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Memory of Yesteryear
Author: Trixie
Disclaimer: blah blah bling, they don't belong to me.
Rating: PG 15
Summary: It's the night after the funeral...
Category: B/A, POV
I think its the night after the funeral when I realize I haven't cried
yet. Not a single tear.
I'm in my room, folding clothes and watching the way the sky glistens with
blackness, as the moon slowly creeps along the horizon. My throat sort of
hurts and so does my skin. But I'm not really feeling anything, just
staring with my empty green orbs at the endless night.
The cracked paint on my windowsill is beginning to irritate me. It looks so
messy, so wrong. It looks like it wouldn't have been that way if Mom was
around. For a moment I gaze at it, and it becomes my whole world. Those
tiny slivers, the peels in the paint… unravelling like threads down my
wall. I should fix it. Slap some coating over it.
As I stand here, the joints of my knee start to sting from being held in
one place too long. And that's when I realize… I haven't cried yet. I think
I must be strange. There must be something wrong with me- not to have wept
and screamed and crawled on wobbly hands and knees into my mother's room…
my hands extended… where are you, Mommy?
But I'm not a baby and I have Dawn to look after. She keeps crying, every
day, all day and the swollenness of her eyes scares me. She looks worried
every time I go and patrol, because she's imagining what it would be like
if I didn't come back. If they found me, split open and blood soaked in
some crypt… run through with a stake by a creature that I am trained to
fight. I've pictured the scene so many times in my head, that it plays
behind my eyelids like a film without sound. Me, dead. Me, resting in a
deep deep sleep. But… Dawnie…alone. That's why I don't let myself become
what I see in my head.
The gang have all been over today. Xander's mother sent a cake. I guess
frosting is supposed to heal all wounds. I ate it all for dinner and then
threw up in the bathroom, my insides heaving and shaking. Dawn must have
heard me. She was in her room listlessly doing homework. While her sister
puked her guts out and then rested her forehead against the cold tiled
floor. It felt sort of good and for a moment I considered becoming bulimic.
I knew it was a crazy thought as soon as I had it. Who just suddenly
decides that they will be a bulimic? But I liked the empty feeling in my
belly. It was nice.
As my hands close over the next piece of clothing to fold, I stop for a
moment and stare at it.
It's one of Mom's nightgowns. She must have thrown it into the hamper a
long time ago and I did the laundry without thinking. My fingers clench and
bunch around the cotton. Lifting it to my nose, I inhale and almost sob in
frustration. It smells like fabric softener. There's nothing left. No
traces of her. Folding it carefully, I lay it on my pillow and decide that
I'll wear it tonight. If I sleep. I still have to patrol and make Dawn's
lunch for tomorrow and read a chapter for English…
A strange hot ache spreads in my limbs. There's a tingle buzzing in my blood.
It creeps up over my stomach and down between my legs… shaking slightly, I
face the doorway and think I hear soft footfalls. A cold knot of ice forms
in my chest, pressing down against the ribs that pierce my skin. I feel
like shouting, "Who's there?", but what do I care anyway? If it's
not Mommy, I don't give a shit.
The door opens and I stare. It's worse than somebody. It's Angel.
"Angel," I say in that inane way I do, and hate myself for it. He
always made me be someone I didn't like. Someone weak and vulnerable. I say
it like a question that needs to be answered, and it does.
"Angel."
He looks at me with those eyes and my gaze sweeps over his beauty with
disinterest. He was always gorgeous, always pale and untouched and
ethereal. "Buffy," he murmurs. "Oh, love…"
No, that's not good. He's being tender. Why is he looking at me like that?
I'm just folding clothes…at 1am. "What are you doing here?" I ask
shortly, without any warmth.
"I found out from Harmony…" he says quietly. "About your
Mom, and I wanted to come and—"
"And what?" I laugh, showing my razor like teeth. "Show your
undying support? Be my rock… save my soul? Oh, well thanks Angel. Thanks so
much."
He doesn't flinch and I think he should be. He should be wincing and his
eyes should be clouding with hurt. Cause that's what I'm doing… hurting
him. Being the Buffy he made me into, when he left and destroyed all my
little dreams. "No response?" I mock, and face him. "Don't
you want me to fall into your arms? Say, thank God that you came… cause it
means so damn much?"
