TITLE: "Still Life in Glass (1/1)"
AUTHOR: Annie Sewell-Jennings
E-MAIL: auralissa@aol.com
SUMMARY: She didn't come back right.
RATING: R for language and some adult content
SPOILERS: "The Gift"
DISTRIBUTION: My site,
http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html, and wherever else
it is wanted, provided that permission is requested prior to
archival
DISCLAIMER: The characters within this story are the property of
Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions; I do not own them and
only write them for my sick pleasure.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I decided to jump on the bandwagon and write some
fanfiction to heal my bleeding heart after the angst-fest that
was "The Gift". But, being the sick and twisted person that I am,
I could not find it in me to write happy fic. The only thought in
my head was the quote from "Forever": "Sometimes, they don't come
back right." This compounded with the word from Joss that Buffy
might not be the same Buffy when she returns... And you have
this. Thanks to Heather, as always, for being a beta goddess. G
*****
Still Life in Glass
*****
She didn't come back right.
They supposed that it was natural, that it was normal for her to
be a little different. She had been through... They did not know
what she had been through. They could not imagine. But it would
be enough to change a girl a little, to make her uncomfortable
and make her haunted.
But they did not know it would be like this.
Perhaps they had waited too long. They had left her for dead for
too many years, trying to deal with the fact of her death, trying
to grapple with reconstruction, and then when they had learned of
the window, of the possibility, they had debated it for so long
that she had only grown more scarred and brittle in her death.
They should have left issues of morality and spirituality
dormant, should have ignored these base, minor matters and just
done it.
Instead, her body lay buried for seven years.
When the art gallery closed every night, when all the lights were
turned out and the locks were placed on the doors, Buffy remained
behind, staring at the same piece. Spike found her there every
night, dressed in her plain black suits and simple jewelry, lost
in the spectrum of a work in stained glass. She was as still as
the work itself, staring into the panes of melted crystal,
seemingly mesmerized by the colors and the shapes.
Spike never moved to touch her, never moved to collect her, as
she was too devastating a work of art in her own right. Do not
touch. Keep behind glass and under dim lighting to avoid
deterioration. Like she was so frail that she would crumble at a
whisper. Perhaps she was; he did not know. Buffy never spoke
about herself, but he knew enough about her to tell that she was
breaking before his eyes and no amount of preservation would keep
her forever.
The piece that she chose showed that she had not inherited her
mother's taste in art; her eye was keener, more discriminating,
more open to the unusual. No tacky African knick-knacks or trendy
Hindu influences for her. In fact, Buffy had not shown much of an
interest in any of the art in the gallery other than for this
one. A woman dancing, a dime tied around her ankle, done in the
style of a religious piece, but decidedly modern. It was the only
piece that she had bought for the gallery, the only one that she
had insisted on and fought for.
It was the only piece that Buffy loved, and the only art that
Spike loved stood in front of it yet another night.
Her hair was pinned up in a twist of dark gold, a sign that she
had seen no sunlight this summer, and her skin was too pale and
her bones too significant. Her plain black pantsuit hung too
heavily on her thin frame, and no matter how polished and elegant
she appeared, she was still too young for her supposed age. His
child queen.
She saw nothing except for the painting.
Buffy hated the work in the gallery. It was all too strange, too
foreign and unreal. The only artwork that she loved rested in the
photograph albums sitting primly next to her bed in her mother's
house, with all of the memories, all of the good old days, before
everything had fallen apart. The family portraits. The snapshots
of friends.
The pictures of Dawn when she had still been a child.
She had never brought herself to update the albums, just as she
had never been able to update her life. Too much had happened in
the last seven years for her to possibly register or grasp. World
news, music, fashion and even sports... Buffy had tried in the
beginning to catch up, but it was too much for her to handle, and
eventually, she just gave up.
More personal events were even more impossible. Xander and Anya
were married and expecting their second child. Willow and Tara
had also gotten married and owned the magic shop, as Giles...
Giles had died merely a year before she had been brought back to
life. She had never kissed him goodbye. She had never hugged him
hello. He was gone, and she was in a world without a Watcher.
Dawn... Giles had been her legal guardian, named so after a
reportedly vicious legal battle with her father, and Spike had
moved himself into the house. She had been raised by Giles and
Spike, and sometimes it showed in her speech, when she would clip
a word oddly or use foreign slang. But it was not her language
that was so different about Dawn.
