Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

The Bezoar

Jennifer’s Dream.

She wakes to wood splinters jutting over her head.

She tries to feel the others, but the call of the unity of the Flesh is lost in the din from some dark place just in front of her. Crying out, she breaks upward, clawing the moldy wet splinters of wood away from her face.

Her body is square, formed in the shape of…

A box.

She climbs out, reaching with the fearsome strength she found inside the Factory, scraping and grasping and clawing with great white limbs and long nightmare fingers.

There is a man she recognizes in the mist beyond her vision.

A man with a curl of rabbit hair obscuring half his face. A man pretending to be an idiot half-trying to be kind.

“You wear that mask like you made it,” she whispers, as a stalactite falls from the ceiling.

So they are both in the cave, then.

The man does not answer, only holds out a hand like chicken legs and grabs at her wrist.

She feels his fingers clutch around her liquid bones.

He tugs her along after him, coat flying out in a scholarly portent of tweed and suspenders.

A piece of her breaks free, spilling away from her shoulder in little taffy pulls.

The lake rises up before her again, beckoning, from her memory.

Her feet are small again.

She can feel the warmth of her little red boots.

“Help me, somebody! Help me?” her youngest voice cries out to him.

There are tears welling in his pale green eyes as he holds her close to him, plasters a kiss against her frosted hair, then shoves her head under the icy water.

Her eyes slide shut on a single thought.

“It’s so warm here… so warm…”

Above the ice, the nauseous wet glomp of someone throwing up fails to reach her ears, but she hears it anyway.


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