And the mind
And the feelings
And they collide
And the war ends
And dead bodies pile
The skeletons are burnt
In flames In my mind
So I shove them into a tiny closet
With webs as company
Until I go for a coat
And find them
And the mind
There was once a girl
Who resembled a used doll
Her hair was not straight
Or exotically voluminous
Or wildly curled
Or in perfect ringlets
Her scent was not lilac
Or blossoms after the first frost
Her frame wasn’t willowy
Or curvy like the vintage models
Her eyes weren’t mysterious
Or sharpened by wisdom
Her home wasn’t nice
Or soft and cozy
Her thoughts weren’t extreme
Sometimes I just feel like a container storing some bloody mess of other people’s vented tales and my hidden issues, and the worst part is I’m sure I wouldn’t even be a tiny, ornate box; I’d be something as worn and insignificant-looking as Tom Riddle’s diary.
The strands untethered to her ponytail encircled her head like a red mane, attached to her skull stirring lazily, unwashed and ungroomed.
Dark crescents dripped from the bottom of both her eyes, crumbling mascara of salty, dried tears and blotches of lost sleep. The eyes themselves were sunk in and darted wildly, countering stinging, glossy look with their alertness. Panic threaded through the brown, large globes, adrenaline canceling out the extreme drowsiness from days on the run.
She had run too slow, and sat cornered and weary. Eleven doors they had yet to check before they arrived at her room.
A fortnight previous, she had been at the graveyard, had scratched her own name into her husband’s tombstone to comfort an arriving friend. To convince the traveling man that she hadn’t been alone. That she hadn’t been wrong to close her eyes.
The tears wouldn’t fight her determination. There was no longer a purpose for them to latch onto. She hoped, as she had many times. But the hour was approaching and no one had shown. He hadn’t shown. She needed one person to save her, one to come from lands years away to help.
She had painted him. Many times. Only him, as she couldn’t bear the idea of imprisoning her dead husband into a portrait. Her deceased spouse wouldn’t have wanted to be immortalized for her remembrance. So she had painted the man she had met many years ago, when her face was still holding onto baby fat and he hadn’t know his own appearance. He had frightened her with his abrupt and rather unusual entrance. She really should have seen the danger coming.
The colors on the canvases were darker and more abstract the longer she lived alone. Brunette, specific hair was a rush of ink on the top of the think paper; the face had taken a pale skin tone, since she could no longer bear to capture the old, sad eyes. The eyes that were wet when she shut her own. A streak of blue or red accented underneath his chin and a tan block signified the outdated coat. She even remembered to show hints of the suspenders he wore needlessly.
She had waited for him. She was waiting now. It seemed to be all she ever did.
Footsteps echoed and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm.
She had been touched and she had ended up alone, following a different time than she desired. She could feel the stone on her skin.
The clock tolled eleven times, with long, deep thrums that vibrated inside her skull. Her time was up. She had cheated it long enough.
She was struck down, and the red blood mixed with the flaming hair in a puddle that had long since dried before it had been discovered.
Amelia Pond had waited for her raggedy time traveler. Amelia Pond had followed him into danger. Amelia Pond had born a child time-infected which appeared older than herself. Amelia Pond had saved the Doctor by remembering. Amelia Pond had been taught that patience is a virtue. Amelia Pond had dragged her husband into the mess that her imaginary friend so delightfully pulled them towards. Amelia Pond had gambled with an enemy and with time, and lost. Amelia Pond had lived alone for too long and clawed her name into stone to comfort that sad, lonely, crazy man, floating with someone new in that very blue box she had delighted to think was home.
Amelia Pond had been promised to.
Amelia Pond had been lied to.
Amelia Pond believed in that madman.
She had waited, waited, waited, until fairytales refused to save her.