- -
"I just want to feel safe in my own skin;
I just want to be happy again."
-- Dido
The world is a vampire. Cruel, dead, soulless. It rips away those closest to
you, and leaves you alone with nothing, nothing to your name.
The world has taken Buffy. She did a swan dive into a mass of otherworldly
energy, was electrocuted, and fell to the ground. She's somewhere else now; her
soul has been stolen and taken, maybe, to hell. But I tell myself that's not
true. Buffy can't be in hell, because I'm in hell. Surely there's nothing
worse than this.
I am an orphaned ninth grader. My mother and my sister are gone. I walk among
the rubble below the tower built by crazy people, where Buffy left me to kill
herself, where she told me I had to be strong. By saying nothing, I promised to
try.
Spike is crying. He has collapsed to his knees. His hands hide his face that
is crumpled in pain. Not for the first time, I feel we share the same heart, the
same agony. I want to comfort him, but I'll be no comfort to anyone anymore. I
can't even comfort myself. Xander looks as though he's been punched in the
chest; Willow and Tara huddle together, in tears. Anya doesn't understand the
complexity of the moment, as we stare as one at my fallen sister. Our fallen
hero. She died to save me. She gave me the gift of life, and all I can think is
how I want to throw it back, give it away, just to have her again. I've already
lost a mom. Please, God, don't take the rest of my family away from me, too.
--
When I was a little girl, Buffy ran away. She went to live in L.A. and
become a waitress with her middle name. She didn't tell anyone she was leaving,
or where she was going. Giles looked for her for months. Mom cried. Many times.
On the first day of Buffy's absence, I asked Mom about her. Mom said that
Buffy had left, and she didn't know when she would be back.
I took the opportunity to sneak into Buffy's room and raid her closet. I
snatched her lipstick and painted my lips peach and plum. I tried on her
jewelry, countless necklaces at once, bracelets laced up my arm. Though my ears
weren't pierced, I pretended I could wear the earrings, too. I pretended I was
blonde, and taller, and a model. I pretended I was Buffy.
I pretended I had friends who really cared. I didn't have friends the way
Buffy had friends. I never have. Buffy's were all, "till death do us part". Mine
were more like, "I'll see you later. I have better things to do." Janice, and
Becky, and Caitlyn. I would play with them, and we would be in the same room,
but they wouldn't really be there. I'd brush my Barbie's hair and dress her in
her snazzy pink slinky dress. She was taller than me, thin, and blonde, like my
big sister, who I hated, and loved, all at once. Becky would sneer and say that
we were too old for dolls; she would grab my Barbie and hurl her into the trash.
I would retrieve her when nobody was looking, and sulk all the way home.
I waited for Buffy that first day she was gone, dressed in her clothes,
with feather boas wrapped about my neck, and the exaggerated low neckline of a
pretty white shirt, with flower patches stuck all over it. I waited on the
living room couch, getting up, excited whenever I heard a car door slam outside
of the window. I just knew she was coming back soon, and I was ready to show her
how grown up I could look, could be.
I waited for hours, swinging my legs against the couch cushion, kicking
the air. I waited for so long, until the sun set behind me, and the walls burned
with the faint pink and orange of the sun's dying colors. I waited until it got
dark, and the boogeyman no doubt climbed the stairs to my room. I waited for so
long... and Buffy never came.
My tears burned into my pillow as sleep evaded me that night. Buffy was
really gone, without saying goodbye. She must not have cared about me at all.
And I never got to tell her that I cared about her. That I didn't exist solely
to eat the rest of the cereal, and choose the funny shapes of our pancakes, and
steal into her room, invading her stuff. I didn't exist solely for her to yell
at me and to pierce my face with her outraged eyes. I was her little sister, and
I loved her, and she didn't know.
Months later, when Buffy finally came home, I hid in the closet, and
watched through the slit in the barely opened door as Buffy hugged Mom, both
with shining tears in their eyes. I saw the unease and the weariness in my older
sister's face, in her every movement. I watched, unnoticed, as she didn't ask
about me.
--
It's the day after Buffy's funeral. We laid her out in a cheap coffin wearing
a drab black dress she never would have chosen. We don't have much money. Willow
and Tara have begun moving into the house. They're going to live with me.
They're going to take care of me. They've promised that I will be okay.
I wanted to visit Buffy's grave on my own tonight, but no one will let me
leave. Xander's grip on my arm is like steel, as he voices "like hell" he's
going to let me go out into the night, alone. He offers to go to the grave with
me, but if I can't be by myself, it just won't be the same.
