Andrew opens his eyes to soft, purple seas. The sun hasn't risen yet. He gets up, feeling his skin crackle like dried leaves. He looks down to see a fine layer of salt has caked over him. When he goes to put on his clothes, they are crusty too.

It’s the salt of the sea, he realizes. The ocean is prepping me for breakfast.

He hears splashing coming from behind him, and freezes. Can it be some creature climbing out from the depths to take him? No. That's silly. Andrew turns around. There's nothing there, but a few feet behind his raft the water is breaking. Something is struggling.

It takes Andrew a second longer to remember what he did the previous day.

The lines!

He shoots up from his bed of rumpled clothes and races over to the back of his raft to check, all aches and discomforts forgotten. True enough, when he gets there Andrew finds one of the lines taut. He scrambles to grab hold of it, picking at it with his nails, trying to wriggle a finger under it, but the line is too flush against the wood. All the soaking has thinned it into wire. And it seems ready to snap at any moment.

Andrew gives up on plucking and plunges his arms straight into the water, grabbing a free section of the line further down. He pulls, coloring the water with his cut fingers.

There is a crisp splash as from the blue surface, a glistening fish emerges. With a cry of triumph and disbelief, Andrew hauls the creature onto the deck. The fish hits the wood and starts to dance, silver light flashing across its triangular scales.

Andrew sits back and stares. It really is a fish. A real, living thing. No bigger than the palm of his right hand, it seems to take up his world until he can see nothing else but this floundering, gasping animal.

The creature stops moving. Now lying on its side, one of its black eyes roll towards Andrew. It stares back at him.

Andrew turns away, suddenly nauseous. He knows it's stupid, but he can't help feeling like the fish is accusing him. It’s as if he hadn't pulled only the fish out of the water, but all the terrible secrets he'd been hiding from the world.

Andrew tries to laugh it off.

You're being stupid. It's just a fish. It doesn't even have a soul.

Andrew turns back to the dying creature. It's still looking at him with its single unblinking eye. He steps closer. He imagines what it may feel like to crush the creature's skull under his foot, to end a life for his own satiation.

Fish have no souls, he assures himself as he hovers his foot over the creature's head. Not even the Doctor will experiment on them.

The sea is still. Silent. Watching.

Andrew steps away, falls to his knees. He can't do it. He's already done too much already. He can't harm another creature. He reaches out to the fish, scooping it up in his hands and holding it to the light.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"I'm sorry," he says to it. "I'll get you home."

He moves towards the ocean. As he does, sunrays color the side of the fish and it makes him pause.

For something with no soul, Andrew sees within its sleek form an utter perfection that steals his breath away. From its pointed mouth to its sail-like fins, the fish is a living silvery arrow, a creature whose sole purpose is to move effortlessly in its domain.

Andrew's eyes well with tears. He steps to the raft’s edge and holds out his hands, ready to drop the fish back into its realm.

But he doesn't. Something inside his gut starts to twist. Deep. Painful. Saliva floods into his cheeks as a sour weakness vibrates from the innermost pits of Andrew's stomach, shuddering through his body with a single, primal fact:

Hungry.

Andrew brings his hands back from the raft's edge. He looks down at the fish, and bites into it.

The fish starts to thrash. Andrew feels sharp fins slapping against his cheek. He sinks harder into rubbery flesh, ripping into wet sinew and finally, flesh.

Sweet, cold, flesh.

Andrew tears out a stringy chunk with a violent jerk of his head. He swallows without chewing. Fire trails down his throat from the fish’s scales and he vows to chew the next bite. He doesn't. He rips, swallows. The fish has stopped moving. Andrew's teeth close around its head. He bites, crunching bone. Hot goo sprays against the walls of his mouth. He wants to stop. He wants to vomit. But hunger demands. And he is its slave. Andrew gnashes his teeth, hearing the crunch and popping of bones vibrating into his own head.

He swallows hard, tasting blood.

When the ordeal is at last over, Andrew tosses the fish's intestines aside and crawls over to the edge of the raft. He washes the gore on his face and hands, keeping his gaze averted from his reflection. He doesn’t want to look at what he’s done, the aftermath of his horrific crime.

But then he decides, no. He must look. He must face the consequences or else he will never get to land. The truth is clear. If he's going to live long enough to get back home or find a new one, he's going to have to eat, and kill. So the sooner he comes to terms with it, the less torture it will be.

So he looks. And to his surprise, he sees that the water is already clear. The ocean has washed away the blood from his hands and left no traces behind.

Staring at his reflection, Andrew watches as his own face contorts in pain. The sun is finally rising, bleaching the sea in red and yellow. He leaves the water's edge, and swallowing the bile bubbling at the back of his throat, goes to find the fish's remains.

Andrew expects to feel revolted at the sight of the pile of purple and black guts, but looking at them in the light he just feels sorrow.

“Are you satisfied?” He asks out loud to the silent waves. "Is this the result you wanted?"

The silence angers Andrew. He feels all the sadness inside him dry up. He scoops up the guts and throws the remains high into the air. They scatter, plopping into the sea in clumps.

“Are you not satisfied? Look at all this death and blood! Are you not satisfied with what you made me do?”

Andrew hears his own voice echoing back to him. It sounds broken, helpless. His throat burns from where the fish must’ve scratched him. But his anger is so present, so fresh, just like the fish was.

Shame colors Andrew's vision. It drowns out everything else until all he wants to do is scream or break something or both.

His eyes land on the button hook.

There it is, the cause of his misery. Such a tiny thing, capable of bringing death.

He slams his foot onto it.

The hook presses into the sole of his boots but doesn’t puncture through. Even if it did, Andrew will not have stopped. He jumps onto it with both feet, feeling the hook snap. He kicks at the pieces, sending them all into the ocean.

Breathing heavily, he sits, and whispers at the dark waves lapping at his feet, “Are you satisfied now?”

But no one answers him.

Andrew lies down. He closes his eyes.

No, whatever gods are keeping him alive will not be satisfied with just this. There will be more, he knows, for he deserves nothing less than to suffer for the horrors he inflicted on the world.

He only wishes that the Doctor is suffering the same fate as he is.

As he thinks this, Andrew feels his skin bringing to burn. His throat stings too much for him to ignore any longer. So he gets up and looks around for something to drink, a drop of water in the wasteland of blue that surrounds him.