Darkness and black despair.
Nothing but hissing and mumbling and deafening noises.
The Doctor wasn't be able to open his eyes, though he wouldn't know whether they were shut.
He just thought them to be closed due to the darkness.
But he knew that he wasn't asleep as he felt the pain searing through his body, parting his limps and splitting his spine.
If he would have been able to open his mouth he would have screamed.
But he assumed that he had been silenced by a plastic tube sticking in his throat.
And even when the Doctor managed to open his eyes;
There was nothing.
Nothing but darkness surrounding him, nothing but the constant and disturbing noises, the unpleasant screams and shrieks.
One of the Doctor's hands reached for his mouth and he found it uncovered.
He wasn't silenced; he just didn't seem to have any voice.
He wasn't strapped down.
He wasn't asleep.
He was...
The Doctor opened his eyes again. The white noise was gone.
He looked up into the golden sky; the air was filled with aromatic smells of the trees and the red grass.
In the distance there was music, the mellowed sounds of strange instruments whose tones he had forgotten long ago.
The music was alluring; it was tempting and overwhelming at the same time; it was not only the sound of the wind spreading notes and harmonies, no. It was more than that.
It was above all, it was complete. The music was life itself, a life he could hardly remember anymore and the Doctor found himself indulging in reminiscences soon.
Every light breeze carried the warmth of the gleaming sun, the songs of the past and the future, the laughter of the children.
The Doctor was back on Gallifrey.
He breathed in deeply. How could he forget how the air smelled, how the grass felt under his feet? How could he ever forget his home?
The Doctor had often wondered if he would recognize Gallifreyan if someone spoke it after such a long time. Of course, he still used to take notes in Gallifreyan, but that was just a habit.
The Doctor saw figures approaching. No, that wasn't quite right. Though there were several coming closer, a mother and her child were keeping aloof from him.
And after all those years without a single Gallifreyan word he still understood everything.
Who is this?
I told you: stop looking!
But...
Come on, now!
And what is he doing?
Will you please stop looking at him? Just go!
The Doctor looked uncertainly at the mother who tried to pull her child away from him; she retorted a death glare. Other voices grew closer and louder while there were still Gallifreyans drawing nearer. And yet there seemed to be an invisible line which no one dared to cross. No one dared to be within his reach. And they did nothing more than staring at his bulge, his swollen abdomen.
He closed his eyes to evade their eager glances.
Have you seen him before?
It's a HE?
Haven't you heard?
Stop looking, we're going! I don't want you to see this.
He's a disgrace!
That's disgusting!
But that's not...?
How did that even happen?
You should be ashamed of yourself!
Who knows?
Shameful... just shameful!
It's a shame!
Don't go near it!
What do you think it is?
It's disgusting, that's all!
Don't let him touch you!
He's copulated with so many species... haven't you heard? He's had a lot of mates! Haha!
He's a disgrace!
Don't look at him.
It's a shame.
SHAME ON YOU!
But what are we supposed to do?
Just keep walking.
Ignore it.
Just look at him. He's disgusting. And that belly... as if he's about to pop.
We'll I hope he's not!
Leave him be.
And he dares to let others see him?
Let's just go.
We can't have him around here.
We won't have him around here.
What do you think? Cut his throat or cut him open?
No one should see him in his condition.
The Doctor felt his hearts racing as he stepped slowly backwards. He didn't want to lose eye contact nor look them into the disturbed faces. He couldn't turn.
For the first time in his life he couldn't RUN.
The Doctor tumbled down, giving the rout a chance to move closer.
Just cut his throat and make it quick!
He's brought shame upon us all!
Cut the child out as well – that's no life worth living!
The child's been begotten in shame.
He deserves to die!
Leave it alone!
Why don't you start running?
Get out of here!
He's disgusting.
Rip the child out as well. Who knows what deformed creature it is anyway?
Just stop looking!
His sheer existence is defilement to our race!
Why didn't you sleep with someone who'd protect you now?
Get it out of here!
The Doctor gasped, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shuddered in fear.
He felt the cold floor of the Tardis underneath.
It was a dream. It had all been a dream.
The Doctor sat up, his hands still clutching his elbows. His knuckles turned white.
His eyes were burning with tears, he must have cried for hours. He had been asleep again.
They must have been here.
And the tears wouldn't stop running down his cheeks; he snivelled.
The voices echoed in his head.
Shame on you.
Shame on you.
He gasped for air between his muffled cries of desperation.
Shame on you.
The Doctor closed his eyes again.
After all those years...
All those...
The words were coming to his mind again.
Shame – shame on him.
Disgrace – he had deceived everyone.
Infamy – he had dishonoured his family.
Blemish – he should've never been born.
