A Burning Nightmare
A Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfic
Author's note: I do not own the characters in this story, just the situations involved. All characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. That being said, enjoy!
Willow Rosenburg stirred in her bed as she attempted to sleep. It had been a long, harrowing and extremely trying night. Her mind was still coming to grips with the fact that mere hours before, her mother, along her best friend Buffy's, and their protest group, Mothers Opposed to the Occult, had tried to burn them and their friend Amy at the stake. In Willow and Amy's case, it was your standard witch burning. In the case of Buffy, it was because she was the Slayer.
They had come very close to succeeding, too. It was only because of the last minute intervention of Giles and Cordelia that Willow and Buffy were not piles of ash. Amy squeaked in her cage. As Amy was a slightly more proficient witch than Willow, when faced with the prospect of being burned alive, she turned herself into a rat to escape. She didn't get far, as after the demon who had started everything to begin with had been dealt with, Buffy and Willow easily found her in the same room of City Hall that they had been taken to.
Her room was still completely trashed. Her mother, and members of her protest group, had forced their way into her room and took her by force. She had only cleaned just enough of it to be able to lie down on her bed to sleep. Her leg still hurt. She now had a large second degree burn on her right leg, where the fire had actually caught. She had made a mental note to get some aloe vera the next day to lessen the pain. In her sleep, her mind tried to piece the evening's happenings together.
Willow struggled as two women that she didn't even know tied her to a post in a large room of Sunnydale's City Hall building. Why they chose to have a burning at the stake indoors, she didn't know, and she hadn't thought to ask. "Hold still," her mother chastised. "Be a good girl." Willow's lip quivered in fear. Her mother was overseeing her execution as though it were no big thing. "No!" Willow cried. "Why are you doing this to me?" She choked a sob down before adding, "Mom?"
Sheila Rosenburg glared at Willow as the ropes were tightened, securing her daughter to the post. "There's no cure but the fire!" she snapped in response. She glanced over at Buffy, who was tied to a post to her right. To Buffy's right, Amy was also futilie struggling as three more women tied her up. "This is crazy, Mom!" Willow yelled, as Amy shouted in vain for Buffy.
Willow shot straight up in bed. She gingerly touched her bandage. "Why can't I sleep?" she whispered to herself. She slowly got up and headed for her door, which would need to be fixed. 'I think I just need a glass of water,' she thought as she made her way downstairs. She made a mental note to come up with a way to thank Cordelia later, for putting her out.
Turning on the kitchen light awoke her mother, who walked into the kitchen seemingly with the same idea in mind. "Why are you still awake, Willow? You have school tomorrow." Willow absorbed her mother's words with a sense of detatchment. "I couldn't sleep," she replied softly, as her hand closed around the refrigerator door.
"I can't imagine why," Sheila replied. Willow resisted the urge to face her mother. Did she really not know why? Finally she pulled the pitcher of water and went to the cupboard to retrieve a glass. What she didn't pick up on was her mother tellingly avoiding the water pitcher. She instead chose orange juice.
"I think I just need a glass of water," Willow finally said softly, not picking up on the way her mother was observing her. She put the glass to her lips and downed nearly half the glass in one gulp. "Now, what was this about dating a musician?" her mother inquired. Willow finally took a long look at her mother.
"Mom, what are you talking about?" she finally asked. Her mother continued to press the issue. "When you were in the middle of your temper tantrum earlier, you said something about dating a musician," she explained. Willow nodded. "Oh...that," she said. "Well, is he in your age group?" she inquired, her tone seemingly scientific. Willow thought for a minute.
How did she want to play this? She didn't think it would be a good idea to say that he was repeating his senior year, so finally she said, "Yeah," Sheila nodded. "Well, I think your father and I should meet him. I want you to invite him over for dinner some time next week." Willow breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't ask his age, and she didn't want a meeting immediately, so there was time to prepare.
"Oh...ok," she said, but in her head her voice didn't sound right. It was like she stumbled over her words. Her vision was beginning to fade. How did she suddenly become so tired? She stared at her glass, and it clicked. The water was drugged. "Mom..." she said before crashing. Sheila looked over her prone daughter. "It's alright dear. This is for the best."
