It was his entire fault. He sliced his flesh on the knife again. Gallifrey was gone and it was his fault. He watched the blood ooze down his arm. He liked the pain; it felt right. Because it was his entire fault; everyone's deaths were his fault.

He had cut himself before. Tons of times before. Because he liked the silvery glint of the small knife, and the blood falling down his arm. He liked the feeling of when he was done. When the blade left his arm he was so happy. Happy knowing that it was his blood; not someone else's.

He let the knife slip from his hand and watched it fall to the ground with a thud; splattering his blood on the white carpet of his room. Satisfied, he pulled his sleeve down and washed his hands.

Walking to the carpet he bent down and picked the knife up, it was still red from the blood. He was done, and he didn't like leaving it out for a wandering companion to find.

He slipped the knife in its case. It would be used again.

And he was gland.

He stepped out of the hallway to be greeted by Oswald.

"You ok?" she asked cautiously "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Yes! Fine, Perfect! Actually, we're going right now! California 1987!" The Doctor exclaimed excitedly.

If anyone saw him they would say he's happy. But he's not. Because every moment his soul is being stabbed with a knife.

And he likes it.