November 26, 2014
Time Can Be Rewritten
It was colder than normal today. The wind was howling as snow began to fall. I’ve got to get back home quickly. She crossed the busy London street, avoiding the crowds as she made her way to her third story flat in the heart of the City. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea as her: get home, fast. It was too cold to be out and about, even for England. It had been a colder winter than normal; no one seemed to be able to explain it. “It’s almost as if it’s not from this world,” people would joke. Melody didn’t want to say anything, but she knew they were right. This weather was too abnormal for Earth. She had been to other places before, but that was a long time ago, before she lost her husband. I hate these stairs. There are way too many of them. I wish that blasted landlord would fix the lift. She entered her flat, frantically pulling off her hat, scarf, and overcoat. She let her unruly hair out of its prison and shook her head to free the silver curls. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She had aged so quickly, more quickly than she had expected. The lines around her eyes had always been there, but they were deeper now. She concentrated on her eyes. Like the rest of her body, her eyes were changing. The once bright amber eyes had dimmed with the loss of her husband. He lit up her world, he was the sole reason she existed. She had been born for one purpose: to kill the love of her life. Silly, looking back on it now, she never believed any different before she had met him. But that was how she was brought up. She was raised, trained almost, to be a psychopath. Kill him—that was her only mission in life, but when the moment came, she couldn’t do it. She saw how fragile and kind he really was and suddenly her whole life was a lie. The man she was born to hate had now become the man she would love for the rest of her life. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Just a minute!” Melody hurried to the door, revealing a man. He was redheaded, and looked funny, and he seemed to have picked his wardrobe out of a trash bin.
“Hello, Ms. Pond,” the redheaded man explained, “My name is Smith. I’m a local reporter, just collecting stories on this strange weather we’re having. It seems almost other worldly doesn’t it?” There was something about this funny little man that triggered a memory, but it couldn’t be, he was dead. She watched him die. She held him in her arms as his life drained out of him. She knew he could change faces, but this couldn’t be him. Then again, Smith was one of his common aliases. Could it be him? Surely not.
“I’m so sorry; who did you say you were again?”
“Smith. John Smith, at your service.,” he gave a little bow, “Reporter for the Telegraph.”
“Yes, what would you like to know, Mr. Smith?”
“This weather we’ve been experiencing, have you noticed anything different about it? Other than the fact that it’s colder than normal.”
“Well, not really,” she lied, “Nothing seems to be out of place for me.”
“Are you sure?” the funny man questioned, tilting his head. He had been fiddling with something in his pocket, but she couldn’t make out what it was. It almost looked like a screwdriver. That was silly, wasn’t it? What use does a reporter have for a screwdriver? No, it was just in her imagination.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, will you excuse me? I have company in the den.”
“Yes, by all means, go ahead. If you think of anything else, give me a ring.” He handed her his card. All it said was Hello Sweetie, and it was the bluest blue she had ever seen. She ran to the window. It was him! She didn’t know how or why, but there was no escaping it now. She was the only one that ever greeted him that way, and there was no denying the bluest blue. She turned off her television and listened closely. Screech, groan, screech!!! The biggest smile broke out on her face. It was him. Her Doctor.
“Hello Sweetie, oh how I’ve missed you!”
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