New York, 1933

The sterile odour of hospital was the only thing that penetrated through my messed up thoughts; a disgusting, nauseating smell that reached toward the safest, most secret places of my mind and made me sick to the bones. A clock was ticking, its nasty tic-tocking hammering my skull. It was as though it was counting the seconds left to Rory's death.

A terrible accident, they had said. A tragedy. They were going to try to save him, of course, but their hopes weren't high.

I curled up in the uncomfortable chair, my thoughts not at all concentrated on my dying husband. I rested my chin on my knees and tried to feel guilty. Rory was there; my Rory, injured and dying, and inside of me, there was nothing but hope. Hope that I would finally be free. Hope that once he was gone, I would be able to do the one thing I had wholeheartedly wanted my entire life. I sat there, in one of his old jackets and in my dressing-gown, my hair tied in a messy bun, and prayed for it to be over. It was the 1930s, they had no actual chance of saving him.

I had had hours to think about it. When I'd found out, I had cried; I had bawled like a baby. But then this hope, this feeling, had nested in my head and it had grown now.

All my life, ever since he fell from the sky in my garden, I had loved the Doctor. I had loved him with my heart and soul, I had loved him more than life itself. And then there was Rory: good Rory; nice Rory; sweet, perfect Rory. Everyone had tried to persuade me that the Doctor wasn't real, that I was mad. I guess that even Rory had thought I was as off my bloody rocker. But he had been there for me, always. And he had grown to love me. I had, also, developed feelings for him, of sorts, but not love. Not really. He made me feel safe, he gave me relief, and, up until the moment the Doctor came crashing into my life, I had believed that I could be happy with Rory. And then my raggedy man had shown me planets and stars, the future and the past, and he had shown me a new way to live my life. So I had realised that even though I had feelings for Rory, my raggedy Doctor was the one I would ever, ever truly love.

But then again, loving someone means to sacrifice your happiness for theirs. The only thing I had ever wanted was for the Doctor to be happy. Whether he ever loved me, I would never know, but one thing I knew: he wanted me to be with Rory, to be happy with him. And so that was what I did. I pretended to live a happy, mundane, monotonous life as Amelia Williams, a loving wife. My heart wanted me to be Amy Pond, a faithful companion and lover. But I never had the guts to tell the Doctor. When the time for choices had come, when it was Rory or the Doctor, my raggedy man had River. He had looked so happy with her that I couldn't dare stand between them. I had once again accepted misery; I had traded my happiness for the Doctor's. It made sort of happy, his happiness.
But now Rory was dying. Rory was going to leave me alone, without a safe place to crash, without a sanctuary. In this, I had seen an opportunity. An opportunity to, for once in my life, fight for my well-being, to claim mine the only man I'd ever wanted.

Rory was lying there, dying, and there I was, plotting ways to find my raggedy man. I hated myself, I felt this gut-wrenching guilt. But the decision I had made, to go looking for the Doctor, in a way, overshadowed all other feelings. For years I had felt la douleur exquise, and now was my time to be happy.

Free.

Once again, I felt a tinge of guilt. If Rory hadn't been hurt, I would've never even thought of snatching this chance. I realized I was crying, tears cascading down my white cheeks. What was worse, however, was the fact that I couldn't really tell why that was. For all I knew, it could be happy crying. It made me feel like a cold-hearted bitch.

That was Rory, after all. I had loved him- God, no, I still loved him, and his possible death, even though it meant my freedom, was hurting me, of course it wasn't happy crying! I cursed myself for even thinking this.

I needed to sort some things out. First, I told myself, and I forced myself to be completely emotionless while stating these things, Rory was dying. How did this make me feel? Sad. Desperate. Upset. Second, if Rory did die, I would go looking for the Doctor. Whatever it cost me. How did this make me feel? Happy. Determined. Relieved. Set free.

I realized how disgusting it seemed; it seemed as though Rory's death was going to make me happy in some way. Was it?

I wanted him to live and I wanted him to die; I loved him and I didn't; I was sad and happy at the same time; and I didn't know how this was possible. I thought my head was about to explode. At this precise moment, I realized that two women lived inside me; Amelia Williams and Amy Pond simultaneously lived in my head, fighting, hating each other and I knew that I had to choose which one to take over.

Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't noticed the man standing next to me.

"Mrs. Williams, I presume?" he said in a deep, heavy voice which bore the mark of a chain-smoker. A mane of grey hair surrounded his dark, wrinkled face. Underneath his thick eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes stared at me, radiating pain. His lips, hidden beneath a bushy moustache uttered something. I heard a shriek, and I found myself on the floor, sobbing.

Whether it as Amelia or Pond that was broken, I couldn't tell. Maybe it was the both of them, sitting on the ground, wailing. I sat there, two people at once, crying, trying to find ways to cope with the consequences of what had just happened. Death had a way of hitting you right there where it knew it would hurt most. I was slightly aware of the fact that the floor beneath me was cold; it was draining the warmth from my body just like the words I had just heard had drained my consciousness. I was standing there but I wasn't really. I was numb, motionless, and I just sat and wept.

The outcome of the situation came easy; Amelia wanted to die. Without her Rory, she was nothing. Amy was damaged, heartbroken and upset, sobbing and shocked, but she wanted to live. She wanted to move on. For so long she had been a slave but now, she could finally be free.
What I knew now was that I had to bury them both; Rory and Amelia Williams, loving husband and wife.

I was standing in the middle of the bedroom. I didn't know what to take with me. I didn't know where I was going, and the only thing I knew was that I was never coming back. I had put on the clothes I had been wearing when the angels sent us back. In a rucksack I had put some clothes and all the money Rory and I had, and that was pretty much everything I would need. I pressed my hand to the necklace hidden under my top and I felt my eyes fill with tears.

The previous day I had gone to the undertaker, a stout, dark man with a gloomy face and sunburnt skin. I had told him a made-up story about my being Melody Williams, the daughter of Amelia and Rory, who needed to be buried, how Amelia's body had been destroyed and it was only Rory's that could be put in the grave. I had told him what to write on the gravestone; it was over now. Amelia Williams was dead, buried six feet under, next to her dead husband.

And there I was, on my way to find the only man I loved.