When I woke up, I was on the roof, and the sun wasn't exactly in the sky. I had a giant fucking headache, and I groaned, turning and pushing myself up so I could sit up. Looking around, I saw the Master pacing, on his phone. He looked... pale. Shaken. Sweaty. I wondered idly if he was going through withdrawals. It made sense that he was doing drugs. No one could have that much fun without drugs. I wondered why he stopped.

Glancing around, I picked up a water bottle and drank it slowly, stopping when my stomach felt full enough. Seeing as I was only mildly dehydrated now, the only real issue was that it felt like I had gotten black-out drunk. Did I, I wondered, observing the Master. How'd he get here? Did he teleport? Or use his TARDIS? He had a TARDIS, he was the Master. Maybe he tracked me... I last was in the small... room thing... that wasn't a room, though. I was directly above a three-story drop, I'd have had to swing to even be able to get back onto the second floor, which the Master wouldn't be able to get to with how big he was. I stood up after making sure I wasn't near any edges- I was next to the window of the janitor's closet for the roof or whatever- so I was safe. Standing up slowly, I blink a few more times, before taking another shallow sip of the water bottle.

I'd need my backpack, it held my wallet, and I needed that for orientation. Climbing into the window, I wander to the second floor, occasionally taking sips of water and steadying myself against a wall when I needed it. Managing to get my backpack and get back to the roof, I'm not prepared to be crushed in a hug, and stand there limply for a long moment.

"How...?"

"It's only been two hours," The Master answered incorrectly, "It's only two. Your orientation starts at five."

"No..." I shook my head, pushing away and grimacing as I held my head, leaning against the wall containing the window I just crawled out of, "No, how'd- how'd you get here? Jesus, did I get blackout- blackout... drunk or something?" I groaned, "And what do you mean orientation? I don't have that 'till Monday."

"It is Monday," The Master answered, giving me a slightly worried look, "What do you last remember?"

"... Uhhh," I looked at the roof beneath our feet, "I was... on the second floor. I... I- I- I planned on just finding someplace to hide and..." I trailed off before I could finish that, annoyed enough that my words wouldn't come. My stutter was as bad as it was when I was younger, maybe a bit worse. He'd not want to know what I was about to say anyway. No one really wanted to know when someone went to go crawl in a hole and die.

"Die in a hole?" He asked sarcastically.

"... Yeah," I answered quietly, not hearing the sarcasm as I took another drink from my bottle, "The hole- the hole- the hole was hard to get to, and I could barely fit into the entrance, so you couldn't have gotten me out... How... I didn't ask you to come pick me up after finding alcohol or something and going on a week-week-weekend long bender, did I? Surely I'd know better-"

"I called you. For two hours. You answered, but you weren't in your right mind. I don't think you could think for long enough to recall your plans to die," The Master answered flatly, not sounding very happy. His voice was too loud, and each syllable he spoke shot pain through my head.

"Ngh," I whimpered, "Right, probably not. Last time I tried, I took too much Benadryl and wasn't able to cut-cu-TT my throat in time, the cops arri-arri-arrived before I was fully dead, n'stopped me from it simply by giving me... Ssss..." What was the word? "Simple orders... Prob'ly not the smartest when- when my mind is pretty much out of commision," I muttered, forgetting the word I was looking for and not realizing I was speaking of the other timeline, and that I had, in fact, never been caught by the police in this life, nor taken the mixture of Benadryl-soda and tried slicing up my arms or anything.

"Last time?" The Master's voice was harder, and hurt my head way more.

I whined, "Nooo don't- don't speak like that- speak softly... Like a pi-pillow," I continued, voice light, and I knew I sounded like I had just done a fuck ton of drugs.

"Last time?" The Master asked, tone the same less hurting voice as he used before.

"Yyyeah," I nodded, before grimacing and stopping, "Yeh. The- the- flashlights- the beams sometimes still visit me n'my dreams. The pattern- they- they found me there," I pointed at the boarded up door that the other fire escape passes, "N'then they- they boarded it up- I... I couldn't get back in fo'awhile, but they- the- no one cares too much, so it's'kay."

"Is that where these marks came from? You tried cutting yourself?" The Master asked, and I noticed the lines on my arms. I stood up and observed them for several long moments.

"No," I said seriously, voice sounding more sober than I'd been in the entirety of the past few days, apparently, "No, these... I predicted these... Came..." I took another long drink of water and leaned back against the wall. Okay. No standing for me, then, "No, these came- came from me almost- Oh," I stared blankly at the Master as the last few days came into focus. Right, "Oh."

