Because I was insanely bored. And hopelessly teary-eyed.

You've always been one for talking. Never that good at listening to the things you need to hear, only accepting the choices you want made.

It's the human part that makes you do it, forces the ignorance of all the warning signs.

Ignore the big red beast whose face is engraved in the eyes of the Ood, the irises of a man you could not save, it's voice tickling your nightmares. Ignore the old woman whose frailty is her strength, who has an empire to run while you play with time and men who fancy themselves as the creator of dreams. Ignore the truth that stretches out from the tongue of the woman who carried you, fought for you, even when you ripped your way out of her in fits of blood and breakable pain nineteen years ago…well, twenty for her.

You ignore the scars of your life masking over hers.

Because you've found something that's good and honest and true and wonderful and golden and beautiful - it makes you special. And it doesn't involve folding purple sweaters or flashing bus tickets at irate drivers.

You were doing something that no one else in the world was doing. Heck, you weren't even on it. You were above it, below it, away from it, the puny little mass of marble green and blue, swirling in between the blackness of what you liked to call 'home'.

Before you, it was called 'loneliness'.

But that same blackness was robbing you of your humanity. Every day, a little more of it slipped away, adding tothe paradox of a London girl who didn't belong there anymore.

But that's alright since you aren't even on the same planet anymore. It's not your earth. Or Mickey's or Mum's or Dad's. It didn't even recognise your existence until now when you brazenly pushed open the doors of a new Torchwood, one that won't destroy this little globe of oceans and heartbreak. Because you were there now and you've always been the person who made things happen.

You made him happen. You made him die. In all manner of speaking.

You were the Bad Wolf. He died once to make you human again. You broke your vow and sentenced him back to the blackness you made home.

The human part of you let go.

Stubbing pink flesh, little markets of bacteria that flex and uncurl after biting into your sweat-stained palms couldn't hold on. Brass, metal, plastic…it seemed shiny enough. But it was too slippery, too greasy to grasp onto.

Just like him.

It seems only fair that you should have died then, vanishing into the void after he offered himself up for all the little gems and treasures of a single world that was once yours. Only not, because then people you love would cry and cry and cry, hearts swelling with the emotion you know all too well.

Because it lies there in jags and splitters in your limp hands. And your fingers can't hold them. But you can't drop them, either.

Slice.

Another one bites the dust.

Crack.

Oooooh, I don't think the bone was meant to curve like that.

Snap.

Break, break, break…just like your heart has been doing for the past couple of weeks.

Traitors should have their tongues ripped out. Only their fingers and so they can't talk obviously. But they can lie…and hold onto things. Let them go too. And your can't forgive them for that.

So smash them, pound them against a mirror and let them pay penance in silvery flashes of pain. They'll heal after being stuffed and outrageously pampered in mounds of white bandages anyway with treatment that an empirical world can offer. No discounts for someone severed from her home though.

You're only as cheap as the labels on your clothes.

You wonder what the girl with pigtails, the girl brought up to drink on stories of the most wonderful man in the world would think if she knew she would one day let go. Probably be unsurprised at the most. When your dead father stares back at you from the photo album for years, you realise there's no such thing as fairytales and happy endings. You grow up a little more.

Brown, brown eyes, russet in the sunlight…they told lies but also spread truth too. They spoke volumes…yes? Volumes to drown you, sugar-coat your gaze with fancies that cast out those voices of doubt as mere illusions.

Mickey's were too dark by half. They never lied.

But you didn't mind the lies as long as there was still someone there to actually lie to you.

Tell me a story, sing me a lullaby, hold my hand…just don't let go…

He told you that you died. And for a split second, you believed him. You were glad. You thought that you'd gone forever and that would explain the desolation wrapped up in your soul, it would explain the impossible, the unthinkable, because you couldn't possibly go on existing in another sphere of reality without another lie to cling onto.

Then he added on the 'your world' bit. And you shattered. Because he reached in, took out the truth and layered it out onto the table for you to see. And it scorched through and through.

There was no one to cover your ears.

He was so right. You were dead in the correct world. This one is so wrong, wrong, wrong. Because it doesn't have him in it. And your fingers are now broken, lied useless in the blood. And now it's your turn to lose something while your mother gains one more…and it's always been the other way round before.

Karma can go screw itself. The universe do unto you what you do unto it. Perhaps it values survival and mortgages too much.

Your name doesn't litter your own dreams anymore. And sometimes you wonder if another blue box will appear in this different world with the same man but a different face. Would you go? You would be a stranger to this dimension's last Time Lord…but it would be a last sliver of hope to cling onto. The last faintest chance of finding another hole to pour yourself into and weld into the right Tardis.

But what if you break the stranger? What if the stranger holds your hand too warmly, too fondly? Can you break the same man twice?

Your mother was right. You were becoming something inhuman. An alien to the right world.

Perhaps you'll fit in here just fine then. A new life, fresh start.

But it means nothing without the lies.