Title: Raindrops
Author: Spikira
Disclaimer: I bow before the Joss Whedon god...the Buffyverse is not mine!
Rating: G
Summary: Buffy's thoughts about her life. Post-Dead Things. Angsty, but hopeful!
Feedback: First time poster, but I welcome any and all feedback!!
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"Memories fall to earth like raindrops, dampening everything they touch, even if only for a moment."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sometimes, the downpour of memories was a mere sprinkling, like an April rain shower. She would breath in the sweet smell of spring, her mouth twisting into a contemplative smile of remembrance. Other times they came like a thunderstorm of rain tears...hard, and fast, and loud.
Today, she decided, it was more like a torrential monsoon of pain and anguish -- pounding into her, drowning her -- she was drowning. The walls of water were closing in on her. Cliched as it was, she couldn't think of any other way to describe it. Like being choked to death. By her own thoughts. There was something painfully ironic about the whole situation. The Slayer, the chosen one. Battled demons, hell-gods, vampires...so many vampires...killing herself. She was dying from the inside. Her invincible self, her petite frame which had for years sustained the pain of battle, was slowly deteriorating from self-pity. It almost disgusted her, but at the same time it was her. How do you condemn yourself?
Easily.
And all the memories. Stinging. Freezing rain. Not the old ones. The old ones were fading...they had somehow become blurry, a dull ache... since she came back.
No, the recent ones.
He was right. He was always right. But he had been especially, poignantly correct that night...the night they sang. Heh. "The night the music died."...well, killed was more like it. Had almost killed her. But he stopped her. Stopped the song. Guess the music had died. Life isn't bliss. She knew that....she KNEW that, damn it. She wasn't blind, she wasn't stupid.
She was just dead.
Like him. But not like him. Because he had understanding. He had love. He had fire and heat and passion. He shouldn't. But he did. As she *should.* But she...she was cold. Cold and frozen...freezing rain. She was shut off from them all. All she wanted to do was feel. She wanted the walls to smash and crumble, she wanted the pain and the joy and the hope and the cause...her cause. She wanted it all back again. It was only lost, though...she could find it, if she tried. She thought.
But he was also right about another thing. Something that was touching and agonizing at the same time.
You always hurt the ones you love.
The ones you love.
Hurt.
Everyone she had ever loved. Her gang, her support group. Her family. Her lovers.
Because of who she was. Because of what she asked them to do. To accept. For her.
It was all about her. It had always been all about her. The stinging was back. The freezing stinging rain tears. In her eyes, on her cheeks. In her soul. Her selfish, disgusting soul. The soul that let her use her friends. Wasn't that what she was doing? Using them? And losing them. They were all growing apart. No, not apart. Up. Growing up. Growing older. Growing separate.
Which was good. Healthy. They way it used to be, the way it was...wasn't right. Asking them to fight for her, for her cause. It was her life. Her fight. Her death.
It never rained in Heaven. She never felt the rain there. At least, never the pouring rain. Never the freezing rain. If it rained, it was warm. Warmth. She missed warmth.
She wanted to be warm. She wanted to live. Forget Heaven, forget before. Forget oblivion. Life. Living was what mattered. Didn't it? Life is living. The hardest thing in this world...
Don't forgive me. Don't ever forgive me. Because I can't forgive myself. And if I can't forgive myself...who can forgive me?
The rain. The rain could forgive. The rain could freeze and hurt and sting and remind her. But it could also cleanse her. That's what rain was supposed to do, wasn't it? Clean things....good things, like flowers and trees and little tweety birds and people. Hurt people. Sorry people. Sad people. People need to be cleansed, she needed to be cleansed. But would it clean her? Because she wasn't good...she wasn't a flower. Her petals were dead. Wilted. Dry. Needed to be watered. But the rain washed everything. Dirt. Stone. Death. It washed away death. And if it could wash away death...
The hardest thing in this world...
Life. And death.
But he was right.
The pain that you feel
Only can heal
By living.
Living. Life. The rain was less insistent now. The rain was calming, almost comforting. The rain could be many things.