"What?"

"I rememb'r. They- I don't have a knife... I should get one when I get enough money to," I look at the nice blue clouds. No. White clouds. I look at the beautiful blue sky, white fluffy clouds drifting lackadaisically around on the gentle winds that are probably much more ferocious up there.

"No. You shouldn't. Where'd the marks come from?"

"I almost fell to my death," I admitted, "The- the hole I found, no one would ever have found me until they ripped the- the- the building up. Which they'll not do until like... twenty-twenty-2050." I thought. They had plans to rip it apart after the war that America was preparing to have. The war that the world was planning to have. World Wars typically last three to five years, so... Yeah. Probably 2050, or sometime close to then, if the world didn't die out entirely from what was assuredly going to be nuclear war.

"How'd you get the marks?" He repeated.

"I was... fall. I was about to. I was gonna fall. And I caught myself, but my arms scraped against some rusty metal," I explained, irritated. Didn't I already tell him this? "AAgh! I hate this!" I snapped, holding my head as if that would help, "What the fuck, brain, fucking work, ngh," The Master caught me before I completely collapsed, and gently lowered me to the tar of the roof.

"You'll be okay..." The Master muttered reassuringly as he hugged me to himself. He was trying to reassure only himself.

"You... You do realize that's the exact opposite of what-what-what I want, right," I asked quietly as I wrapped my arms around him. When did they get so thin? Where'd all my muscle mass go? "Plus, the effects of severe dehydration are- well. We- we- we probably already have seen them," My voice was quiet this time out of shocked horror, "Brain damage... Unable to... Unable to... Speak... Right," Paranoia is a sign of lesser dehydration, isn't it? My mind offered up hopefully. It wasn't, but I was kind of paranoid, "Which is worse than death. It's- it's... Eternal torture. I can't- I can barely- I can't. I can't. I can't," I forced out, before ceasing my words. No... My thoughts were fine, surely I could- surely... At the stutter in my own thoughts a feeling of cold washed over me. No. No. No. Please no.

"You'll be okay," The Master repeated, and I decided to listen to him. He was blatantly fucking lying for the both of us, but I decided to listen to him. Maybe it was just what I had before being multiplied by ten thousand because I had done temporary damage. Temporary. Right. Temporary. Yes. That. It was temporary if it was even there. Yes.

In the end it turned out that yes, it was temporary. The severe stuttering, having to force out words, and repetetive thoughts and sentences- as well as the jerking and muscle-tensing that came with me being too frustrated at myself- only lasted a week before it went away. After my orientation, where someone thought I had been mocking them until I stuttered and forced and keened out an explanation, unable to feel embarassment for my situation, the Master took me to the hospital, and they checked me out. I did have brain damage, surprise surprise, but the doctor said it was very minor and would heal, and heal it did.

It was annoying as fuck that it was the thoughts-to-words part of the brain that got damaged, I mused, but it also confirmed that I had some other undiagnosed mental illness, seeing as my muscles and actions weren't damaged at all, according to the doctor. Probably a low level of autism, if the way I acted as a kid, and the muscle-movements and hand-flapping when I got too excited were anything to say. It didn't make me feel any better, though. I sucked at everything, weren't autistic kids supposed to be awesome super-heroic or villainous masterminds in one specific area, or had I been lied to? Why'd I get the bad end of all deals? Not to mention it being the worst week of my fucking life as my probably-autism-but-certainly-not-normal-meltdowns came and never fucking went. I was sure if I hadn't choked myself to keep myself from being too loud, the entire school would have heard my screams of rage.

My parents didn't know about it, and everyone was curious as to why I had been so fucking silent, but if they tried getting me to speak I fucking left to have a spaz attack elsewhere, outside at KillerKye's Hiking Trail where no one would be able to find me for at least a few hours, if they even bothered to look. Which they didn't. At school, since there were no tests, I just didn't go to any classes and remained in the Master's office, ignoring the worried looks when I'd run out to freak the fuck out and break anything in view. Typically my episodes ended with the Master holding me down to prevent me from hurting myself in some classroom that had been dark when I went in and me keening and crying as I struggled and shook. Sometimes the teacher of the classroom walked in, sometimes they didn't. I hated when they did, because then the Master would have to explain, and I'd be seen as a pitycase.

