THE END OF THE WORLD
SERIES TITLE: The Manipulated
AUTHOR: Atom (astroturf@poetic.com)
CATEGORY: BtVS, General
RATING: PG-13 (series)
SPOILERS: S1-S6 of BtVS
SUMMARY/NOTES: The Manipulated is what I'm calling my collection of non-related vignettes. The stories posted on ffn are BtVS, though when my site is up (hopefully this weekend) it will include other fandoms. Mostly, I write a lot of really short stories, and so I'm putting them together in a collection so they'll seem to have more value. ;) The Manipulated is a work in progress, with new vignettes being written daily. The artsy, avante garde version of these (complete with graphix!) will be available at my site when it's finished. None of these stories have been BETA'd; all mistakes are mine.
FEEDBACK: Muchly appreciated: astroturf@poetic.com
DISCLAIMER: In Joss' head there was a widdle Sunnydale, with a widdle lovesick vampire, and a widdle blonde girl with sticks -- in other words, he built the playground, I play in the sandbox. No infringement intended.

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THE END OF THE WORLD
"It's 4:30 A.M. on a Tuesday; it doesn't get much worse than this." Counting Crows, Perfect Blue Buildings


The sky is falling, collapsing upon itself with the weight of a million Hells. And the earth is on fire, set ablaze by the fiery sun and stars as they descend over her town -- over the playgrounds (the smell of burning rubber) and homes (the smell of burning beds) and cemeteries (the smell of burning bones) --

These fires, they nip at the tail of her skirt (chasing her, showing her) as she remembers:
-- her sister's body crumpled at the foot of the stairs;
-- her lover impaled on the stake of a white picket fence (the blood on her hands so red it's almost blue);
-- the sharp, pink angles of her best friends' protruding bones;
-- the static eyes of her only true father as his foot nudges her shoulder with every sway of the wind.

Somewhere she hears a child cry and she's tired, so fucking tired -- of fighting, of trying. She falls to the ground with the sound of flesh scraping asphalt and lets the fires consume her dying body, as they hungrily fight over feet and fingers, and she thinks: It has to be better this way. She doesn't scream -- doesn't want to -- just cries --

Until her eyes snap open and she is lying on the road to her house, the bright flames of the sun glaring down on her from a million light years away. When her eyes focus, she sees a boy on his bicycle -- sees his skinned knees and watches him lick his Fudgesicle with the uninterrupted ease of summer vacation. He gives her a funny look and asks: Hey Lady, are you okay?

She yawns and notices her hands are clean and says: I think I might be.

I think it was just a dream.

He smiles an awkward smile before settling back onto the seat of his ten-speed and riding away. She rolls over onto her back, still a little dazed, and all she can see is the clear sky, and all she can think is:

Whoa. Deja vue.

Heaven was blue.