this is for may. i know it's really short and to be honest it's probably pretty shit but i know i pissed you off today and i'm sorry, kay? :)

I spent my childhood dreaming. Dreaming of the stars, of the skies, and, most of all, of my imaginary friend. The Raggedy Doctor, I called him. My Raggedy Doctor. He wasn't really my imaginary friend, though, that's just what everyone else said. Imaginary friends can't be real. And my Raggedy Doctor was as real as real can be. But convincing the psychiatrists of that fact wasn't easy.

It didn't stop me from insisting every single last bit of it was real, though. Nothing could ever stop me remembering that night when his big blue box crashed into my back garden and a man, one so absolutely insane, stepped out of it and ate fish custard. He told me my name was like a name in a fairytale, and I'd always wanted fairytales to come true. It seemed just like a fairytale, that night, when he came to examine the crack in my wall and told me to wait 5 minutes, just 5 minutes for him to come back in his time machine that had a swimming pool in the library and then take me away from the boring english Leadworth. But it wasn't a fairytale. Because fairytales always have happy endings. And he didn't come back for me.

They said it was just a dream, that he wasn't real, because how could that ever really happen? It was all in a little girl's head with too big an imagination.

I never ever stopped believing. Even when I decided to grow up, because I realised that people, even people that don't seem like people, never really come back. I changed my name to Amy, got rid of the fairytales surrounding me (though I always kept those drawings), and moved on. At least, I moved on a bit. I had a sort of boyfriend, though he always said that I made the whole thing up, and had a fairly normal life. A scottish girl in an english village who lived just like everyone else. It was simple.

I'd had 12 years of psychiatrists. 12 years of wishing and dreaming and all along slowly losing my belief in fairytales. But I never really stopped being little Amelia Pond who placed all her trust in that Raggedy Man who turned up in her back garden and broke her shed.

So when I saw him in that hallway, as raggedy and as real as the night I first saw him 12 years ago, what could I do but hit him with a cricket bat? That does seem like the proper way to start a fairytale, after all.