Author Notes: Hi! This is my first Torchwood fic, and I wasn't going to write it until my beta started threatening me with pain... Anyway, it's sort of a tag to Ghost Machine, but is AU. I wrote it before the last episode, Countrycide, so there won't be any spoilers, only suggestions:)
Disclaimer: I own neither Doctor Who or Torchwood, but all poetry is mine.
Curse of the Blessed
Chapter 1
Wake up in the morning,
Heart pounding in your ears,
The nightmare of you falling,
The nightmare of your fears,
You see your mind cry out,
Through the darkness of your dream,
The reaper plants the seed of doubt,
You hear your soundless scream.
Owen leant against the wall, trying to form a clear picture of the recent events. Gwen was still in shock, but was considerably calmer since she and Jack had had a talk. Owen scrubbed at his face, trying to get the image of that poor girl from his head. Both of the people he had seen were dead now, but to him they seemed as alive in his mind as Jack or Toshiko did right in front of him. Owen shivered. He felt cold, as if someone had filled his lungs with ice.
It had been quiet for some time, until finally Jack seemed to shake himself, and stood, "Alright everyone. Go home, sleep. I expect to see you all here bright and early tomorrow."
There were no smiles and usual cheery waves as the Torchwood team said their goodbyes and began to make their separate ways home. Owen walked swiftly to his apartment, head down, hands shoved in pockets. All he needed was a drink, and a very long sleep. They dealt with this sort of thing everyday, so why was this affecting him so much? Owen was so absorbed in his thoughts, that he very almost cried out when he felt something brush his shoulder. His head snapped up, and he whirled round. Nothing there, the wharf was empty. Owen shivered again. He shook his head, and began to walk faster.
Hooves. Horse shoes. Clipping sharply on cobbled streets. Owen looked fervently around. That was it. He was going nuts. A scream penetrated the night, and the hooves stopped. Owen was getting really nervous now. He thought about calling Jack, but what would he say? Sorry to bother you, but I'm hearing things. Like that would go down well. Owen sighed, and returned to his walk, but with an even quicker pace. Then he froze.
A girl, no older than fifteen, was standing on the metal railings that separated the path to the river. The drop was large, and the undercurrents strong. There would be no way she would survive that. With a jolt, Owen realised what she was doing, "Hey!" He ran towards her, "Hey! Stop!"
The girl didn't move. She remained staring at the water below. As Owen got closer, his feet seemed to turn to lead, until he could go no further. The girl was still out of reach. Oh god, let this be a dream, please let this be a dream. The girl started speaking, "I hate them. I fucking hate them! Everything is bad, so bad." She spoke with a light welsh lilt. Owen blinked. No. It couldn't be happening again. He didn't have the device! "What's the use? It's not like anyone will believe me. How could this possibly get better? No one can fix this. No one ever listens to me."
"No." Owen choked, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the desolate girl. She closed her eyes, tears rolling freely down her cheeks. She let go of the railing.
Owen felt sick. Why hadn't he helped her? The same scream sounded again from behind him, and he turned to see an odd, distorted scene of a horse and cart, with shadows of people surrounding it. One figure shined brightly. A small boy, no older than six, dressed in Victorian garb. He was crushed under the wheels, but then everything faded back to the street and modern day Cardiff.
Owen began to walk backwards, and then he turned and ran. In the corner of his eye, he saw the same girl jump once more off the railing to her death. Voices, screams, shouts, sobs, all mingled in the once still night air. Colours, bright and faded, vibrant and dull, assaulted Owen's vision as he ran and ran and ran. Cries for help, cries of murder, helplessness and loss. The emotions of the old, the emotions of the young. It made no difference. Owen felt everything; he felt their fear, anger, sorrow and pain, just as he had with Lizzie. They were in his mind, they were in his head, they were in his soul.
Owen slammed into the door to his block of apartments, fumbling for the key. His eyes were blurred, mingled with the tears of hundreds of people. Finally, he made it to his own apartment, and slammed the door, locking it. He slid down to the floor, curling up against the door, hands over his ears, rocking slightly. He concentrated on his breathing, listening to it enter and leave his lungs, until it was all he could hear. He found the effect of this calming in one way, and yet the feeling of complete and utter terror did not leave him. Those people had all been in his head, they had gotten inside of him, and he hadn't been able to block them out. He didn't have the device. Ianto had locked it up. He had seen him lock it up. Besides, why on Earth would he have wanted to take that god-awful machine home anyway?
He didn't know how long he sat there for, but finally, Owen opened his eyes and slowly rose to his feet. He needed a drink. He needed sleep. In the back of his mind, he knew he should call Jack, but he couldn't. Jack hadn't understood about Lizzie, so why should he now? Owen shrugged off his coat and boots, shivering slightly in the thin top he wore. Walking forwards into his open plan living area, Owen flicked on the light, and froze.
Hanging from the ceiling, swinging gently as if in a light breeze, was a woman, eyes glazed and staring, mouth slightly open. She hung by the neck. Owen doubled over and was violently sick as he felt a wall of emotions hit him. Not just the dead woman's, but others. A man yelling, sobbing, and a girl screaming in grief while another felt pity. They wouldn't shut up. The ghosts, some solid, others blank and faceless surrounded him, suffocated him, until Owen could take no more.
"Shut up! Please shut up! Leave me alone!" His breath came out in ragged sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry! I can't help you!"
He began picking things up and smashing them, trying to make the screams stop. This was wrong, so very wrong. The ghosts from outside began to mingle in his mind, so that he was no longer sure if they were in the room with him, or merely figments of his imagination. Lizzie Lewis and Ed Morgan floated in front of his vision, their distorted voices mixing with the others.
Owen felt the air contract with the multitude of emotions, and he felt his grip on reality slide away.
To Be Continued…
Author Notes: What do you think? Please review! This fic will not be entirely Owencentric, it's more about Torchwood itself.