When it was over, and I knew it was fucking over because I could feel it, somehow, I still didn't leave the Master's care for the next few days, even though it was the weekend and I didn't really have work on the weekends for a while. I couldn't stop shaking for a long, long time. On Monday, when I woke up at three in the morning and wandered aimlessly around until the Master woke up at three-thirty, I was back to normal entirely.

"Safe to say I have an unhealthy dependency on my own intelligence and my ability to speak said intelligence," I admitted as he ate cereal and I ate an apple, "I kind of understand a lot more about myself, because fuck not being able to speak my thoughts. That fucking sucked." He hummed, mouth full as I had planned it to be. Before he could respond in words, I continued, "Um, anyway, now that I'm done being selfish and freaking out over the inability to speak," I tried ignoring how my hands were twitching and how my leg was shaking up and down rapidly as I tried getting a grip on the last week of way-too-strong emotions that I was now terrified to experience ever again. "Are you okay? You had to, um, hold me- er..." I paused when I realized I had an acute terror of being held down now. Hm. That was one hundred percent the seven sinful dickfaced kid's and Monica's fault, though, "You kind of got the brunt of my probably-Special freak outs. You don't- you aren't like bruised too badly or anything, are you?"

The Master, having finished chewing and swallowing his mouthful of food, stared at me for a while, and I couldn't look at him. I was extremely and acutely ashamed of every single fucking thing he'd witnessed and helped me through. I hated myself so much, but I realized that I'd rather hate myself and be able to speak than be unable to speak and go full-out Special and freak out every other hour, unable to prevent myself. Taking deep breaths and thinking through everything that'd happened throughout the week, I felt grateful to the man across from me for sticking with some kid he probably shouldn't have felt so responsible for and caring more than even my own fucking parents did. I ignored the realization that my parents would've cared had I just been kinder to them in the very beginning. I ignored the hurt that my own actions gave me.

"It's over?" He asked, "You're sure?"

"Entirely, now," I admitted, "The uh. I guess the brain damage thing was seperate from the freak outs? Sorry. Sorry. I um. Yeah. Probably on the spectrum somewhere or am secretly retarded or something. But yeah. Now that I have my uh, speech back the um... The everything... Really... Is over."

"I already knew they were seperate," The Master pointed out almost casually, gesturing his spoon at me, "But you have better control over your emotions now that you can tell the world to go fuck itself again?"

I shake my head, "I'm like, one hundred percent sure this has been the worst week of my life, but yeah. My psychotic breakdown is over... Honestly if I didn't have work I'd probably have requested to be put in a mental hospital," At his curious look I shrugged, "Not only would they possibly diagnose whatever the fuck I have that made me a total savage in all the wrong ways, but I'd be drugged so heavily that I'd not be able to read a clock without staring at it for ten minutes, and probably would be put down before I could hurt anyone or myself," I shrugged again, "I mean, not to say that I like them overly much, but they're better than pretty much everywhere else I could've gone, simply because there were people pretty much trained to calm down crazies."

"You're not crazy," He refuted as he finished another bite.

"Don't bother," I said dryly, "Every single person that knows me and every single person that doesn't says and thinks I am, including you, and including myself. I presumed I was more Joker-crazy than uh... Special-crazy, but whatever."

"Joker is special-crazy," The Master deadpanned. I couldn't see his expression, as I was observing my apple very, very, very intensely. Like it was a communist and I was a Fed trying to gain information and impress JFK with it when he came to Texas.

"Yes, but he doesn't flap his hands or flail when he gets too happy or excited, doesn't seem to have intense paranoia, and can probably control his murderous rage so he doesn't... Flail some more, I suppose," I shrugged, "Er, anyway, what I'm trying to say," I continue quickly, "Is thank you. For... For even bothering, I guess."

