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. The sounds don't seem to be coming from your mouth.
You remember how the hurt felt.
When you blink, it takes longer than you think but is over faster than you expect it.
Old scars of betrayal resurface in networks of sickening white veins, pulsing with memories and emotions and promises.
The heart in your chest is thumping wildly. Sound is drowned out by the rush of blood that warms your ears until they burn. Feelings of pointlessness, hopelessness, uncertainty assault you in waves.
They knew that it hurt you, but they continued anyway. They just wouldn't stop…didn't understand…
Why won't they listen?
Are you certain of this? Are you certain of anything? Who are you?
What are you?
An up-down tension begins between your collarbones, but the reason for it does not register.
How wrong you always are—everything you do. Everything you touch. You are the wrong.
The suction in your throat increases in futility and you're frozen.
People never understood you because you can never tell them. It's not their fault, never was. Nothing was ever their fault, it was all YOURS. YOU are WRONG.
You cannot move any limb and the pressure in your chest increases. A loud voice penetrates the air a little above your right ear, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "Y/N, I said, are you alright?" Your head tilts back in a short, small jerking motion, and he sees the chords standing out in your neck, straining and retracting in violent pulses. Color has risen in your cheeks, giving you a flushed, pink countenance.
A desperation you can't place has caused your mouth to drop open.
Remember when they said they believed in you? Remember when they left you?
Remember when you left them?
"Wha—Y/N, are you malfunctioning?" Boney hands grip both of your shoulders as the light of the TARDIS column is blocked by the Doctor's form. Darkness. "Look at me, Y/N. It's me, the Doctor. What's happening, what do you feel?" The urgency in his voice does little to comfort you…it scares you further.
The people you built yourself with are gone. They moved on, and you are forgotten.
You are nothing now. You are the wrong.
A green light pulses in rectangular panels around your face, and you recognize the Doctor's sonic screwdriver vaguely. Your eyes barely shift, but now they've focused out of the TARDIS column's background lighting and into the shadow of the Doctor's face. You see his concern and the urgency in his eyes. "Y/N it's all in your head. You need to breathe."
You always get it wrong.
His face splits in a wide grin and he hops back and forth nervously in front of you, his hands fanned at head-level. "Remember breathing? It's a good thing—that's why we do it. In, out, in out and all that. I expect you've had 70-something years of practice by now." His sonic beeps and he looks at the screen—
You fail at the simplest things.
Remember when you had friends? You are ALONE because you couldn't keep them.
"If you don't breathe soon you're going to collapse and then I'll have to catch you and lie you down and that'll just be awkward for the both of us. Actually it won't be very awkward for you, because you'll be unconscious."
"Please. Don't do this to yourself."