Young and Beautiful
Simsgal
M for mature + intense trigger warning: suicide.
Something isn't right. Martin Chambers looked up from his calculus homework and out into the rainy atmosphere, his window coated in dew and droplets of fresh rain. He looked at his bedside clock and noticed it was late in the evening, marking twenty-four hours since he last saw Buffy. She didn't come to school today, and the last conversation they had was quick and fleeting.
Ever since the accident Marty made sure to check on the mulatto multiple times in the day, but his calls rang endlessly until her voicemail played out and his messages were left on delivered. Buffy was trying her hardest to cope, and he knew this, but it was so difficult seeing her that way. Cast up her leg, her arm bruised black (and his face shared a similar bruise), her future eliminated by a drunk driver.
"Buffy, we're going home now." Buffy liked how Marty said home, combining both of their homes, but was upset with him and fought with all of her might as he tried to grab her.
"I don't want to go home! I-I'm having a good time." She slurred, her breath smelled of wine coolers and Patron shots. He could almost laugh at how cute she was, getting drunk off wine coolers.
"You've had enough of a good time." They spent the entire week mad at eachother and then somehow both end up at TJ's party. He sees her there, her hair perfect as usual, each spiral falling over her shoulders revealed in a red bodysuit with a dipping back. Buffy looked so good in red. He drank spitefully from his own cup. So damn stubborn. Everything was fine until she had to disagree with him.
"You k-know, you can't tell me who to hang out with-th, Martin." She says low, dragging some of her ending cosanants.
''I can if it's TJ. Now go get in the car." She shakes her head and he sighs and uses his strength to easily toss a reluctant Buffy over his shoulder, but not before taking his flannel off and tying it around her waist to cover her blue jean shorts that were cut high and hid nothing.
"Let me go! Knock it off!" she whined, slapping his back, and to him that only hurt a little.
Him.
Buffy would never run again. No soccer, no track, no flag football, nothing. Her sports equipment sat and gathered dust in the corner chair of her room, mocking her almost. Marty blamed himself. He blamed the beer pong, the shots. He blamed TJ too, and he blamed Beatrice Driscoll for being so damn beautiful with her long spiral curls and baby smile. But mostly he blamed himself for getting in that damn car, behind the wheel.
But she wasn't mad at him. Far from it. Marty knew this in his soul and was content, unable to function if the brunette was mad with him. That was obvious the night of the party. He wished they had never got in that car together. He can still remember how his cheeks turned pink as her hair brushed against his bare arms, how her legs were smooth and how she always put up a fight like that.
Most after that was a blur. They were going so fast, and both of their voices continues to raise octaves so high they didn't manage to hear the horn of a car as Martin ran the light.
Martin's head begins to hurt as he dials Buffy's number one more time. And then again, and even a third time and with each no answer he's putting on a hoodie and shoes. He grabs his keys and after the sixth call he throws the useless phone on the bed before spilling out of the house. He shuffles down the stairs, and enters the wet night quickly. Rain drops fell onto his flushed face.
"Buffy why aren't you answering the phone?" he groans loudly in frustration, agony, his heart starting to hurt. He remembers her voice when she called him that night from the hospital room. Her voice high, and that mirthless barking laugh present.
"They said I'm going to need surgery on my calf and my knees- my entire leg almost."
He mindlessly and casually played with his stopwatch in the other hand, looking at he and Buffy's intials engraved in the back. "When will you heal up? You know it's almost track season." At that Buffy had to swallow the acid that had risen to her throat, her eyes burning immensely as she became feverish.
"It won't matter." She laughs out, that ugly sharp laugh Martin hates. "Dr. Ravoff said I won't be expected to recover fully to run track. I won't even be able to play soccer. And he said I was 'lucky'." Martin freezes in his place. "Lucky I even made it." He felt so much pain in his stomach: guilt.
And as he realized that Buffy's chances of getting signed to a university were now only a distant desire, he slammed his forehead against his steering wheel. "Fuck!" and as he started the car and drove past the speed limit, he thought of how Buffy would probably limp for the rest of her life. She would always have a scar going down the back of her leg.
She would never run again.