It was the fact that she looked older than Buffy did.
She was twenty-one now, old enough to be her own self, old enough
to be beautiful. It hurt to look at her now, to see how stunning
she was, how much she glowed and shimmered. Men stopped to stare
at Dawn like they once stared at Buffy. Now, they usually passed
her by.
The world that she had been thrust into was too changed, too
surreal, and she did not understand her place in it now. She had
been thrown into disarray, taken from her place of resting and
crammed back into a world that she did not belong in. Everything
seemed blurry, hazy, like the new cars that whirred by her in
traffic or the beautiful woman who was supposed to be her kid
sister.
Spike was the only one that she could tolerate, because he would
never change.
Buffy could feel him behind her, stalking her like he was her
shadow, and she mostly wanted him to leave. This was her time at
the end of the day, standing inside her dead mother's art gallery
in her uncomfortable business suit, looking at the only thing in
the new world that she understood. This piece of stained glass,
with this portrait of a girl trapped in dance. It was less the
motion, the passion of the dancer, and more the forum in which
the artwork was done.
She understood what it was like to be manufactured out of glass.
His voice was slow behind her ear, and she did not mind the sound
of his voice. It had not deepened or grown thicker, and he had
not gained a new accent. Still the same Spike, with the too-
bright hair and the lecherous smile, though he had apparently
retired his black trophy duster sometime after her death.
"They're closing up," he murmured, and Buffy sighed wearily.
Breathing was too difficult sometimes to handle.
"I have my own keys," she said coldly back, never turning her
eyes away from the piece of glass hanging from the wall. "They
know I'm not going to steal anything."
Only recently had Spike started asking her questions, because it
had taken him three months to work up the nerve to speak to her
in this impossible condition. But now, he tried to engage her in
conversation, tried to find out how she was feeling, and why she
was so hollow. "You always choose this picture," he said then,
and she shrugged her shoulders.
"It's the only one that I like," she said simply, and Spike
swallowed. The sight of her face still took his breath away. He
had gone for too long without watching her alive. The sight of
her breathing, the blink of her eye, the careless grace of her
body... He had almost forgotten what they looked like. Three
months and he could still be caught in the wonder of her mere
existence.
"Why do you like it?" Spike asked then, and Buffy blinked. She
did not want to explain herself. They always wanted explanations,
wanted to know how or why, and she did not want to speak. There
had been no necessity to speak before.
"Because it's fragile," Buffy said, and she did not know why she
had even spoken. Death still had its lingering effects, such as
the inability to decipher between thought and spoken word. There
had been no language in death, no necessity to speak, and now
that there was such communication, she could not handle it.
Buffy could not handle much of anything anymore.
Her answer made his heart ache, just as she had always done.
"Oh," Spike said softly. He didn't understand why she had given
him that answer, and he doubted that he ever would. It had been
absolutely impossible to understand a damned thing that she did
since her return. It tired him to see her so broken, so
mechanical and silent. Buffy wearied him now.
Sighing, Spike reached out to touch her arm, to feel the warmth
of her flesh permeate through the fabric of her jacket. "Come
home, Buffy," Spike said in a hushed voice, and she abruptly
jerked her arm away from him, glaring at the stained glass.
"Home," she spat. "That is not my home anymore." Everything was
different about it; everything had changed. They had taken down
her things from the walls, given away her clothing, and stored
the rest in the attic. Spike had been living in her bedroom, and
she could smell his cigarettes in her wallpaper when she went to
sleep at night. It was not her bedroom anymore. Giles had
redecorated most of the house, and Dawn had taken over the
furnishing after he had passed away.
Giles had died of a heart attack. Buffy sometimes wondered if
that would hurt.
Flinching, Spike stepped away from her, unable to look at her.
Nervously, he ran his hands through his hair, and Buffy kept her
eyes frozen on the glass. "I'm sorry," he started, and Buffy
rolled her eyes.
"Is that all you can do?" she asked frigidly. "You're always
apologizing."
Spike was tired. He was frustrated and tired. She was always so
fucking quiet, and the only words that she ever spoke were harsh,
clipped barbs. She had no passion, no fire, nothing but numbed
chill and the terrifying possibility that she might shatter at
any given moment. It made him angry to see her like this, so
hopeless, and it made him furious at his inability to a damned
thing about it.