The rain could be life.
Author: Spikira
Disclaimer: I bow before the Joss Whedon god...the Buffyverse is not mine!
Rating: G
Summary: Buffy's thoughts about her life. Post-Dead Things. Angsty, but hopeful!
Feedback: First time poster, but I welcome any and all feedback!!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Memories fall to earth like raindrops, dampening everything they touch, even if only for a moment."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sometimes, the downpour of memories was a mere sprinkling, like an April rain shower. She would breath in the sweet smell of spring, her mouth twisting into a contemplative smile of remembrance. Other times they came like a thunderstorm of rain tears...hard, and fast, and loud.
Today, she decided, it was more like a torrential monsoon of pain and anguish -- pounding into her, drowning her -- she was drowning. The walls of water were closing in on her. Cliched as it was, she couldn't think of any other way to describe it. Like being choked to death. By her own thoughts. There was something painfully ironic about the whole situation. The Slayer, the chosen one. Battled demons, hell-gods, vampires...so many vampires...killing herself. She was dying from the inside. Her invincible self, her petite frame which had for years sustained the pain of battle, was slowly deteriorating from self-pity. It almost disgusted her, but at the same time it was her. How do you condemn yourself?
Easily.
And all the memories. Stinging. Freezing rain. Not the old ones. The old ones were fading...they had somehow become blurry, a dull ache... since she came back.
No, the recent ones.
He was right. He was always right. But he had been especially, poignantly correct that night...the night they sang. Heh. "The night the music died."...well, killed was more like it. Had almost killed her. But he stopped her. Stopped the song. Guess the music had died. Life isn't bliss. She knew that....she KNEW that, damn it. She wasn't blind, she wasn't stupid.
She was just dead.
Like him. But not like him. Because he had understanding. He had love. He had fire and heat and passion. He shouldn't. But he did. As she *should.* But she...she was cold. Cold and frozen...freezing rain. She was shut off from them all. All she wanted to do was feel. She wanted the walls to smash and crumble, she wanted the pain and the joy and the hope and the cause...her cause. She wanted it all back again. It was only lost, though...she could find it, if she tried. She thought.
But he was also right about another thing. Something that was touching and agonizing at the same time.
You always hurt the ones you love.
The ones you love.
Hurt.
Everyone she had ever loved. Her gang, her support group. Her family. Her lovers.
Because of who she was. Because of what she asked them to do. To accept. For her.
It was all about her. It had always been all about her. The stinging was back. The freezing stinging rain tears. In her eyes, on her cheeks. In her soul. Her selfish, disgusting soul. The soul that let her use her friends. Wasn't that what she was doing? Using them? And losing them. They were all growing apart. No, not apart. Up. Growing up. Growing older. Growing separate.
Which was good. Healthy. They way it used to be, the way it was...wasn't right. Asking them to fight for her, for her cause. It was her life. Her fight. Her death.
It never rained in Heaven. She never felt the rain there. At least, never the pouring rain. Never the freezing rain. If it rained, it was warm. Warmth. She missed warmth.
She wanted to be warm. She wanted to live. Forget Heaven, forget before. Forget oblivion. Life. Living was what mattered. Didn't it? Life is living. The hardest thing in this world...
Don't forgive me. Don't ever forgive me. Because I can't forgive myself. And if I can't forgive myself...who can forgive me?
The rain. The rain could forgive. The rain could freeze and hurt and sting and remind her. But it could also cleanse her. That's what rain was supposed to do, wasn't it? Clean things....good things, like flowers and trees and little tweety birds and people. Hurt people. Sorry people. Sad people. People need to be cleansed, she needed to be cleansed. But would it clean her? Because she wasn't good...she wasn't a flower. Her petals were dead. Wilted. Dry. Needed to be watered. But the rain washed everything. Dirt. Stone. Death. It washed away death. And if it could wash away death...
The hardest thing in this world...
Life. And death.
But he was right.
The pain that you feel
Only can heal
By living.
Living. Life. The rain was less insistent now. The rain was calming, almost comforting. The rain could be many things.
The rain could be life.