For someone of Sheila Rosenburg's age, she was stronger than she looked. She seemed to have no trouble in dead-lifting Willow from the floor and putting her on the dining room table. She turned Willow onto her belly, and producing a pair of hand cuffs, cuffed Willow's hands behind her back. She found a length of rope and tied Willow's ankles together. Then she lifted Willow's unconscious form off the table and back over her shoulder, and headed toward the garage, where the family station wagon was kept.
She popped the trunk of the car, which she'd emptied earlier in preparation. Willow fit easily in it, and even if she regained consciousness, she wouldn't be escaping. Before she closed the lid, She put a few items in with her. Then she opened the garage door, and got into the car and drove off.
Willow's eyes slowly opened. She didn't feel so good, probably a side effect from whatever was used to drug her. She moved her hands to shield her face from whatever the bright light was, but couldn't. As her senses slowly returned to her, she realized why. Her hands were bound, behind what felt like a tree trunk. "What..." she whispered. Through the glare of the bright light, she saw her mother. She realized that the bright light was the lights of their car, and her gaze fell to the hood.
Her heart skipped a few beats as she saw what was laid on the hood of the car. There was a large pile of sticks and twigs. But that wasn't what sent her fear into overdrive. Next to the pile, a gas can was placed. 'My God...' she thought. She tried to move, but she didn't budge. She looked down to see that she had been thoroughly tied to the tree by several thick lengths of rope. One thing was certain. This was a dose of deja vu she was not looking forward to having.
"Um...Mom...let's talk," Willow finally said as her mother approached, a bundle of the wood in hand. Sheila began placing the wood at her feet with a scary precision. "What is there to talk about?" she asked as she went about her work. Willow looked at the black sky. This could NOT be happening. Especially not twice in the same night.
"Uh, how about the fact that I'm tied to a tree and you're putting wood at my feet?" Willow asked. "We already played this game once tonight, and it wasn't fun." Her mother went back to the car to retrieve the rest of the wood. Willow desperately strained at her bonds to no avail. "This isn't a game," her mother informed her as she placed the rest of the wood around Willow's feet. "You know what the bible says. You have committed unforgivable sins and you must be punished."
"Mom...what...what are you talking about?" Willow asked, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. Her mother glared at her. "Exodus 22:18," she said, a harsh menace in her tone. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Willow shot her mother a pleading look. "Mom, what are you talking about?" she asked. "Oh, Willow," her mother said. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."
Willow hesitated before opening the door to her house. She wasn't looking forward to this. Her parents were devoutly religious. But there was no sense putting it off. Finally she opened the front door, and to no surprise, her mother was waiting for her. She seemed to be examining the paraphernalia that Principal Snyder had confiscated from her locker. "Oh, Sit down, honey," she instructed.
Willow set took off her backpack and sat down on the couch, facing her mother. "Did Principal Snyder talk to you?" she asked, knowing the answer. "Yes," Sheila replied. "He's quite concerned." Willow struggled to come up with an excuse. "Mom, I know what this looks like and I can totally-"
Sheila interrupted her attempt at an excuse. "Oh, you don't have to explain, honey. This isn't exactly a surprise." Willow shifted in her seat. "Why not?" she asked in confusion. Her mother shrugged. "Oh, well, identification with mythical icons is perfectly typical of your age group. It's a classic adolescent response to the pressures of incipient adulthood." She sat a picture she was holding down and picked up a bag of herbs.
"Oh," Willow said. "Is that what this is?" she asked. Her mother would never accept the truth, that she risked her life on a regular basis, and her best friend risked her life almost every night. "Of course, I wish you would have identified with something a little less icky," she analyzed.
She shrugged. "But developmentally speaking..." Willow interrupted before she could continue. "Mom, I'm not an age group. I'm me. Willow group." Sheila sighed and put the bag down, and moved to be closer to her daughter. Oh, honey," she said. "I understand." Willow shook her head. "No you don't," she replied. She made eye contact with her mother.
"Mom, this may be hard for you to accept, but I can do stuff. Nothing bad or dangerous, but I can do spells." Her mother shook her head. "You think you can, and that's what concerns me. The delusions." Willow struggled to not get too mad. "Mom, how would you know what I can do? I mean, the last time we had a conversation over three minutes, it was about the patriarchal bias of the Mr. Rogers show."