And there were so many words in Gallifreyan stating the same thing: His mere existence was nothing more than an indignity for all Time Lords.
Now he remembered the word that had haunted him so many years, the name that had testified the disrepute; the name he had earned for his bad reputation.
Two big circles, three semicircles, one small circle and three dots connected with lines:
Attaint.
The Doctor shivered.
Blot, stain, eyesore, shame... he was nothing but a disgrace to everyone who had known him.
He covered his face in his hands; his shoulders twitched uncontrollably while he cried shamelessly, still crouching on the floor.
"No more..."mumbled the Doctor and sobbed.
"No more!" he howled over and over again.
He felt disgusting. He WAS disgusting. He had wanted to throw up, but he knew it was hopeless; He hadn't managed to touch food in days. And either way: soon they would be back, forcing the gastric contents back into his body.
The Doctor rocked back and forth. He couldn't take it anymore.
No more.
"Where are you?!" cried the Doctor in despair, "I know that you can hear me! I want to see you! I want you to stand in front of me and tell my why you're doing this to me! Show yourself, for any God's sake!"
His voice was cracking. He sobbed and crawled on the floor towards the door of the Tardis.
His back hurt. His knees hurt. His...
He clenched a fist and struck at his abdomen only to press his hands against it shortly afterwards.
"I can't take it anymore, do you hear me?! I can't! I'm tired of fighting myself! I'm..." He sobbed and spat on the floor, before wiping the blood off his sore lips.
"How could you do this to me?!" he screamed several times into the silent Tardis "How could you?!"
The Doctor banged his fists against his body, his hated, disgusting, revolting and wrong body.
He doubled over in pain.
It had to stop. He had to put an end to it! Now!
Whipping away the tears and breathing in deeply he sat up straight again.
"I've got to stop it," he mumbled "before it's too late. I can't show myself to Jack. I can't let him see me like this. That's not how he should keep me in mind." He tried to keep a cool head but couldn't think straight.
He didn't even know where he could find...
The Doctor crawled over to the controls and helped himself to get to his feet again. It had to be somewhere around here...something useful...something he needed right now...
The Tardis had helped him. She'd always been there to support him and help him. But now...
The Doctor touched the levers with care and stroked the controls softly.
"Even you've abandoned me, didn't you? My old Lady..."
The humming of the Tardis was deafening.
The Doctor pulled his hands back again and dragged himself over to a small cabinet. He smashed his hands against it until the glass would break and splinters covered the floor.
"No more," he mumbled quietly as he knelt down and skimmed his hands over the shards studded floor and sighed aloud, biting back the tears, whenever he felt one of the little smithereens boring into his skin.
He fumbled around the broken pieces to find one of a nearly convenient seize. After several unpromising attempts to pick up the razor-sharp glass-splinter the Doctor removed his shirt wile closing his eyes.
Don't look at it, he persuaded himself quietly mumbling, Don't look down.
He moved his hands across his stretch marks covered skin and grabbed the splinter after wrapping his shirt around one of his wrists.
The Doctor couldn't resist and blinked, catching a small glimpse of his hated and deformed body before forcing the self-made blade against his upper abdomen.
There was a strange sound from above as the Doctor whined and yelped in pain, though he wouldn't lose his grip on the splinter; he kept pushing it deeper and deeper into his abdomen, secretly wishing to reach the unborn inside of his body as soon as possible. He couldn't take his life without liquidating the foetus as well. And in his current state of mind he considered it to be rather cruel to simply slit his wrists (despite the fact that he could never remember if you were supposed to cut vertically or horizontally because they always got that wrong in the movies) and wait for the foetus to starve to death.
No, that was too cruel, he wouldn't want the thing to die miserably. All it had to do was dying, with at least a bit of dignity.
Warm blood trailed down the Doctor's lower abdomen as he forced the blade in once more; he fought helplessly against his own body which tried closing every inflicted wound only seconds after it had emerged.
The Doctor clutched at the blade and pushed it in, deeper and deeper, dragging it aside, around, just shoving it in without caring... not caring for the thing he carried within.
Not caring if he would cut it in half or just slice it open.
It had to stop. He had to stop this from happening.
"No...more..." the Doctor snarled weakly and bit back a sob as the tingling twinge spread throughout his body.
His mouth opened and shut soundless as his stare became blank; he whimpered hopelessly when immediate coldness crept over him.
He held on to the blade as he sank onto the floor, it was a relieve as his burning forehead made contact with the cold floor underneath him.
He'd put a stop to it.
The Doctor was in pain.
He was either regenerating or dying; either way he didn't care.
All he felt was the warm stream gently flowing down his injured chest as he lay in a puddle of his own blood on the Tardis' floor.
And the gurgling noises of the blood cascade drowned out the creaking of the door behind him.