Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Whistler's Mother

Clara’s eyes blink open on the familiar feeling of wax crusting one’s eyelids. Well, familiar if your name is Clara Oswald and you’ve recently recalled a prior incident in which you were dipped in red goo then set under a cloche and adored like a macabre candy statue in a Willy Wonka-themed Victorian rocket facility.

She moves her eyes, a bit here, a bit there, trying to shake her eyelids free enough to see.

She tests her fingers by trying to curl them- yep, still encased in stuff.

At least her toes are wiggle-able in her shoes…

A sound draws her though, out and to the left.

She looks up, suddenly noticing the facts of the environment; she’s in a living room- that much she can see inside her waxy prison. She peers downward, straining her eyeballs against the thick wax.

She sees her body, seated in a rocking chair. There are wrinkles on her fingers, sorry, the wax covering her fingers, she mentally edits. There are lacy things, bits of neck-corner and sleeve and womanly articles. The dress on the figure she’s trapped in is black and long, reaching to her feet. There appears to be a… she cranes her eyes till they hurt, and manages a glimpse of her reflection in the gleam of a sword hanging above an austere mantelpiece… yes!

It’s the figure of an old woman in a bonnet, grandmotherly type. You know, she thinks… stiff… unyielding… somebody her current Doctor could have been if he’d had certain endowments…

And what’s that across the room, on a little round clawfoot table? Why, it’s a…

“Pmm!” she murmurs, fighting to get her tongue to move behind the thick layers of wax.

“Pmm!”

As she watches, the bit of gingham set over the object on the table slips off, and a break appears in the revealed pie, pushing upward like a seedling.

What pops up from the pie is a little hand, wrapped around a pink wand decorated with a big heart in the middle and topped with a pillowed crown.

“Mm! Nw uv see nebprethng…” Clara mutters through the wax, “Hey! Canyu srtch my noz?”


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