I know that I am loved. But I am broken. My batteries have been extracted,
leaving me motionless, my face a blank portrait, showcasing nothing. Not even
pain. I am beyond the point of pain.
Spike comes in the front door as we sit together in the living room, mourning
silently, no one saying a thing. I would talk if I had something to say. It
seems everyone else feels the same. Willow keeps trying to bring up a cheerful
topic, her voice false, wavering. But nothing catches on, and her voice dies
out, leaving us again in the grip of this awful silence that threatens to
overtake us for eternity.
"Spike," greets Xander, refusing to stand. "Get out."
Spike's tongue runs over his front teeth as he keeps his mouth closed. He
gives Xander a scathing glance, saying nothing. And then he looks to me. His
face softens considerably, and suddenly he looks like he's going to break down
again. I don't think I can take it. Any more crying will be the death of me, and
I'll follow my sister, wherever she's gone.
"Going shopping," Spike voices at long last, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Want to take the Bit with me. Get her some ice cream or some such."
"Ice cream won't help anything," Xander says, defensive and protective of me.
He leans toward me, brushing his shoulder with my trembling side. "She doesn't
want to go with you."
"No, I do!" I say, rising to a stand. I can't take any more of this group
silence, and I want to be with Spike. He understands me. Better than anyone else
in this room. Xander's eyes meet mine, hurt that I would disagree with him. "I
-- it's okay," I tell him, trying to be assuring when I'm not. "I want to get
out of the house. There are too many things around with memories..."
Slowly, Xander stands. He eyes Spike with the same cruel malice both have
always felt for each other. Spike seems too hurt still to return the glare. He
doesn't take his eyes off of me.
"Ice cream, and then bring her home," says Xander quietly.
"Want to take her to Wal-Mart, too," Spike says, his voice even, like a
beating heart. "Get her something to get her mind off of... things."
Xander looks to Willow for help. She shrugs her shoulders slowly and gently.
Her voice is just as gentle: "Don't keep her out too late, Spike. She needs her
rest. She's exhausted." She is right.
"Won't keep her long," Spike promises. He gestures to me weakly, extending
his arm. He looks... defeated. "Come along, Bit. Let's get you a little pretty."
It's the first time he's talked to me since the day Buffy died. He hasn't
been around; he's been clinging to the shadows and the night, not emerging from
his crypt. Likely he's dying inside. Just like me. As he closes the front door
behind us, and we stand together on the moon-lit porch, I reach over and hug him
to me, pulling his body in close, inhaling the scent of his cigarettes. He seems
at a loss for how to reciprocate, standing rigid, not giving in to my love
snuggles. I just so desperately need to feel close to someone. Everyone's so
busy protecting me that they fail to realize no one gets close to me anymore. No
one touches me, ever, as if I'm a frail thing, made of glass. At first I
wondered if they were right in leaving me alone, lest I shatter. But now,
holding Spike to me, burying my face in his chest, I realize I was wrong.
At last, he reaches his arms around my body, and we tremble together,
standing on my front porch. I wonder how many times he's been with Buffy on this
porch, and how many times I have. I wonder which one of us misses her more;
which one of us loved her the most. We nearly suffocate each other with our need
to cling to something, squeezing tight to our skin. I refuse to cry, holding
back my tears, wanting to just be with someone, without the sniffles. If I have
to blow my nose into one more tissue, it's likely to crack and fall off my face.
Finally, after long minutes of simply clinging to him, I reluctantly let
Spike go, easing my body away from his. I look up into his face. And I see tears
in his eyes.
He ushers me to a red truck that's parked in our driveway. "Whose is that?" I
ask, my voice strained, barely carrying sound.
Spike sniffles behind my back, and wipes something from his face. "Belongs to
one of my poker buddies. Said I could borrow it for a while. Needed a way to get
around."
"Oh. Um... works for me."
"Good."
I climb into the front passenger seat, because I want to see the road, and
there is no back seat. Spike gets in on his side, flopping heavily onto the
upholstered material, sighing as if it were painful, to sit, to remain still for
a moment. I stare because I know the feeling.
As Spike turns the keys in the ignition, a drop of rain slaps the windshield.
A summer storm is upon us. I wonder if I care. It seems fitting, for Spike and
me to be caught in the rain, protected only by the metal of the top of the
truck. I look at the keychain that sports one of those mini Beanie Babies as
more rain begins to fall.