I'm surprised at how genuine and stunned my own voice sounds to my ears. It was true, though, and I was rather dumbfounded that someone who I had previously thought only cared about me as a worker stood with me and tried his best to help me when I was so far beyond fucked up that I couldn't even recognize myself enough to hate myself. Just the thought that anyone would look at me specifically and go out of their own fucking way, getting themselves hurt too, to help some fucked up nobody that did that to themselves. Like, you see it in movies all the time, some druggy-movie or some angsty romance- or even horror, and sometimes just plain sad movies- they all have shit like that. Hell, some lighthearted romance movies have that as its exact premise. Some fucked up chick actually manages to find some dude to take care of them and the dude somehow falls in love or whatever. Cheesy shit. Totally unrealistic. But what happened here? Some dude meeting this chick, befriending her, and then watching her fuck her own shit up and actually hanging about to help her? It actually fucking happened, and just the thought of that floors me. Human kindness... I suppose I'll never be able to understand it, since I now know exactly what fucking happens if I get any emotions stronger than slightly there. I'll never understand how someone can look at someone and so completely be with them that they'd stick with them even as they choked themselves to stop the inhumane shrieks from escaping their throats and tried calming them down so they didn't hurt themselves. Like fuck man. Like really, seriously, wow. Wouldn't be ironic if somewhere this actually was fiction, and I was just amazed at another thing that was entirely fake? That I was surprised at some fictional action while the world tore itself apart and humans only took care of each other when they're super fucked up if it was their jobs? ... Yeah, that'd be ironic.

It's real to me, though, I think, finally ending my visual inquisition of the half-eaten apple and looking up to see the Master giving me a strange look. I didn't understand it.

"I'm sure your brother or sister would have done the same, if they knew what was going on," The Master deflected.

I scoffed, "Want to know exactly what would have happened if I had done- here, think of the calmest freak out I had. Only threw like three things, calmed down pretty quickly, stutter wasn't too bad. That- If I had done that at home, not only would my siblings avoid me like I had the plague, I'd be getting yelled at, I'd be unable to leave or curl up to try and contain myself, and if I so much as flailed a bit too hard the cops would have been called and I'd have been taken away- not to jail, not to a simple mental hospital, no. I'd have been sent to the state mental hospital," I explained very carefully, "My youngest brother, Donovan, is retarded. He has freak-outs- not as... Erm, colorful, as mine, but one of his worst matched up to one of my best, because he doesn't understand, and my parents and siblings simply... Don't understand that he's human too, so they treat him... Very, very, very bad..." I take a moment to grimace. Oops. I did that too. Fuck I felt so bad now, "And uh, well. Seeing as I'm not a seven or eight year old, my freak outs would get me sent to a permanent ward, and um..." I shook my head and shrugged. How could one exactly explain that my "quick recovery" wouldn't be taken too well? That I'd be trapped there until any shred of will left to live would be taken or drugged away, that I'd never be able to leave because they'd assume I was just faking it to get out? Oh man, mental hospitals were so fucked up, especially for children, because- because they didn't even get legal rights to know anything about their own fucking case.

"I'm guessing America's mental hospitals work just as shite as its justice system?" The Master asked.

"... Well. Worse," I admitted, "Um. Really if I were sent to a permanent ward it'd be over. Like, game over. No three rolls to get out. No fifty bucks. Nada. No one would be able to take me out, and I'd no longer have any guardians no matter my age. I'd be a ward of the state until the day I died, and I'd be drugged so fucking badly that I'd be able to read a children's book seven hundred times in a row and still not know what happens next... It's um. I'm exaggerating a bit," I shrugged at his passively observant gaze, "They'd obviously not let someone read the same book seven hundred times in a row... Um, there's library rules. You'd have to return the book before then. But it'd just be... Like pre-k... For adults... For the rest of- of life. I'd rather be sent to jail than a permanent ward. Jail is escapable. Wayyy escapable, comparatively."

The Master nodded, and I grimaced as he pushed his half-full bowl away before standing up and tossing the remains- both my apple and his soggy cereal. Right, I guess that's a topic that would make any sane, normal, justice-naive person lose their appetite. Great. He helps me out and I immediately explain to him what should be everyone's greatest fear. Falling ends. Dying stops hurting. You can escape spiders, and holes, and big words, and belly buttons, and everything else. Even jail. American mental hospitals? Especially the permanent wards? Drowning doesn't last forever. It ends quickly. Dying and getting killed and cancer and everything else- it ends quicker than the haunting and looming terror that is eternal pre-k, purgatory, whatever the hell you want to call it.

"Sorry," I said after a bit too long of a moment, both the Master and I near the doorway to leave for school.

"Don't be. I've spoken to your parents- they don't think you've ever been in a mental hospital, or tried killing yourself," The Master commented.

"... Yeah. They- uh, well. I'm- I'm not actually in the system, not fully, until I'm eighteen. So... So I said I was a homeless babyfaced eighteen year old far from home," I lied with a shrug. Not that he'd be able to check, "Sally Smith never existed, and the homeless shelter never received her."

The Master nodded, believing me. Of course he would, why would I lie about being put in a mental hospital? Or trying to kill myself?