The Time of Change

Thoughts on a Clock

Clara removes a wrapped Christmas cracker from her pocket, smiling at me lopsidedly. "Merry Christmas," she says. Once more I feel a heavy weight compress on my hearts, but I give her a weak smile. I'm still not incredibly certain if she's actually here. It wouldn't be the first time that I've imagined someone I care about to be near me, by my side, looking at me just as they used to. "Merry Christmas," I echo. She holds it out in front of her, and I grab the other end of it. With her pulling gently toward herself and me pulling toward my chest, we try to make it explode in its shower of confetti. My hand is shaking violently, and I can't pull anymore. I'm too weak.

Weak. A word I've never used to describe myself before.

"Hey," Clara breathes. Her expression is soft, understanding. "It's okay. It's alright, don't worry." She puts her hand over mine, and with her help, I'm able to yank the cracker apart. A tiny pop resounds in this little wooden room, and I sigh, happy. "Is there a joke?" I ask her, my voice tired but my emotion eager. With a half-smile she peers at the wrapper of the thing, reading the tiny print on it. "Extract from Thoughts on a Clock by Eric Richie Junior," she tells me quietly.

"Is it a knock-knock one?" I inquire. "Those are the best."

"I don't think so."

"Well, go on then. Let's hear it." I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for her voice to hit my ears. After a momentary pause, she clears her throat almost inaudibly, and I hear the crinkling of thin paper. Like a gum wrapper. I listen, my hearts slowing their pace for a minute. The ongoing chaos in my head quiets, just for this tiny slice of time, and the world is completely silent. All the shrieking and sounds of footsteps coming from outside seem to fade away from my consciousness. Nothing matters, currently, other than my steady, measured breathing, each inhalation and exhalation a labored process for my old lungs. And Clara. Clara matters. Clara's always mattered. She mattered even when she wasn't here with me, even when she was angry with me, even when she shouted at me or gave me the cold shoulder or we didn't see each other for weeks at a time. Even then, even then, she mattered. And she will always matter, because she has indeed been the only person in a very, very long time who has seen me fall from excitable and energetic to old, tired, worn, and obsolete. I've tried hard not to let anybody have to suffer through seeing it, seeing me deteriorate as a man into nothing more than the shell I truly am. And I've succeeded, until Clara. She's always the exception, this one. Does the opposite of what you're expecting her to do, and does it with a confidence you didn't think she had. She's a mystery, and she has been with me, and she matters.

"And now it's time for one last bow, like all your other selves. Eleven's hour is over now. The clock is striking twelve's."

I open my eyes, watching her with interest. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, in confusion, her eyes reading and rereading the statement on the wrapper. Her leg jiggles up and down nervously, like she can't keep still, like something is awake inside her and she can't keep it from coming out. The shiny brown hair on her head falls into her eyes, and she doesn't bother moving it away. She's too focused on the paper, that poem.

I try to work it out for myself, what she's just read. It feels like something I should take to heart. A bold hint of some kind. My mind buzzes as I run through the lines in my memory. Annotating, examining, thinking. One last bow. I suppose that could insinuate the battle that is going to happen here soon. Or my death. Then again, those two are somewhat tied together, aren't they? I'm going to die in that battle. Perhaps that will be my last bow.

All your other selves. I don't even have to think about that one very hard. I remember all the men I've been every moment of the day, because they never leave my head. Never have, never will, not till my last breath. They are forever trapped within the vast, empty, dark place that is my conscious mind. And just because they are me does not mean that they enjoy being within my head. All they've done, from the moment one changed into the next, is plague me. I used to wonder, when I was younger, whose voices were in my head all the time, and why they sounded so familiar, and why they seemed to know me better than I knew me. And I never understood why they believed the worst of me. I never grasped the reasons for them hating me so passionately, constantly reminding me of what I'd done. But now I know. It took years, centuries, but I know. They've never stopped talking to me, never. They'll never go away. I know that. But every man I've ever been, every version of me that ever existed, is fused in his own separate sector of my brain. And each is fighting to control me more than the others.

Eleven's hour is over now. Again. I don't have to think about it. Of course my hour is over. What else could it be? But the last part of the poem, the final sentence, is what scratches at the root of my brain. A little red flag standing out in sharp contrast to the snow everywhere. The clock is striking twelve's. What is it saying? Twelve is the final hour, yes, so is it telling me that twelve is the final end, the true end? Or is there something else after my hour is spent?

That's ridiculous, Doctor. Stop thinking like that. I've only got twelve regenerations. Thirteen of me. There have been thirteen prattling, mad little Doctors, come and gone. I am the last. There will be no more.

But are you sure?

Of course I'm sure. It's fact.

But she gave you her extra lives. How do you know it only amounts to one?

She said so herself.

She could have been wrong. There's no way she could have known how much it would give you.

She knew more than any of us ever did.

He's right.

Regardless. The only way we will ever know for certain is when he dies.

I do know. I am certain. There will be no more.

Don't you want to stick around? Don't you want to save people, like you couldn't save your family?

Are you really that cowardly?

Watch it. You're speaking about yourself, as well, and the rest of us.

I know that. I'm prompting him.

You lot, shut up! Let the man think! He's had much longer than all of us combined. Don't you think he deserves peace?

He doesn't think he does. Why should we?

I don't want to stick around anymore. I don't. Someone else will come along and save people. It doesn't have to be me.

You sound sure.

I am sure.

Never forget, Doctor, the promise you've made. Don't you dare give up on your name now.

Now that I can agree with.

Seconded.

I know what the promise is. You haven't the right to remind me.

Never be cruel. You've broken that one already. "Someone else will save them."

Or cowardly. That's been abandoned, as well.

Never give up. What are you doing right this moment, Doctor?

Never give in. What are you about to do?

I press my hands to the sides of my head, trying to squeeze them out, push them away. I don't want to hear them anymore. They used to agree with me, that this was the only way. Just yesterday they were agreeing. What's changed? Why have they turned on me again? Surely, it's just the fear of dying. A fear that is impeccably, wonderfully human. A fear I shall not succumb to, ever. I'll not let anyone make me feel guilty about anything I've done, not even myself. I decided long ago that I am not a coward. I am not brave, but I am not afraid. I am never afraid.