Title: Blood
Author: Aradia
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Season Five
Summary: Dawn's thoughts in Blood Ties when she cuts herself.
Thanks to Deanna my new friend who BETA'd
It's not real.
I can see it swelling, pouring. It's so dark, not like in the movies. I can't feel it yet, not really. The knife hurt when it sliced through my skin but all the nerves have gone numb now and I feel nothing. Or maybe I'm in shock, you aren't supposed to feel anything when you're in shock right? My whole body feels paralyzed. I can't do anything except watch as it drips onto the floor, a steady stream keeping tempo with the dripping faucet. I hear it splattering and suddenly the floor tiles are stained dark red, so dark.
It's not real. I'm not real.
This can't be happening. My other hand is still gripping the kitchen knife. The metal shines in the moonlight streaming through the window. The situation is so movie of the week that if I didn't feel so hopeless I would probably laugh. Instead the blurriness of my vision leads to the image that I'm dreaming but I'm not.
I'm not dreaming and I'm not real.
It's running down my arm in small little rivers.
It looks so real.
A spell, a key, that's all I am.
I don't understand how this can be. I remember. . .so many things. I remember birthday parties and book club. I remember the divorce and moving to Sunnydale. I remember Buffy coming home with blood on her clothes. She's the freak, not me. I'm normal, just Dawn Summers, book geek extraordinaire. I can't be some key, I just can't! I remember everything but none of it happened.
I'm walking slowly to the living room, all these questions floating through my head. I stagger a bit just as I reach the dining room. The blood is streaming down my arm as if it'll never stop, not that it matters. If I die, I'll just be some big swirly thing again right? Who cares if I die. It would probably be better if I did. Then Glory would stop hurting my family. No, not my family, Buffy's family. It's all hers and the monks stole it from her to make me.
I don't belong here. This isn't my life.
How? How could they keep something like this from me? How can they pretend to love me?
Above all these other questions is another one that won't go away. How can I not be real? How? This is blood running down my arm isn't it? It's real, human blood. I can feel it hot and wet on my skin.
Before I step into the light, with the cover of darkness that the deserted dining room gives I slice my arm again, above the first cut. The knife digs deeper and blood gushes out covering my arm. I can feel it. It hurts a lot and I smile. I may have hit a vein this time but I don't care because I can feel it if I can feel it then I have to be real. I have to.
This is blood, isn't it? It can't be me. I'm not a key. I'm not a thing.
The blood is dripping. It's red and warm. I can feel it. It can't be me. I can feel Mom's arms around me and see Buffy's face. I hear Tara's gasp over near the couch.
I have to be real.
I don't want their comfort or lies. I'm sick of the lies but I'm afraid of the truth. I don't want it to be true. It can't be. I have to be real. If I'm not real then...
What am I? Am I real? Am I anything?
It's not real.
I can see it swelling, pouring. It's so dark, not like in the movies. I can't feel it yet, not really. The knife hurt when it sliced through my skin but all the nerves have gone numb now and I feel nothing. Or maybe I'm in shock, you aren't supposed to feel anything when you're in shock right? My whole body feels paralyzed. I can't do anything except watch as it drips onto the floor, a steady stream keeping tempo with the dripping faucet. I hear it splattering and suddenly the floor tiles are stained dark red, so dark.
It's not real. I'm not real.
This can't be happening. My other hand is still gripping the kitchen knife. The metal shines in the moonlight streaming through the window. The situation is so movie of the week that if I didn't feel so hopeless I would probably laugh. Instead the blurriness of my vision leads to the image that I'm dreaming but I'm not.
I'm not dreaming and I'm not real.
It's running down my arm in small little rivers.
It looks so real.
A spell, a key, that's all I am.
I don't understand how this can be. I remember. . .so many things. I remember birthday parties and book club. I remember the divorce and moving to Sunnydale. I remember Buffy coming home with blood on her clothes. She's the freak, not me. I'm normal, just Dawn Summers, book geek extraordinaire. I can't be some key, I just can't! I remember everything but none of it happened.
I'm walking slowly to the living room, all these questions floating through my head. I stagger a bit just as I reach the dining room. The blood is streaming down my arm as if it'll never stop, not that it matters. If I die, I'll just be some big swirly thing again right? Who cares if I die. It would probably be better if I did. Then Glory would stop hurting my family. No, not my family, Buffy's family. It's all hers and the monks stole it from her to make me.
I don't belong here. This isn't my life.
How? How could they keep something like this from me? How can they pretend to love me?
Above all these other questions is another one that won't go away. How can I not be real? How? This is blood running down my arm isn't it? It's real, human blood. I can feel it hot and wet on my skin.
Before I step into the light, with the cover of darkness that the deserted dining room gives I slice my arm again, above the first cut. The knife digs deeper and blood gushes out covering my arm. I can feel it. It hurts a lot and I smile. I may have hit a vein this time but I don't care because I can feel it if I can feel it then I have to be real. I have to.
This is blood, isn't it? It can't be me. I'm not a key. I'm not a thing.
The blood is dripping. It's red and warm. I can feel it. It can't be me. I can feel Mom's arms around me and see Buffy's face. I hear Tara's gasp over near the couch.
I have to be real.
I don't want their comfort or lies. I'm sick of the lies but I'm afraid of the truth. I don't want it to be true. It can't be. I have to be real. If I'm not real then...
What am I? Am I real? Am I anything?