❦ It hurts because someone else is lonely, too.
'It'll just be a story. One of those Donna Noble stories...'
There are pieces inside that she can't quite reach. They're hidden and dark and they lie. They whisper and feel so empty, but they're not. They're hiding, forever hiding, and that hurts. More than the shrieking, stabbing pain that burns and steals from her, it hurts. It hurts to be so alone.
'Shouting at the world 'cause no one's listening...'
Stolen. It's not fair. Isn't. Ever ever never.
She sees how they look at her. She knows she's different, even though everything feels stuck. Everything feels frozen and removed from any sort of push forward. It's in a book she pulls off a shelf, nothing that makes sense and nothing she'd be interested in. It's nothing she thinks anyone else would care for, but she's compelled. Those are the moments, those confusing moments where the breath between one moment and the next breaks, where she feels the safest and the farthest from where she's standing. Sometimes, standing still breaks her heart and she doesn't know why.
There are places she shouldn't be and each one contradicts with some part of who she is.
Complicated.
Things are so complicated and they shouldn't be. Nothing should be complicated, because she's so ordinary.
'You think you're not worth it.'
No.
Yes.
Complicated isn't a word for her vocabulary, not for hers. The words that suit her spill out of the mouth of everyone around her. They're on the screen and the pages staring back at her in the market. They're easy and effortless and she's so familiar with them. They scratch at her, leaving her itchy and uncomfortable.
Nothing fits. It's a too-big sock in a too-small shoe and every day she ties the laces and she hates tying them.
. . . There's a mark, just a tiny one, on Donna's left ankle. It's nothing really obvious and it doesn't hurt. It's not new or dark and there's nothing astonishing or remarkable about it. She thinks it's probably a burn. It's a sure thing that a doctor could tell her one way or the other but she's not of the mind to go ask about it.
She wonders, though.
When she's sitting with one of those easy, effortless magazines, when the television's yapping endlessly in the background, she wonders. The sun will be warm on her skin and she'll think about a new freckle popping up. There will be a moment when she's irritated about the freckles already there. There's the taste of minty tea in her mouth, still, and she wishes there would have been just a bit more of the other kind of that, though she'd never say so. She'd never hear the end of it and goodness knows there's plenty to argue about without adding that to the mix. An argument without a meaning, or a beginning, but they're so good at that.
All of that and still, there's that scar and it's just in the corner of her vision. She'll itch at it with the toe of her other foot, then smooth her trouser leg down. Cover it.
Uncover it.
Her Gramps will snort a bit in his sleep, still napping in the chair just across the room and all she can do is think.
Cover it again.
...Where did it come from? How did it happen? Did it hurt? Why don't I remember?
Shh. Sh sh, shh.
It's so absurd, so trivial. The moment passes and she remembers that it's a Tuesday. There are things to do, places to be, a cup to wash before it stains. There are people to speak with and some of them actually want to speak with her, even though she sometimes...sometimes thinks they might just pretend to want to.
And then it moves her, and she pushes up and onward. There's nothing but things to do and her mind is clear. It's simple and easy, just like the simple and easy things that surround her.
Her chest aches. It pushes and hurts. Lonely, she's so lonely but that's not why.
It hurts because someone else is lonely, too. Lonelier.
It hurts.
There's laughter, out loud, bright and barked and brilliant. There's an edge to it, entirely fun. When she steps out for the mail, she calls out a 'hello' and it's entirely cheery. It isn't forced and it isn't just because her mother would be furious otherwise. It feels natural, for a moment. It's supposed to.
Oh please. No.
Her trousers are the color of the sky today, just lovely, and there's nothing but the feel of the fabric on her skin. A car rushes by and the sound doesn't bother anything or anyone. The wind blows her hair everywhere and it catches in the corner of her mouth. There's a flash of color and she's so pleased with that flash. Vanity is well and good, her hair deserves it. So there.
'One shining moment...'
There are no shining moments.
But, her trousers are lovely. The sun is shining and she thinks she'd like a coffee.