"Well," Sheila scoffed, "Well, with King Friday lording it over the lesser puppets..." she started but Willow interrupted her train of thought. "Mom, you're not paying attention," she said. "And this is your way of trying to get it," she replied somewhat sternly. Willow stared as she continued what she thought was a correct analysis of the situation.
"Now, I have consulted with some of my colleagues, and they agree that this is a cry for discipline." With finality, she finished, "You're grounded." Willow couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Grounded?" she asked. "This is the first time, EVER, that I've done something you don't like, and I'm grounded? I'm supposed to mess up. I'm a teenager, remember?"
Sheila shook her head. "You're upset, I hear you..." Willow didn't let her finish. "No, Ma. Here this. I'm a rebel. I'm having a rebellion!" Sheila shook her head again. "Willow, honey, you don't have to act out to prove your specialness."
"I'm not acting out," Willow argued. "I'm a witch. I...I can make pencils float. And I can summon the four elements." Thinking quickly, she corrected, "Well, two, but four soon!" Sheila didn't seem to respond to what her daughter was telling her.
"A-and, I'm dating a musician." Sheila's expression briefly changed to one of disgust. "Willow!" she said, and went back to going through Willow's things as her daughter continued her tiriade. "I worship Beelzebub," she stated sarcastically. "I do his bidding. Do you see any goats around? No, because I sacrificed them!" Her mother sent her a look that said she was tired of this. "Willow please!" she said in a vain attempt to get Willow to stop.
"All bow before Satan," Willow said, the sarcasm in her voice increasing. Sheila tried to leave the room. "I'm not listening to this," she said as she turned. "Prince of Night, I summon you," Willow snapped. "Come fill me with your black, naughty evil!" Sheila whirled on her daughter. "THAT'S ENOUGH!" she yelled, finally getting Willow to stop talking.
"Mom, I just said those things in the heat of the moment," Willow argued in an attempt to make her mother see reason. Her argument didn't seem to have an effect on her mother, who began to head back to the car to retrieve the gas can. Willow's eyes widened as she opened the top and began walking toward her with it.
"It doesn't matter. You confessed to being a witch. You know full well the punishment," she said sternly as she started pouring gasoline on the wood around Willow. "Mom, I am BEGGING you," Willow cried. "Listen to reason, please! You cannot do this!" Her mother was unmoved. She merely said the same thing she had said earlier. "Hold still. Be a good girl."
Willow shouted in desperation. "HELP!" she yelled. "BUFFY!" Sheila scoffed. "Willow, don't bother. We're in the forest. No one can here you." She stopped pouring gas on the wood, and sent a knowing look to her daughter. "No," Willow pleaded. "Please."
"It'll be easier this way," her mother replied, and began soaking Willow herself in gas. She did a thorough job, even pouring over her head, causing Willow to sputter and spit gasoline out of her mouth. Willow kept her mouth shut as gasoline soaked into her hair and trickled down her face. She was out of options.
She watched as her mother set the gas can back on the hood of the car. There was only one thing left to do. Her mother produced a box of matches. "I'm afraid it's time," she said solemnly.
Willow felt her stomach drop as her mother lit a single match. With no further delay, she dropped the match at the wood around Willow's feet. With everything doused in gasoline, it indeed went up quick. It was not, however, as merciful as her mother thought.
As Willow screamed in pain, she suddenly sat up in bed. "My god," she whispered to herself. She gingerly felt her entire body. "It was just a dream," she said. "A horrible, HORRIBLE dream." Her throat was noticeably dry, so she went down to the kitchen to get something to drink.
Her mother was in the living room, reading one of her child psychology books. "Willow, honey," she said as Willow made her way to the kitchen. "What are you still doing up?" Willow turned to her mother. "I couldn't sleep," she answered. She decided not to tell her mother that she just dreamt that she was all but successful at burning her at the stake. "I think I just need a drink," she added, and her mother nodded.
As Willow opened the refrigerator, she stared at the pitcher of water for a moment. She shuddered, and settled on orange juice. "Oh, and Willow," she heard her mother call from the living room. "Tomorrow, we should discuss this musician you said you were dating." Willow breathed a long, deep sigh of relief.