Angrily, Spike threw his words at her like daggers. "Well, maybe
if you actually said something that someone could goddamn
understand, then I might have a better clue as to what the bloody
hell to do with you!" he snarled, his voice roaring through the
empty hallways of the gallery and echoing with thunderous rage.
Instantly, he regretted it, looking at her with panicked eyes,
like what he had just said would crack and fracture her, but
Buffy whipped her head around, finally tearing her eyes away from
her sodding picture. "What to do with me?" she asked, her voice
as sharp as a razor. "I don't want you to do anything with me.
What you've done is enough." Her voice almost broke. "Fucking
enough."
Desperately, Spike grabbed her by the shoulders, and she looked
up into his wild eyes. "Tell me, what the hell did we do to you?"
he demanded. "Because I sure as hell don't understand a single
fucking bit of this."
"Why did you bring me back?"
Her voice was sharp, bitter and sour. He could taste the lemon
and shit in her words on his tongue, and everything inside of him
burned with the acidity of it. "What?" he asked hoarsely, and
Buffy stared at him staunchly.
"You don't know what I wanted," she said accusingly. "You never
did. You tell me you love me, that you did this out of love, but
you don't know what I was thinking when I did what I did. I was
ready for this. I was prepared."
Sudden, terrible realization filled his stomach, and he could not
speak, seeing only her hollow, haunted eyes and the newly
acquired pinch to her mouth. "No," he whispered hoarsely, and she
said the words anyway, lost and broken, just to spite him for
making her suffer.
"I didn't want to come back."
"How can you say that?" Spike whispered, and she could tell that
he was absolutely crushed and at a loss at what she had told him.
In the stark white hallways of the gallery, his black turtleneck
and trousers harshly contrasted, and the agony on his face made
him something close to beautiful.
"Because it's the truth," Buffy said in anguish. "I had come to
terms with it before I was going to jump. This world..." She
threw her hands in the air, her voice almost pleading with him to
understand. "God, it made no sense. It made no sense for it to be
Dawn. I love her more than I could ever have believed, and she
was the one I had to kill. She was all that I had of my family.
My mother had just died, and I was just so fucking *tired*."
She looked away then, past him, like she had been lost again in a
memory. She did these things too often, when the present became
too much to deal with. Her voice was slow and almost mesmerizing.
"I was standing there, watching the world fall to pieces around
me, and Dawn was bleeding, in pain. And I couldn't kill her. I
couldn't do it. And suddenly, everything made sense. For the
first time in months, I knew something with absolute certainty."
In a hushed voice, Spike asked, "What did you know?"
She smiled, a sad, torn smile, like it hurt to touch her face.
"Death was my gift," she murmured. "It was my reward for all of
this tragedy. I could die in her place, and I could save the
world, and in return, I would never have to live in a world with
those choices again." Her smile was ironic and absolutely
tormenting. "Who knew that God was an Indian giver?"
He was speechless and almost on the verge of tears, and he had
nothing to say to her. He could only stare and deal with the
horrendous, earth-shattering possibility that he had failed her
again.
"Buffy," he finally, hoarsely said, but she merely smiled at him,
her eyes soft and tired.
"Go home, Spike," she said quietly, turning her head back to the
art on the wall. "I'll be home in a little while."
Anguished, he stepped away from her, but never took his eyes off
of her as he slowly walked away. Buffy Summers, cheeks still
round and skin still flawless, preserved as carefully as
possible.
Before he left, he looked again at the picture on the wall, and
suddenly understood everything. She did not insist on the piece
because she liked it; she insisted on it because she *was* it.
She had become nothing more than a still life in glass, stunning
to look at, radiant in its possibility, but ready to break at any
given moment.
When he received the telephone call the next morning, he was not
surprised. He merely listened to the officer and then quietly
passed the telephone to Dawn, never hearing her scream, never
hearing her sob.
The first time, he had wept with the force of his body. Now, he
could only bow his head and think of her lying in the art
gallery, in a pool of her own blood, the stained glass portrait
shattered around her and a shard still resting in her slender
hand. Death was her gift, she had said. Death was her gift.
Oh, she didn't come back right at all.
*****
(end)
*****
Depressing? Morbid? Perhaps. But I always take the morbid road
out, anyway. It's my favorite road. G Feedback is muchly
appreciated at auralissa@aol.com
*****
AUTHOR: Annie Sewell-Jennings
E-MAIL: auralissa@aol.com
SUMMARY: She didn't come back right.