[(ooc) Italicized quotes are snagged from the show. :P Everything else is yanked from my wacky, emo brain & holds to no one. ♥]
There are pieces inside that she can't quite reach. They're hidden and dark and they lie. They whisper and feel so empty, but they're not. They're hiding, forever hiding, and that hurts. More than the shrieking, stabbing pain that burns and steals from her, it hurts. It hurts to be so alone.
'Shouting at the world 'cause no one's listening...'
Stolen. It's not fair. Isn't. Ever ever never.
She sees how they look at her. She knows she's different, even though everything feels stuck. Everything feels frozen and removed from any sort of push forward. It's in a book she pulls off a shelf, nothing that makes sense and nothing she'd be interested in. It's nothing she thinks anyone else would care for, but she's compelled. Those are the moments, those confusing moments where the breath between one moment and the next breaks, where she feels the safest and the farthest from where she's standing. Sometimes, standing still breaks her heart and she doesn't know why.
There are places she shouldn't be and each one contradicts with some part of who she is.
Complicated.
Things are so complicated and they shouldn't be. Nothing should be complicated, because she's so ordinary.
'You think you're not worth it.'
No.
Yes.
Complicated isn't a word for her vocabulary, not for hers. The words that suit her spill out of the mouth of everyone around her. They're on the screen and the pages staring back at her in the market. They're easy and effortless and she's so familiar with them. They scratch at her, leaving her itchy and uncomfortable.
Nothing fits. It's a too-big sock in a too-small shoe and every day she ties the laces and she hates tying them.
. . . There's a mark, just a tiny one, on Donna's left ankle. It's nothing really obvious and it doesn't hurt. It's not new or dark and there's nothing astonishing or remarkable about it. She thinks it's probably a burn. It's a sure thing that a doctor could tell her one way or the other but she's not of the mind to go ask about it.
She wonders, though.
When she's sitting with one of those easy, effortless magazines, when the television's yapping endlessly in the background, she wonders. The sun will be warm on her skin and she'll think about a new freckle popping up. There will be a moment when she's irritated about the freckles already there. There's the taste of minty tea in her mouth, still, and she wishes there would have been just a bit more of the other kind of that, though she'd never say so. She'd never hear the end of it and goodness knows there's plenty to argue about without adding that to the mix. An argument without a meaning, or a beginning, but they're so good at that.
All of that and still, there's that scar and it's just in the corner of her vision. She'll itch at it with the toe of her other foot, then smooth her trouser leg down. Cover it.
Uncover it.
Her Gramps will snort a bit in his sleep, still napping in the chair just across the room and all she can do is think.
Cover it again.
...Where did it come from? How did it happen? Did it hurt? Why don't I remember?
Shh. Sh sh, shh.
It's so absurd, so trivial. The moment passes and she remembers that it's a Tuesday. There are things to do, places to be, a cup to wash before it stains. There are people to speak with and some of them actually want to speak with her, even though she sometimes...sometimes thinks they might just pretend to want to.
And then it moves her, and she pushes up and onward. There's nothing but things to do and her mind is clear. It's simple and easy, just like the simple and easy things that surround her.
Her chest aches. It pushes and hurts. Lonely, she's so lonely but that's not why.
It hurts because someone else is lonely, too. Lonelier.
It hurts.
There's laughter, out loud, bright and barked and brilliant. There's an edge to it, entirely fun. When she steps out for the mail, she calls out a 'hello' and it's entirely cheery. It isn't forced and it isn't just because her mother would be furious otherwise. It feels natural, for a moment. It's supposed to.
Oh please. No.
Her trousers are the color of the sky today, just lovely, and there's nothing but the feel of the fabric on her skin. A car rushes by and the sound doesn't bother anything or anyone. The wind blows her hair everywhere and it catches in the corner of her mouth. There's a flash of color and she's so pleased with that flash. Vanity is well and good, her hair deserves it. So there.
'One shining moment...'
There are no shining moments.
But, her trousers are lovely. The sun is shining and she thinks she'd like a coffee.
[(ooc) Italicized quotes are snagged from the show. :P Everything else is yanked from my wacky, emo brain & holds to no one. ♥]