Spoilers: Through Seeing Red
Disclaimer: Obviously, Tara isn't mine. Poor me.
A/N: I wanted to write a Spike fic, I really did. Then I remembered how much I suck at writing Spike, and I also realized I had no plot. Parts of this just popped into my head when I was fighting off insomnia, and I wrote half of it when I was in my English class. Such a good student I am. Thanks to Leah, Paul, and Bethany for beta-ing. Feedback is always appreciated!
She remembers.
She remembers playing hopscotch drawn clumsily on cracked concrete with pink chalk. She fell down a lot. Her knees were scraped always; her pretty dresses covered in fine pink dust.
Outside, she could run. Outside she could play, could pretend she was like the other girls, though she knew she was not. Knew they all knew she was not.
Sometimes she would close her eyes and spin, arms outstretched, dress mushrooming out around her legs. When she stopped, when she opened her eyes, the world was spinning. She liked that. Inside, the world didn't move.
"Tara!" Her father's voice scared the other girls. They scrambled to get away from her, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. As if he would someday call for them. "Come in now, girl!"
"I'm coming!" She meant to yell, but it came out a choked whisper.
Her brother was in front of the television, a pillow over his face, bare feet propped on the armrest. She walked by him without a word. Daddy was in the kitchen.
"Make your mother breakfast." It wasn't a question.
The batter hit the frying pan and began to sizzle.
"Round or funny shapes?" Her voice carried to the bedroom.
She remembers.
She remembers sitting on her mother's bed.
"Tell me more about magic." She was her mother's only audience – soon she would be her only voice.
"It's the demon that's killing her," Donny said.
Tara wanted to slap him, but she didn't. She never did anything she wanted to do.
Her father rarely slept at home. Tara didn't know where he was, and she didn't care. After school, she'd go straight to her mom's room. She'd sit on the bed, on the worn blue quilt, next to the steadily diminishing form of her mother.
"Don't pick at the threads, Tara. This will be yours someday."
She didn't want it. She wanted none of this.
Sometimes she'd fall asleep on her mother's shoulder, content to pretend that, just for once, she was the one someone was taking care of.
"Promise me you'll get out of here. Promise me you won't be me." Desperate words from the dry lips of a dying woman.
"I promise."
She remembers.
She remembers coming home to find her mother cold.
The funeral was small. That night, she stole her father's whisky and got drunk for the first time in her life. She spent a good part of the next morning in the bathroom, with Donny beating on the door.
The night after that, she didn't go home. She went to a club, stood in a corner and watched the real people dance. Pretend you belong here, she told herself.
"Buy you a drink?" The girl was dressed in black leather. Fishnet stockings, thigh high boots, black lipstick.
Tara nodded her assent.
After that, she spent most nights at Katy's giggling and kissing till her mouth was sore.
"Don't tell anyone," Katy would whisper as her lips brushed Tara's ear, her slim fingers working magic against the small of Tara's back.
"I won't."
She was a dirty secret. One more thing to add to the list of Why Tara Isn't Right.
She remembers.
She remembers packing her bags. She didn't have much luggage, and had to use a few brown bags.
There was a fight. No one wanted her to go. For once, she stood up for herself.
"I'm going." She said it so many times her tongue memorized the words. Daddy yelled. Donny actually spit on her. Katy cried.
"I'm going."
She remembers.
She remembers that awful Wicca group. The girls with their candles and prayers and silly notions. She never said anything. They wouldn't have listened if she did.
Then came Willow.
This isn't real, she thought. She's beautiful, she's perfect, and she likes me. Something is wrong.
But it wasn't wrong. It was more right than she'd ever been before.
"I love you," Willow would say, and eventually, Tara believed it.
She remembers.
She remembers Glory's cold fingers on her head. There was pain, more pain than she'd ever felt before. Her hand was on fire, and now her head was on ice. Then she was lost.
She was swimming, but there was no shore. If she cried, no one heard her. She could see herself, if she squinted, if she turned her head. That's me, she thought, I'm still there.
And she was back.
"I found you. I will always find you."
She remembers.
She remembers missing Willow so much that she felt she might die. It hurt so much, but she knew it was right. I can be strong, she reminded herself. I have been before.
The days are long, but go by swiftly, in a long colorful blur.
"She's getting better," Dawn would say over and over. "She's getting better, she really is."
"Round or funny shapes?"
She remembers.
She remembers the sun, and Willow's white blouse. Buffy and Xander in the backyard. She was happy. Joyous.
She saw the red spatter on Willow's shirt in a horrible Rorschach. She didn't comprehend.
"Your shirt."
She doesn't remember dying.