RATING: R for language and some adult content
SPOILERS: "The Gift"
DISTRIBUTION: My site,
http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html, and wherever else
it is wanted, provided that permission is requested prior to
archival
DISCLAIMER: The characters within this story are the property of
Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions; I do not own them and
only write them for my sick pleasure.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I decided to jump on the bandwagon and write some
fanfiction to heal my bleeding heart after the angst-fest that
was "The Gift". But, being the sick and twisted person that I am,
I could not find it in me to write happy fic. The only thought in
my head was the quote from "Forever": "Sometimes, they don't come
back right." This compounded with the word from Joss that Buffy
might not be the same Buffy when she returns... And you have
this. Thanks to Heather, as always, for being a beta goddess. G
*****
Still Life in Glass
*****
She didn't come back right.
They supposed that it was natural, that it was normal for her to
be a little different. She had been through... They did not know
what she had been through. They could not imagine. But it would
be enough to change a girl a little, to make her uncomfortable
and make her haunted.
But they did not know it would be like this.
Perhaps they had waited too long. They had left her for dead for
too many years, trying to deal with the fact of her death, trying
to grapple with reconstruction, and then when they had learned of
the window, of the possibility, they had debated it for so long
that she had only grown more scarred and brittle in her death.
They should have left issues of morality and spirituality
dormant, should have ignored these base, minor matters and just
done it.
Instead, her body lay buried for seven years.
When the art gallery closed every night, when all the lights were
turned out and the locks were placed on the doors, Buffy remained
behind, staring at the same piece. Spike found her there every
night, dressed in her plain black suits and simple jewelry, lost
in the spectrum of a work in stained glass. She was as still as
the work itself, staring into the panes of melted crystal,
seemingly mesmerized by the colors and the shapes.
Spike never moved to touch her, never moved to collect her, as
she was too devastating a work of art in her own right. Do not
touch. Keep behind glass and under dim lighting to avoid
deterioration. Like she was so frail that she would crumble at a
whisper. Perhaps she was; he did not know. Buffy never spoke
about herself, but he knew enough about her to tell that she was
breaking before his eyes and no amount of preservation would keep
her forever.
The piece that she chose showed that she had not inherited her
mother's taste in art; her eye was keener, more discriminating,
more open to the unusual. No tacky African knick-knacks or trendy
Hindu influences for her. In fact, Buffy had not shown much of an
interest in any of the art in the gallery other than for this
one. A woman dancing, a dime tied around her ankle, done in the
style of a religious piece, but decidedly modern. It was the only
piece that she had bought for the gallery, the only one that she
had insisted on and fought for.
It was the only piece that Buffy loved, and the only art that
Spike loved stood in front of it yet another night.
Her hair was pinned up in a twist of dark gold, a sign that she
had seen no sunlight this summer, and her skin was too pale and
her bones too significant. Her plain black pantsuit hung too
heavily on her thin frame, and no matter how polished and elegant
she appeared, she was still too young for her supposed age. His
child queen.
She saw nothing except for the painting.
Buffy hated the work in the gallery. It was all too strange, too
foreign and unreal. The only artwork that she loved rested in the
photograph albums sitting primly next to her bed in her mother's
house, with all of the memories, all of the good old days, before
everything had fallen apart. The family portraits. The snapshots
of friends.
The pictures of Dawn when she had still been a child.
She had never brought herself to update the albums, just as she
had never been able to update her life. Too much had happened in
the last seven years for her to possibly register or grasp. World
news, music, fashion and even sports... Buffy had tried in the
beginning to catch up, but it was too much for her to handle, and
eventually, she just gave up.
More personal events were even more impossible. Xander and Anya
were married and expecting their second child. Willow and Tara
had also gotten married and owned the magic shop, as Giles...
Giles had died merely a year before she had been brought back to
life. She had never kissed him goodbye. She had never hugged him
hello. He was gone, and she was in a world without a Watcher.
Dawn... Giles had been her legal guardian, named so after a
reportedly vicious legal battle with her father, and Spike had
moved himself into the house. She had been raised by Giles and
Spike, and sometimes it showed in her speech, when she would clip
a word oddly or use foreign slang. But it was not her language
that was so different about Dawn.
