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The Doctor opened his eyes slowly. They hurt. His face hurt. His head hurt...
He WAS simply pain; his body was pain itself. He took a deep breath.
O, he'd pay Martha back as soon as he got up again. It was all her fault. Saying that he had a fever and nothing more. Telling him to have a rest. To sleep. He hasn't slept in years. And now...
He closed his eyes again.
Bloody memories.
Bloody, bloody memories, he mumbled over and over again.
The Doctor's mouth felt dry. He must have been dehydrated. But he didn't care that much about it.
He did nothing but struggling to stay awake.
Bloody memories should bloody well go back to where they bloody belonged.

His lids became heavier and heavier and finally sank.

The Doctor held his breath.

I didn't miss home. Really. Well, not much really, actually. It was fine for me to leave.
I had always imagined the being uprooted from the familiar surroundings thing to be a lot more traumatizing. Or being separated and torn from the environment I was conversant with.
But it wasn't.
I didn't feel that much.
It was simply the way it had to be. Children were taken from their families, all of them. I assumed it was normal. And it was.
It's a matter of opinion, that's what I've heard people saying.
But they're wrong. And they're wrong to say "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Actually it's "Normal is in the eye of the beholder".

That's what they used to say on Gallifrey.
The humans simply got it wrong.

And besides: we were first.

First come, first served. Or something like that.

I must admit that I can't even remember the day I was taken to see the fabric of reality, the time I stared into the void with the eyes of a child. I'm terrible at remembering dates.
And, in fact, it wasn't that special.
I saw it and I ran.
That was all.
No one shouting "Shame on you!" or "Damn!" or "Blimey!" behind me.
They did nothing at all.
And I wasn't crying.
I wasn't screaming.
I was simply running. That was it.

And as I child I was even more irritated by the way it all happened. Or by the fact that I didn't even know what I was supposed to do. But it didn't stop me from running.

That was always an option.
Well, it IS always an option.

I used to think about if my father heard about it, about me running from the sight of reality.
The whole ceremony... it wasn't even a real ceremony. At least it didn't feel like one.
But nonetheless I assumed that my parents must have heard about it. Everyone got neighbours who were simply made to babble out such things.

And there was nothing wrong with that.
Several years later my father would tell me how he had reacted when our neighbours had talked about me.
He'd shrugged and mumbled something like "A lot better than going mad, I suppose."

The academy wasn't so bad, either.
The only thing I missed were the others I used to know, the other children I had become friends with. Though I met some of them at the academy... it wasn't the same. It was somehow different.

And I didn't know if everything had changed or if we had changed. Or if I was looking at them differently.

But back then I didn't bother about abstract and rhetorical questions.
This may be a bad habit I encountered later.

Though, I had to admit, I felt strange. I felt, somehow insecure, or to be more specific: incomplete.
As if something was missing. As if I had lost something I couldn't remember.

So I started studying and forgetting about it. Whatever it had been.
I studied all the time. I didn't live. I studied. Studying WAS living for me. And after all: I was good at it.

I could study whatever I wanted, I could learn what I wanted, and I would understand and master everything I tried.

And that was something to be proud of, I figured.

I spent most of my time alone. Not that I got segregated. I enjoyed being alone. And it wasn't as if I had friends at the academy. I mean, neither did I make enemies. It was just...

You couldn't sneak into a library and pocket rare and forbidden scripts by Dr. Neakahla with everyone.

Some would assume that it was a bad thing to do. Others wouldn't understand what was so special about the scripts and therefore would think they weren't worth the effort.

So you had to go on your own, tried not to be seen and hid the scripture from everybody else.

So much about the fun in the secret libraries.

And soon I forgot about the time I had spent with others. And soon I forgot what it felt like not being alone but accompanied. I couldn't recall it anymore. It was a new life somehow. I was different.

Although...

It hadn't changed, actually. I hadn't changed.

I was a child. Still an unspoiled child. My mind was pure viridity.

I was still running at every opportunity.

And I kept my legs tied together at night.

By now it had become a habit. I couldn't sleep without tied up ankles; it made me feel uncomfortable; I would be forced to stay awake all night, worrying and feeling uneasy.

I didn't know what it was all about.

I didn't know why I had to close my legs or what should come between them anyway.

But I got used to it. The others mustn't know about it. Not that I was mortified.
I know it wasn't common. I know it wasn't conventional.
But I couldn't help it.

I was scared; I was still scared if I recalled the way my father had looked at me that night.
The night he saw it all.
And still it gave me the creeps. It was not the fact that I was horrified the night my father tied my legs together for the first time. I hadn't been scared by the way he'd treated me, neither by his brutal manner.
His eyes.
I couldn't forget his eyes. The frightened look in his eyes.
My father had been scared. He had been terrified – which was a good reason for me to be profoundly disturbed.

I have never seen anything like it before.

His eyes had been filled with tears. He hadn't cried.

Never before and never again.

He wouldn't cry.
He wouldn't let me see him crying.

But that night he had been close to doing so. And I was scared to death.
I never wanted to disappoint him. And I knew that he was deadly serious.
It must have been something of incredible degree if he would tell a child, an untainted and ignorant child to close its legs and never open them again for anyone, mustn't it?

He'd been a fool to believe that it could work like this.

And so was I.

So, untaught as I was, I kept my legs closed and recited the things my father had drummed into me.

Close your legs.
Tie them together at night.
Never put your legs up in the air.
Don't spread your legs for anyone.
And don't let anybody come near you.

Night for night. The same words over and over. I fell asleep recalling.
I didn't understand the words in any way; to me they didn't even make sense; and yet they frightened me night for night.

I would wake up if the knot of the rope around my legs would untie itself.

I'd jolt awake every time I heard noises around me; I'd gasp in horror if I mistakenly believed to sense the presence of someone else in my room.

And I always tied my legs together.

And I'd neither put my legs in the air nor spread them for someone.

At least, I never had wanted to...