Angel stares at me with hooded eyes and then leans against the wall.
"I don't want you to do anything."
I laugh. And laugh. My stomach hurts, a prickling deep down in my belly.
With horror, I feel the hot sting of tears at the back of my throat and
run, past him, with strong legs, into the bathroom. Slamming the door, I
lean against it and swallow, gulping back the bile and insane tears which
threaten to creep into my mouth. My flesh is itchy, and cold. So cold.
There's a soft knock. "Buffy?"
Bastard. I hate him, with his stupid voice and deep fucking eyes and big
dumb boots and that goddamn duster he wears… I hate him. Shaking madly, my
arms wobbling, I try and block out the sound of his pleas for me to open
the door. Why doesn't he just break it down? He could. Oh God… I can't
listen. I can't be who I am right now. It hurts too much.
Turning on the taps to the shower, I watch the way the water cascades into
the bath, hitting the white porcelain with concentrated heat. Steam begins
to wisp around the edges of the bath, swirling around my head and filling
my ears and mouth. I shiver and iciness drips down my spine. I hate the
cold. I hate it. My clothes come off with fingers that are sore. Dropping
the pants and the shirt and underwear on the floor, I step into the bath,
and feel the water cover me.
My skin turns red, but I don't feel it. It's sweaty in here now, and the
air is laded with heaviness, muskiness. Why am I so cold? God, the water
should be hot. I can't even see the bathroom anymore, it's cloaked in the
shadow of the steam, which swirls around me like ghosts. The knocks on the
door are getting consistently louder and his voice starts to become
panicked. Maybe he thinks I'm drowning myself. What a thought.
My chest starts to ache, just slightly… and I realize I stopped breathing.
How long ago I don't remember. Looking down, I stare at my flushed legs and
turn the water to cold. It sheets over me like ice and still I don't feel a
thing. Feeling like screaming, I lay down and press my face to the side of
the bathtub, curling into a ball.
How long ago did I come in here? I don't remember. How long ago did Mommy
die? I don't remember. Who am I? I…
I'm Buffy Summers. Yes, I know that. I'm Buffy Summers, Slayer and friend,
once girlfriend to Riley Finn, who is currently doing secret stuff in the
jungle. My two best friends are Willow Rosenburg and Xander Harris. I used
to have a lover. Not Riley. I used to have a Mom, but she died. After I
broke her ribs I threw up and the stain won't wash away. I have a sister
who isn't really my sister. When I hug her every night she feels real, but
she's not. I have a Dad, and a Watcher. But my Watcher is more like my Dad
than my real Dad… did that make sense? Oh yeah… and I'm slowly dying in
this room. The bathroom. My head's spinning on the floor now and I can't
feel anything. My once lover is outside, and his eyes are probably weeping
tears of regret. But he'll go on because that's what he always does. I
don't make his world stop anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever did.
"Buffy." Why is his voice so close? And why do I feel like
screaming at the sound of it? Arms grasp my legs and my shoulders and he
lifts me with that ease he's famous for… but I feel the tremble in his
hands.
He carries me and slowly I come back to myself. "Angel," I
whisper and press my face into his neck. "I'm sorry," I murmur
and he shushes me, smoothing my hair.
"No… nothing to be sorry for," he soothes and then sits down on
the bed, drawing my naked, quivering form onto his lap. Curling up, I touch
his face and stare into his eyes.
"My Mom died." My voice is soft, quiet, and firm. He nods and I
see the glitter of tears. Is that just my reflection?
"I know, love. I'm sorry."
My throat is so heavy and my eyes burn. "Can I cry now?" I ask
him and feel small. He cups my cheek and then lies back, drawing a blanket
around me. Resting my face against his chest, I swallow and try and
breathe.
I think I am going to cry now, and it makes me feel sick. Angel isn't
saying anything, but his presence is enough, as it always was. I wonder
briefly why he is the one who can open me up, and wonder why Riley never
could. I also wonder why his smell can make me feel at home and why his
smile is all that I ever want to live for. Then I wonder why he left me and
why my Mommy left me… and then I feel the tears and roll over, my fingers
grappling with his sweater.
As he holds me, I remember that I love him and wonder just when I forgot.
end.
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