The Doctor, in considering his bare feet while the rest of him trails from the Assassin’s hand by way of wrist, feels as though his eyes will explode. Both hearts are thrumming in his chest, humming slightly out of time like an engine about to stall. “Can you hurry it up,” he whines, dabbing his foot in his own blood for fun and spreading it behind them every so often. It’s like Hansl and Gretl for grown-ups, he tells himself steadfastly as his vision whites back and forth again in a to and fro fog, only with a blue box instead of a house and a nicer bitey mad lady who would never consider children good eating.
The Assassin drags on, one of the Doctor’s arms over his shoulder now. He calls back to his prize, but the Doctor blacks out again, his punishment a vicious jerk of the Assassin’s arm which sends him sprawling.
“What are you doing? Wake up, you useless animal. Wake up or I’ll gut your wife.”
At this the Doctor smiles. “Oh go ahead- but…you won’t…enjoy it much, I’m afraid. She was taught to skin… to… skin… small animals as a child. Bit of… bit of negligence in her upbringing…” Despite his weaving in and out, he slides a shaking hand across his throat in a slicing motion, and his lips curl in a nasty grin.
A foot finds the wound in his side and kicks. The Doctor archs his body at odd angles, aiming for a corner of wall, and crumples in a heap like a wet newspaper.
“Be quiet! Fucking sod. You are a non-entity!” yells the man who is dragging him down passage after exhausting passage.
But still, he smiles, whispering, “Are we there yet?”
The Assassin stops, reaches down.