Something Like Feathers
Feathers. Like millions of tiny feathers, drifting down from the sky, fluttering down my stomach, trailing along my neck, kissing my lips. Are they really feathers? Or is it eyes, watching from some Great Beyond? Watching me as I wait. Waiting as I watch.
I can't be sure of anything. Tiny nothings scorch my skin, tenderness forgotten. Pain replaces pleasure. But still I cannot move. Stillness is the clue. I remember now. But I don't want to. Not yet.
Something new on my skin now. Something familiar, not painful. Or at least, not as bad. Skin? A hand…someone is pulling me up. Everything rocks around me as I become vertical.
"Anya?" a voice asks. "Can you open your eyes?"
I try. Needles stab into my eyes, thousands of them, pricking into my eyeballs, flooding my senses. I cry out in pain and shut them again. That's it, windows are shut.
"She's hurt." A voice again. This one different. Yet still familiar, even more so than the first.
"She must've been out for a while. Anya, can you walk?"
"Of course she can't. She can't even open her eyes. Let me carry her."
"Xander…"
"Shut up, Angel." New hands touch me. I know these, they make me less afraid. I'm swept up, away from the cold, away from the pain. My legs dangle high above the ground, but there's support behind my head. Now I know I'm safe. Fade out.
***
Thick sludge pulls at me as I claw my way up to the surface. My senses waiver. Voices, faint and broken, make their way to my ears, and pin needles of light to my eyes. But they are there, and then gone, then there, and gone again. Unreliable. Inconsistent. Still, I fight against the tug of the bog to reach them. Because they have to be better than this.
My hard work pays off. The voices gain strength… now I can hear them clearly.
"We don't know what happened to her." Male, deep, strong. Has to be Angel.
"I think it's obvious enough."
"It doesn't matter. She needs help. Let me get the others…"
"Forget it." Then a silence. Something must be going on between them. I want to look, but my eyelids are still heavy. I'm not ready to see. "Get Buffy if you want, Angel. Go to her, say what you want. But don't come back here. They can't see her like this."
A frustrated growl that can only mean Angel's angry. But footsteps follow soon after, heavy, yet quick. Gone to get Buffy. Hooray.
Something's leaning over me now. I can feel it. My breath, sluggish to the point I'd forgotten about it, quickens in reaction. This is wrong. I know it's wrong. I feel Him leaning toward me. His breath, hot and stale, on my cheek. It caresses me like an old lover, or a pet. Something to be used to gain satisfaction. I am its possession. Who ever said they don't have breath? It's a lie, a damned lie. Because I feel it, I burn from it.
With the breath comes a touch. A hand not quite as warm as His breath, but just as bold. Just as possessive. It touches my cheek gingerly, runs fingers down to the base of my neck. Fingers that burn a hole to my soul.
Every part of me starts to tremble. I'm not here anymore. I'm there, in the place with the tiny feathers that aren't feathers, but ash. Burning ashes that were Him. Only, there is no ash. It's only Him, looming over me, breathing His fire breath on me, scorching me with His demon hands.
I'm under Him, struggling, but not enough. He whispers in my ear. Quiet, I have to be quiet. And still. So He can have me. He wants me to be His. I can't fight him anymore, so I lay still. I let the tears roll down my face and He brushes them away, not because He cares, but because they make me look ugly. He tells me so.
More caressing. Touching that is meant to be sensual, but only comes off as painful. He runs His hand everywhere across my body, joining it soon with His other hand. And soon, too soon, far, far, too soon, his tongue. I let Him touch, touching is okay. It isn't good, but I can handle it. I just have to keep my eyes shut. And that I do well… they're squeezed as tightly shut as I can get them. They're the one part I won't let Him hurt on me.
He's lower now, around my legs, licking up my thigh with a molten tongue. I drive my heels into the ground, wanting to bury myself in it to get away from Him. But He won't have it. I feel Him push His whole weight onto me, His hot breath back on my throat. Oh no oh no oh no.
There's a pause, just the shortest one, while he takes care of something. Then a rustling sound and an abrupt clink of metal hitting rock. He's taking off his clothes. Squirming again, I try to wriggle my way out from under Him. A hot hand clamps over my mouth, stifling my screams before I voice them. Then He's down there, pulling off my clothes. First my skirt, then the cotton panties underneath. My struggles grow more and frantic.
And then pain. Agonizing pain so bright it's overwhelming. I scream into the hand over my mouth. He grunts loudly and puts His other hand on my upper thigh, bracing himself as He slams into me. I feel like I'm being ripped apart inside. Ripped apart my His tool, his one true love. And every thrust brings more agony, more blood. It trickles from inside, oozes onto my secret place. I can do nothing but scream.
Suddenly He's not there anymore, and neither am I. I'm still fighting, but I have no one to fight against. It's just Xander, stroking my hair, begging me to clam down. I know it's him, I know his soft touch, his gentleness. I sob quietly, too relieved and too ashamed to do anything but. At last I grow calm, my sobs less frequent. I still shudder. Nothing to be done about that. But I can finally breathe.
Slowly, tentatively, I open my eyes. There's less pain than before. I'm somewhere new, somewhere with less light. Somewhere safe. Somewhere without Him.
There's Xander, looking down at me, his expression beyond concerned. It's instead heavy, sorrowful, and yes, just a bit, angry. He hated Him for doing this to me. I don't know how I know it, but I do. I can feel it.
Finally, I can speak. "Xander…" It's just a whisper, and a faint one at that. But it's something, and more than I could hope for. Xander leans forward, gingerly, carefully gauging my reaction as he moves. He wants to be able to hear me better, I know that. I don't have to be afraid. "Xander, I'm so scared, Xander…"
He nods emphatically, and I can see the tears glimmering on his cheeks now. I want them to be gone. There's been enough crying today. Reaching, up, I try to brush them away. Xander grabs my wrist, lightly, not forcefully, and eases it back down to my side. "No," he whispers. He must want to cry. Does he want to feel the pain with me?
I want to feel safe now. Safety lies in Xander. So I want him close to me. I ask him. "Will you hold me?"
Again, a nod, this one gentler. He climbs carefully onto the bed with me, avoiding contact with me whenever possible. Then he's lifting me, from behind, so my back can rest against his chest. He draws me closer, resting his hands on my arms, somewhere I won't be afraid of.
I lean against him, content with the position. And not in the least afraid. I know he's different than Him, in more ways than I could imagine. He doesn't sear me with his touch. He's gentle. I'm willing to bet anything he killed Him, turned Him to dust to save me. I'm sure he did, but I don't want to ask. I ask another question instead. "Xander, can I make a wish for myself?"
Xander doesn't answer, but barely tightens his grip on me. The tears come again, less painful this time, and I succumb to them. I fall into their haven, glad to be away from the pain He gave me. I can feel only Xander, rocking me gently and whispering apologies in my ear. Then sleep's tendrils take a hold of me, and I feel myself careening into a blissful oblivion.