"Good to be home"
by Little Miss Muffet
DISCLAIMER; The characters all belong to Mr Joss Whedon and the good people at Mutant Enemy and Fox. Once again, no copyright infringements are intended, and I am making no money from these stories. Please don't sue me, I don't own much, so really there isn't much point. If you ask politely, I'm sure you won't have to sue me to get my Winnie the Pooh wristwatch and collection of CDs.
AUTHORS NOTES; I was really please with the reactions of the reviewers, so I decided to write yet another instalment, this time from Buffy's PoV. This story's set around about the time of Dead Mans Party, kinda the companion story to "Teenage Angst". Dedicated to my earlier reviewers, their suggestions and encouragement brought smiles to my face and joy to my heart. Thank you guys.
(A note to those who read 'return to me'; stop with the anti-Riley comments ok, it's not a B/R story, we are just setting up for Angel's return ok! I took a great deal of time to write that story and the reviews I was getting were not about my story, just about how much people hate Riley. I did not appreciate them.)
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I'm back, home and *boy* does it feel good, I can't remember feeling this good since, well since ever. I don't even know why I bothered returning, nothing's changed, Willow, Xander Mom and Giles, they're the same as when I left. Everything is the same, same gang, same Bronze, same programme, 'cept me. I have changed, I think it's the first time I realised it, when I knocked on my own house door. That when I knew things were different for me.
Mom answered the door; she just stared at me, like I was a figment of her imagination. When she hugged me, it was strange. It was different from how I remembered it, she was stronger, and when she grabbed me I could hardly move. She held me, for comfort, that was clear, but it felt like she was trying to stop me bolting, so I would never leave again. I didn't like it, sure I thought about bolting 10 seconds before she answered the door, but I stayed. When she held me, I knew she didn't trust me anymore, that things between us would never be the same again. And I was glad.
I went to my old room, and it hadn't changed at all. It was eerie, it felt wrong. The room belonged to the old Buffy, not me. All the things on the bureau, the hairbrush, the jewellery; hers, not mine. Still, I ignored my gut instinct to bolt, and I looked around a bit. It was like everything was new to me, but familiar. It was distressing. I moved my bag with all my stuff onto the bed and started putting all the things back into the closets.
Even the closets were strange, musty from disuse. Everything in it mine, but not. I feel sick to the very core of my being in this room, like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not, and I am leading my Mom on. Its gonna hurt her when she finds out I'm not her daughter any more, when she finds out that I'm some sick twisted side-show freak conjured up to fight things that aren't even supposed to be real. She'll find out I'm a monster that fights monsters, that I'm a killer, dealing in the black art of death, a skilled warrior unable to relate to humanity anymore. I'm afraid, I'm afraid that she'll find out that I'm hollow. There's no love inside me anymore, only stupid self-pity and guilt, nothing Mom would understand, and nothing to the degree of what the Scoobies can understand.
When Dawnie came in, she ran to me and grabbed me. The look on her face, it almost broke my heart, or it would have the old Buffy. I just stood, I returned her hug, but mine lacked the feeling. I had missed her, and I do love her, but if I love her like I did, I know something will change, come and snatch her away from me, like they did with Angel… Well, Dawn hugged me for what seemed an eternity,( a very uncomfortable eternity), then she looked at me, staring me in the eyes. I tried to stare back, to show her that I could meet her gaze, that I was back, but couldn't, I broke her glance, I looked away. She knows there's nothing there for her now, just emptiness, she could see it in my eyes, I know she could. She knows, and I could see the rage building inside her, her skin flushing pink and her eyes set hard. What could I do, I just turned away, it's better for her this way, she'll understand one day, I know she will.
I put all my stuff away, back in they're old spaces. Things seemed to click into place, like they belonged like that, but still I had this weird, uneasy feeling. Then it was like it hit me at a hundred miles an hour, this horrible, cold, awful awful feeling overcame me, and I freaked. I grabbed a sweater and started to leave, then I remembered, I can't just do that anymore. I have obligations now, I have to check all my movements with someone now. I felt for a fleeting moment the sense of freedom I had given up playing heavy on my mind. I turned and guiltily entered my Mom's room.
Needless to say, the conversation was uneasy, neither of us really wanted to talk about what happened when I was away, and as we didn't want to talk, there wasn't much to stay in for. But part of me yearned for my mother to beg me to stay with her; to tell her everything so I could share my guilt. But, Mom wasn't buying, she just told me that I could go, she wouldn't stop me. I felt, I felt sad and hurt. Mom didn't want to know, she was denying everything that my leaving accomplished, she was denying the problem and avoiding the truths. I felt, disappointed. No matter what I do here, nothing seems enough, everything I do is washed away, like when you write in the sand and the tide comes in. That's just how I feel.
On the other hand, how could I possibly expect or want them to know how I feel, why I ran away. They don't know what its like to exist solely for the person you love, to have a love that burns so deep, a connection so intimate that it destroys you both, consuming you heart and soul. The violence that our love accomplished, scar tissue and all, that love was unique. Forbidden. Destroyed. They don't know what happened to him, I can't tell them. I can't tell them I murdered him, that I killed my lover. I still can't bear to tell myself, it would break me.
Whistler said I had one thing left to lose, I lost it. I lost myself. I don't know who I am anymore, sure I may go by the same name, but Buffy Summers died a long time ago. May she finally rest in peace.
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I found this story quite difficult to write as I found the emotions Buffy was feeling hard to capture and pen. Anyway, here is the finished article. Please review!!!!!!
Little miss
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(I don't think I'll write another instalment into the events of Dead Mans Party, unless you think that everything isn't finished off.) Tell me.