The Time of Change

The Clock is Striking Twelve

I hobble forward as I reach the top of the stairs, my cane clacking on the wooden floor loudly. Sounds like gunshots. Sounds like a threat. I pass by the shiny clock face, its Roman numerals staring at me blankly, without feeling. I try to look up and see what time it is, but my neck aches so badly, so I don't. Instead I cast a quick glance out over the town, my eyes skimming over every burning house and all the little people looking up at me. And I gaze at my feet, urging them on with every step I take. Left then right, left then right, continue the cycle, face your fears.

But I have no fears. I am not afraid.

Still?

I touch the glimmering glass of the clock and I wonder. I wonder for a moment why it's so bright when the night is so dark, when the stars aren't even shining and the moon is gone, like they're all hiding. I wonder why its tick-tocking seems to mock me, as if it's calling my name and sneering at me, saying, You've lost the battle, you've lost everyone you love, and now you've lost yourself. I wonder, just for a moment, why this clock has the nerve to look so peaceful and glittery and pristine -- so completely, utterly, neat -- when everything else is just as flagitious and tumultuous and reprehensible and bad as it's ever been. Maybe worse so. And how can anything seem to be perfectly in order when nothing is the same, nothing is right? How can time continue to tick its procession around existence, aging people and making things grow and die and wither and bloom? How can time possibly keep on going when so much is lost?

These are the thoughts I think in my last moments, I suppose. Thoughts that will never have an answer.

I get to the railing and take a deep breath, trying to refill my lungs as easily as I can without bending over with my hands on my knees. Or falling flat on my back. Once more I lift my gaze to the crowd now gathered at the foot of this building and I see them. Everyone I've spent so long protecting, and everything my life has been centered around for so many years. They're all there, here. I see Barnable and his wife -- but where's his son? -- and Mrs. Whitley from the bakery and Anthony Shutmire from the shoe store down the street and sweet little old Jennifer Wilkes who lives with her fifteen grandchildren in one home. I see the young Charlotte clutching her mother's hand, and Charlotte's best friend Tabitha holding tight to Charlotte. Old Man Goldstein scowls at the ground and his grandson grabs onto his legs, sitting on his feet to avoid the snow. I see the children have stopped playing for once, but I notice other things, now, as well. In the face of the woman who lives four houses down from mine, I see Donna, her fiery red hair and her nocuous, sharp tongue and clear, bold eyes. In the posture of the young man whose son died recently in the last attack, I see Mikey Smith, and in his wife I see Martha. They adhere to each other like they're each's last link to life. In the wispy white hair of the elderly gentleman who dresses up as Santa Clause for the children every year, I see Wilfred: his scruffy face and saddened, tired and kind eyes. In the dark trench coat of the man in the crowd with his arm protectively around a shivering woman, I see Captain Jack Harkness; I see chivalry and loyalty. In the blonde hair on a woman pacing in the center of the throng, I see Rose. And I see Clara, dear, sweet Clara. She stares up at me with fear written in the stone of her mask, and my hearts drop. Dear, sweet Clara.

"Sorry," I call up to the sky without looking. I know they hear me, because the whooshing of air that had just been pummeling me from all sides has suddenly come to a halt. "I'm a bit slow. I may not be at my best right now." A soft, humorless chuckle escapes my throat.

From high in the clouds, I hear a booming, electronic voice say emotionlessly, "You are dying, Doctor." I grimace slightly, and finally look up at the midnight blue sky. Giant ships surround the clock tower. Ships of numerous species, none of which like me. The largest, out of which comes this voice, is directly in front of me, about thirty meters above my head. It's huge. They've outdone themselves this time, the daleks have. The stars have come out at last, I notice, though there is no moon. They twinkle in turn as my gaze falls on them each. Something about the way they shine is familiar, as if they were all trapped in the eyes of someone I once knew. Someone I once lost. And now they're free to shine in the sky for the whole world to see. Presently, I listen. They're whispering. In the battle for life, time always wins. Are you time, or aren't you?