It was the fact that she looked older than Buffy did.
She was twenty-one now, old enough to be her own self, old enough
to be beautiful. It hurt to look at her now, to see how stunning
she was, how much she glowed and shimmered. Men stopped to stare
at Dawn like they once stared at Buffy. Now, they usually passed
her by.
The world that she had been thrust into was too changed, too
surreal, and she did not understand her place in it now. She had
been thrown into disarray, taken from her place of resting and
crammed back into a world that she did not belong in. Everything
seemed blurry, hazy, like the new cars that whirred by her in
traffic or the beautiful woman who was supposed to be her kid
sister.
Spike was the only one that she could tolerate, because he would
never change.
Buffy could feel him behind her, stalking her like he was her
shadow, and she mostly wanted him to leave. This was her time at
the end of the day, standing inside her dead mother's art gallery
in her uncomfortable business suit, looking at the only thing in
the new world that she understood. This piece of stained glass,
with this portrait of a girl trapped in dance. It was less the
motion, the passion of the dancer, and more the forum in which
the artwork was done.
She understood what it was like to be manufactured out of glass.
His voice was slow behind her ear, and she did not mind the sound
of his voice. It had not deepened or grown thicker, and he had
not gained a new accent. Still the same Spike, with the too-
bright hair and the lecherous smile, though he had apparently
retired his black trophy duster sometime after her death.
"They're closing up," he murmured, and Buffy sighed wearily.
Breathing was too difficult sometimes to handle.
"I have my own keys," she said coldly back, never turning her
eyes away from the piece of glass hanging from the wall. "They
know I'm not going to steal anything."
Only recently had Spike started asking her questions, because it
had taken him three months to work up the nerve to speak to her
in this impossible condition. But now, he tried to engage her in
conversation, tried to find out how she was feeling, and why she
was so hollow. "You always choose this picture," he said then,
and she shrugged her shoulders.
"It's the only one that I like," she said simply, and Spike
swallowed. The sight of her face still took his breath away. He
had gone for too long without watching her alive. The sight of
her breathing, the blink of her eye, the careless grace of her
body... He had almost forgotten what they looked like. Three
months and he could still be caught in the wonder of her mere
existence.
"Why do you like it?" Spike asked then, and Buffy blinked. She
did not want to explain herself. They always wanted explanations,
wanted to know how or why, and she did not want to speak. There
had been no necessity to speak before.
"Because it's fragile," Buffy said, and she did not know why she
had even spoken. Death still had its lingering effects, such as
the inability to decipher between thought and spoken word. There
had been no language in death, no necessity to speak, and now
that there was such communication, she could not handle it.
Buffy could not handle much of anything anymore.
Her answer made his heart ache, just as she had always done.
"Oh," Spike said softly. He didn't understand why she had given
him that answer, and he doubted that he ever would. It had been
absolutely impossible to understand a damned thing that she did
since her return. It tired him to see her so broken, so
mechanical and silent. Buffy wearied him now.
Sighing, Spike reached out to touch her arm, to feel the warmth
of her flesh permeate through the fabric of her jacket. "Come
home, Buffy," Spike said in a hushed voice, and she abruptly
jerked her arm away from him, glaring at the stained glass.
"Home," she spat. "That is not my home anymore." Everything was
different about it; everything had changed. They had taken down
her things from the walls, given away her clothing, and stored
the rest in the attic. Spike had been living in her bedroom, and
she could smell his cigarettes in her wallpaper when she went to
sleep at night. It was not her bedroom anymore. Giles had
redecorated most of the house, and Dawn had taken over the
furnishing after he had passed away.
Giles had died of a heart attack. Buffy sometimes wondered if
that would hurt.
Flinching, Spike stepped away from her, unable to look at her.
Nervously, he ran his hands through his hair, and Buffy kept her
eyes frozen on the glass. "I'm sorry," he started, and Buffy
rolled her eyes.
"Is that all you can do?" she asked frigidly. "You're always
apologizing."
Spike was tired. He was frustrated and tired. She was always so
fucking quiet, and the only words that she ever spoke were harsh,
clipped barbs. She had no passion, no fire, nothing but numbed
chill and the terrifying possibility that she might shatter at
any given moment. It made him angry to see her like this, so
hopeless, and it made him furious at his inability to a damned
thing about it.