Marty also realized Buffy would rather be dead than live this life. His eyes were full of hot angry tears as he rushed to her house. Sports were everything to Buffy. Her hand palming the basketball, her legs pumping and the baton sliding through her nimble fingers. Marty secretly kissed her hand before every track meet, every basketball game, allowing the charms of the bracelet he got for her sixteenth birthday to trickle through his own palm, and he would linger on the charm that had her fastest time engraved in it—well, it was the time she beat him by when they raced. 33.9
The hand that guided seven percocets prescribed for pain into her mouth an hour ago. The pain she would feel in her scarred leg, the pain she would feel in her joints for every rainfaill and winter to come.
"You can't tell me what to do, Marty." He scoffs and looks to Buffy, who was illuminated by the stop lights. Her face turned yellow and then red as they stopped at a light. She emphasized each word, her tongue solid behind her lips even though she was intoxicated.
"You do shit like this just to piss me off. This was never about TJ, Beatrice. This is about you and me." He snarled, low and dangerous.
"There is no you and me!" she screams and his eyes darken, his jaw clenched as her face glows soft green again, her lips pouty and red with anger.
"Shut up. Shut up Buffy. We're going home, let's see you have an attitude then. None of those people care about you."
"And neither do you." She yells back, and he is going so fast right now. "You never cared, I was just something else to be won. Another damn trophy. I refuse-"
"Buffy, shut up, Just shut up." He cuts her off, allowing his voice to fall over hers harshly.
"No, let me talk Marty! You never let me talk!."
Marty is driving so fast in the rain he might get in another accident. The drops pick up as he skids to a wet stop in front of Buffy's house and see's her bathroom light is clicked on. He almost falls out of the front seat and runs up to Buffy's door, which is cracked open. He runs in.
"Buffy!?" he screams out, his face hot as he hears the shower running upstairs. He trips up them and hits his own hurting leg on a the corner of the step but simply gets up, ignoring the dull ache this disruption caused.
And then her face was radiating red anger and heat, the glow smooth and exuberant, except those feelings were only internal. At the full speed of sixty miles per hour, the speed he managed to reach while arguing with his best friend, his girlfriend, he smashed into something solid. There was glass, and sliding, and then he blacked out. The last thing he saw was that red glowing face, an angel.
A red light.
He inahles steamy air and chokes after pushing the bathroom door open, Buffy's clothes are in a pile on the floor. He sobs as he sees her limp figure through the blurred shower glass. He slides the barrier back, and a strained cry crawls from his raw throat as Buffy lay on the shower floor, her eyes so glazed, foam escaping from her cracked lips, her curls wet and heavy below her naked form. Her cast was bloated with water and weighed her body down as he attempted to grasp her. He is fully clothed as he steps in and attempts to sit her up, his own mind in another place. His arm brushes against her nipples as he leans her forward and sticks his fingers down her throat repeatedly.
"Come on, baby. Come on." He whispers, his own tears mixing with the steam of the room. He pats her back harshly, leaving red hand prints as he tries his hardest. He can only sob as Buffy lay there in his arms, limp, not fighting.
Suddenly, she begins to wretch, but she's not herself. She's been shutdown and now her body is reacting on its own. She chokes up yellow and white thick bile, her eyes rolling over and watering as her poison attempts to escape, and he pats until no more will come out and the mixture of failure, of humiliation, and of desperation washes down the shower drain. He sees her phone on the tile, having vibrated itself onto the floor. He tiredly reaches over to grab it. He dials the police, and then sits in the shower, Buffy in his arms, her eyes now closed lightly, mouth still parted, his hand first brushing wet hair from her shoulders and face. His own hair stuck to him and covered his eyes as he then trailed his hands down to the bracelet. He lingers on the charm with the numbers engraved and yells out, questioning whatever god allowed this to happen.
A red light.
x
Hello andi mack fans. As you know I was writing a multi-chaptered fic, but I stopped writing it mainly because the show is still running and my story is not meshing well with the story line. The extra girlfriend and kid thing, buffy's mom, and all of that. It just don't add up, especially when my extra kid and mom were named sam and amelia and theres was miranda and some other hussy, idk… so… I decided to basically condense the story into drabbles and short stories. This originally wouldve been around chapter 30 or so and if you pay attention yes, Marty got her a bracelet for her birthday. Obviously the chapter wouldve been longer but this is a short story.
Anyway, mentall illness is scary. Being alone is scary. If you feel that you need help, seek it. Call a hotline. Im not allowed to list them here but get the help you need before its too late.
-simmy