Disclaimer: Obviously, Tara isn't mine. Poor me.
A/N: I wanted to write a Spike fic, I really did. Then I remembered how much I suck at writing Spike, and I also realized I had no plot. Parts of this just popped into my head when I was fighting off insomnia, and I wrote half of it when I was in my English class. Such a good student I am. Thanks to Leah, Paul, and Bethany for beta-ing. Feedback is always appreciated!
She remembers.
She remembers playing hopscotch drawn clumsily on cracked concrete with pink chalk. She fell down a lot. Her knees were scraped always; her pretty dresses covered in fine pink dust.
Outside, she could run. Outside she could play, could pretend she was like the other girls, though she knew she was not. Knew they all knew she was not.
Sometimes she would close her eyes and spin, arms outstretched, dress mushrooming out around her legs. When she stopped, when she opened her eyes, the world was spinning. She liked that. Inside, the world didn't move.
"Tara!" Her father's voice scared the other girls. They scrambled to get away from her, casting nervous glances over their shoulders. As if he would someday call for them. "Come in now, girl!"
"I'm coming!" She meant to yell, but it came out a choked whisper.
Her brother was in front of the television, a pillow over his face, bare feet propped on the armrest. She walked by him without a word. Daddy was in the kitchen.
"Make your mother breakfast." It wasn't a question.
The batter hit the frying pan and began to sizzle.
"Round or funny shapes?" Her voice carried to the bedroom.
She remembers.
She remembers sitting on her mother's bed.
"Tell me more about magic." She was her mother's only audience – soon she would be her only voice.
"It's the demon that's killing her," Donny said.
Tara wanted to slap him, but she didn't. She never did anything she wanted to do.
Her father rarely slept at home. Tara didn't know where he was, and she didn't care. After school, she'd go straight to her mom's room. She'd sit on the bed, on the worn blue quilt, next to the steadily diminishing form of her mother.
"Don't pick at the threads, Tara. This will be yours someday."
She didn't want it. She wanted none of this.
Sometimes she'd fall asleep on her mother's shoulder, content to pretend that, just for once, she was the one someone was taking care of.
"Promise me you'll get out of here. Promise me you won't be me." Desperate words from the dry lips of a dying woman.
"I promise."
She remembers.
She remembers coming home to find her mother cold.
The funeral was small. That night, she stole her father's whisky and got drunk for the first time in her life. She spent a good part of the next morning in the bathroom, with Donny beating on the door.
The night after that, she didn't go home. She went to a club, stood in a corner and watched the real people dance. Pretend you belong here, she told herself.
"Buy you a drink?" The girl was dressed in black leather. Fishnet stockings, thigh high boots, black lipstick.
Tara nodded her assent.
After that, she spent most nights at Katy's giggling and kissing till her mouth was sore.
"Don't tell anyone," Katy would whisper as her lips brushed Tara's ear, her slim fingers working magic against the small of Tara's back.
"I won't."
She was a dirty secret. One more thing to add to the list of Why Tara Isn't Right.
She remembers.
She remembers packing her bags. She didn't have much luggage, and had to use a few brown bags.
There was a fight. No one wanted her to go. For once, she stood up for herself.
"I'm going." She said it so many times her tongue memorized the words. Daddy yelled. Donny actually spit on her. Katy cried.
"I'm going."
She remembers.
She remembers that awful Wicca group. The girls with their candles and prayers and silly notions. She never said anything. They wouldn't have listened if she did.
Then came Willow.
This isn't real, she thought. She's beautiful, she's perfect, and she likes me. Something is wrong.
But it wasn't wrong. It was more right than she'd ever been before.
"I love you," Willow would say, and eventually, Tara believed it.
She remembers.
She remembers Glory's cold fingers on her head. There was pain, more pain than she'd ever felt before. Her hand was on fire, and now her head was on ice. Then she was lost.
She was swimming, but there was no shore. If she cried, no one heard her. She could see herself, if she squinted, if she turned her head. That's me, she thought, I'm still there.
And she was back.
"I found you. I will always find you."
She remembers.
She remembers missing Willow so much that she felt she might die. It hurt so much, but she knew it was right. I can be strong, she reminded herself. I have been before.
The days are long, but go by swiftly, in a long colorful blur.
"She's getting better," Dawn would say over and over. "She's getting better, she really is."
"Round or funny shapes?"
She remembers.
She remembers the sun, and Willow's white blouse. Buffy and Xander in the backyard. She was happy. Joyous.
She saw the red spatter on Willow's shirt in a horrible Rorschach. She didn't comprehend.
"Your shirt."
She doesn't remember dying.