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	Short Story 1: Flicker
	- Title: Flicker - Status: Standalone. - Rating: G - Pairings: Irrelevant - Word Count: 620 - Inspiration: The Academy Is - “The Phrase That Pays” - Summary: I'm reminded of those times the world goes monochrome, and the way the red leaks in... - A/N: Thought of this one morning and drafted it out in the library. A POV practice. Copyright Emma Maree Urquhart. I can't handle this. My eyes are staring, seeing, but not believing. The photographs and news clippings are right in front of them, thin paper ghosts of me, but all they do is keep blinking, trying to stretch the moment of darkness between when they're opened and closed. Obscuring the proof with tears. I'm a little embarrassed, but really, it's hard to loose much more dignity when you're bound up in white and left capable only of staggering and screaming. You're there, sitting silent on the window ledge next to all of my memories. Trying not to cry with me, or at the sight of me; things are too blurry to tell. “I'm sick,” I whisper, and nobody argues. “There's something wrong with me.” The silence still agrees. You can't dry your eyes in a straitjacket. The nerves take hold and my foot taps the polished floor rapidly as I looked across to the doctor and scream that I'm asking questions. That I need answers. I have to know. I hear your belt hitting the glass as you flinch, pressing back away from my voice. The visions come flash-fast, the studs cracking the glass and sending you backwards, tumbling down past the floors. When I look, you're still there, but you look so scared I have to try and convince myself you didn't see it too. “Is it serious?” My first question. The Doctor nods, looking calm. A rehearsed mask of serenity, a reassuring mental mantra of “It's okay, he's in a straitjacket”. Behind the façade, I can tell he's terrified, and I relish that. He tells me, “I'm afraid it is”, and I laugh at 'afraid'. “How serious?” I ask, donning the same mask as the doctor. “Will I die?” He says, yes. It'll take you over, break you down, and kill you. You can't do anything about it, except sit back and watch yourself loose control. Blazing black against the clinical white of the ward, you stand and ask the Doctor to leave. As soon as he's out of the door, he starts laughing. You're warm and I'm cold, so I come to your side, curling beside you to steal your warmth. Beyond the glass, the city stretches out behind us. Voices and colours muted. I'm reminded of those times the world goes monochrome, and the way the red leaks in... Then I'm brought back to you and I, black and white. I shudder and fall still as I feel you undoing my straitjacket. Knowing each one of my memories. Every fight and fall out, insult, quip and cruel joke. All the violence, anger and hatred we've shared. You risk it. Outside, everyone now knows me. The whole city is against me. But you're here with me, by my side, the same as always. Right now, I love you so much more than ever before. We sit together against the pane and make plans. Speaking in riddles like we never grew up; caught up in the perfection of the past. This feels like the best time of me life, and I wonder why I couldn't have it before my time began running out. It's almost a cliché moment, but too stupid, because we're both still scared. I'm trapped, and the straitjacket on the floor has my name written all over it (metaphorically speaking. I wouldn't be allowed a pen in case I tried to get high off it and attempted suicide by ink poisoning). I put my fingers to the glass, the thin ice between me and the fall. You lay your hand on mine, then intertwine our fingers and pull me away. “I'll break out,” I promise, and you nod and smile like you already know.
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