Angrily, Spike threw his words at her like daggers. "Well, maybe
if you actually said something that someone could goddamn
understand, then I might have a better clue as to what the bloody
hell to do with you!" he snarled, his voice roaring through the
empty hallways of the gallery and echoing with thunderous rage.
Instantly, he regretted it, looking at her with panicked eyes,
like what he had just said would crack and fracture her, but
Buffy whipped her head around, finally tearing her eyes away from
her sodding picture. "What to do with me?" she asked, her voice
as sharp as a razor. "I don't want you to do anything with me.
What you've done is enough." Her voice almost broke. "Fucking
enough."
Desperately, Spike grabbed her by the shoulders, and she looked
up into his wild eyes. "Tell me, what the hell did we do to you?"
he demanded. "Because I sure as hell don't understand a single
fucking bit of this."
"Why did you bring me back?"
Her voice was sharp, bitter and sour. He could taste the lemon
and shit in her words on his tongue, and everything inside of him
burned with the acidity of it. "What?" he asked hoarsely, and
Buffy stared at him staunchly.
"You don't know what I wanted," she said accusingly. "You never
did. You tell me you love me, that you did this out of love, but
you don't know what I was thinking when I did what I did. I was
ready for this. I was prepared."
Sudden, terrible realization filled his stomach, and he could not
speak, seeing only her hollow, haunted eyes and the newly
acquired pinch to her mouth. "No," he whispered hoarsely, and she
said the words anyway, lost and broken, just to spite him for
making her suffer.
"I didn't want to come back."
"How can you say that?" Spike whispered, and she could tell that
he was absolutely crushed and at a loss at what she had told him.
In the stark white hallways of the gallery, his black turtleneck
and trousers harshly contrasted, and the agony on his face made
him something close to beautiful.
"Because it's the truth," Buffy said in anguish. "I had come to
terms with it before I was going to jump. This world..." She
threw her hands in the air, her voice almost pleading with him to
understand. "God, it made no sense. It made no sense for it to be
Dawn. I love her more than I could ever have believed, and she
was the one I had to kill. She was all that I had of my family.
My mother had just died, and I was just so fucking *tired*."
She looked away then, past him, like she had been lost again in a
memory. She did these things too often, when the present became
too much to deal with. Her voice was slow and almost mesmerizing.
"I was standing there, watching the world fall to pieces around
me, and Dawn was bleeding, in pain. And I couldn't kill her. I
couldn't do it. And suddenly, everything made sense. For the
first time in months, I knew something with absolute certainty."
In a hushed voice, Spike asked, "What did you know?"
She smiled, a sad, torn smile, like it hurt to touch her face.
"Death was my gift," she murmured. "It was my reward for all of
this tragedy. I could die in her place, and I could save the
world, and in return, I would never have to live in a world with
those choices again." Her smile was ironic and absolutely
tormenting. "Who knew that God was an Indian giver?"
He was speechless and almost on the verge of tears, and he had
nothing to say to her. He could only stare and deal with the
horrendous, earth-shattering possibility that he had failed her
again.
"Buffy," he finally, hoarsely said, but she merely smiled at him,
her eyes soft and tired.
"Go home, Spike," she said quietly, turning her head back to the
art on the wall. "I'll be home in a little while."
Anguished, he stepped away from her, but never took his eyes off
of her as he slowly walked away. Buffy Summers, cheeks still
round and skin still flawless, preserved as carefully as
possible.
Before he left, he looked again at the picture on the wall, and
suddenly understood everything. She did not insist on the piece
because she liked it; she insisted on it because she *was* it.
She had become nothing more than a still life in glass, stunning
to look at, radiant in its possibility, but ready to break at any
given moment.
When he received the telephone call the next morning, he was not
surprised. He merely listened to the officer and then quietly
passed the telephone to Dawn, never hearing her scream, never
hearing her sob.
The first time, he had wept with the force of his body. Now, he
could only bow his head and think of her lying in the art
gallery, in a pool of her own blood, the stained glass portrait
shattered around her and a shard still resting in her slender
hand. Death was her gift, she had said. Death was her gift.
Oh, she didn't come back right at all.
*****
(end)
*****
Depressing? Morbid? Perhaps. But I always take the morbid road
out, anyway. It's my favorite road. G Feedback is muchly
appreciated at auralissa@aol.com
*****