Spike glances at me, then follows my line of sight. "Oh. The keys. They
belong to my friend, too."
"Oh." It seems to be all I can say anymore. What else is there to say?
So, we're off. We're driving, on the way to Wal-Mart. Or perhaps we're going
nowhere. It doesn't matter to me. I drum my fingers on my jean-clad thighs, as
Spike turns on the windshield wipers. As it clears my vision, I think to myself
that he's my hero, always protecting me.
I have to ask, as the silence stretches a mile between us. "When will you
stop looking out for me?"
Quite frankly, without glancing away from the road, Spike asks me, "Has the
world ended, Bit?"
Yes. I'd say it has.
Even so, I smile to myself, from hearing his words. He'll protect me till the
end of the world. It's the first real smile I've had since that awful moment on
the tower, when I was without words, and yet supposed to say goodbye.
--
I was a girl one day, and a Key the next. Suddenly, my life was a lie;
everything I'd ever done, every chronicle in my diaries, it was all planted, it
was fake. None of it truly happened. I wasn't there that summer when Buffy ran
away; I wasn't there in Mom's arms for cuddles until I was ten. I wasn't little
Pumpkin Belly. I was nothing. Nothing but a Key.
I locked myself behind a door and slit open my skin. My voice was deadly,
dangerous, just as my heart was inside. "Is this blood?"
I was real. I am real. I wanted to be real. I wanted so much to
have my memories exist again. I wanted to know if Mom ever imagined what it
would be like without me around, if Buffy ever wished that I wasn't there. I
needed to know if everyone would have been better off without me.
--
"Why are you there for me?" I ask faintly, looking at the splashes of rain
soaking the black of the street that quickly keeps passing me by.
"Promised Big Sis." He clears his throat. "And I love you."
The rain continues to soak the street. The car continues to roll. And we head
off into oblivion; it doesn't matter where we wind up. I have him, and he has
me. We'll miss Buffy together.
We don't go to Wal-Mart, or to find some ice cream. Spike parks the truck
after following the winding road into the cemetery. We sit in the car, silent,
as the roof is pounded again and again by the tiny droplets of water. I turn and
stare out my window, looking for the graves that are dear to me. We buried Buffy
as close to Mom as possible. When we buried Mom, we managed to buy the two plots
of ground beside her grave. One for me... one for Buffy. Now there's only one
plot left. I wonder when it will be filled. I hope it will be as soon as
possible. I can't bear this pain, this loss, this loneliness.
But I turn my head and look at Spike as he stares forward through the
windshield, off into the distance. He seems lost in his own little world. I wish
I could climb in, to step out of mine.
I want to lean forward and kiss him. But I know that's not what he wants.
That's not the way he loves me. I am like a child to him. His child. He would
only push me away, and I would feel more alone than ever.
I recall the way Tara offers me her lap sometimes, and I let myself fall and
let my head rest on her. She pets my head gently, combing her fingers through my
long hair. I want to lay that way on Spike, but I don't. I hold back. It's not
my place.
It's Buffy's.
We sit in the truck in the graveyard, on that slight, winding road for as
long as we can stand. Eventually, the rain clears up, and the clouds open to
reveal the velvety black of the sky, with the diamond stars caught as frozen
tears dotting everything above us. I think of turning the radio on, but I
realize I like the quiet. I realize Spike probably finds comfort in being able
to hear my heartbeat. So he can know that one of us Summers girls is still
alive, will with him, still loving him. He is my comfort in this world that has
left me alone.
I'm still looking at him, after all this time. Finally, he turns his head and
stares back into my eyes. The vaguest hint of a smile curves along his lips, and
I smile back, or try to. Neither one of us succeeds very well.
"So," he says finally, "ice cream?"
I nod, accepting the gesture. We'll eat ice cream together, and he'll know
that I love him, too. And that I'm thankful that he's here, and I'm not so alone
among people who don't know how to comfort me. We comfort each other, even when
there is nothing left between us but emptiness and grief. Somehow, our hands
join. I squeeze his tightly, almost digging my nails into his flesh. He doesn't
seem to mind, or notice. All he seems to notice is that I'm here, I'm good, I'm
beside him. Neither one of us is alone anymore.
We'll be okay. We'll get through this. We have to. We will. Together. It will
be okay, because it has to be. It will be.
Someday.
- -
end
