In The Closet: A Series of Short Ficlets
By Umma
AN: These are based on the challenge in a can at http://www.dymphna.net/challenge/
I haven't submitted this story quite yet. I wanted to see if they're any good based on the feedback I get... so please R&R (Even if it's helpful criticism)
SPOILERS FOR SEASON 6Willow. Lonely. Boots.
Old Leather
She finds them in the closet. On the shelf, above her clothes. There they sit: Dark brown. Leather. Soft and wrinkled from being worn too many times. Scuffed in all the right places. Laces pulled and twisted in knots. They look worn in, and they were.
Willow reaches the three feet above her and grabs the boots by the tongues. She brings them down to eye level and a smile creeps upon her face. A small smile, just enough to make a change in her expression. They're beautiful. All torrid and dehydrated. These boots had been worn with love, anyone could tell her that.
Tara had worn them, maybe once, twice? After she met Willow, she changed. She was no longer scared, shy, inverted Tara. No she became herself. Her true self. She was happy and everything changed about her. She no longer wore the same baggy jeans and sweaters two sizes to big and the combat boots that Willow now held in her hands. Yes, Tara changed for the better.
Willow was sure, though, that if she had found only one, it wouldn't be the same. Just one boot. Missing its partner. She's not sure she'd feel the same. The boot would look sad and pathetic without it's lover, it's soul mate. The boot would look different too. A bad kind of different. Completely mutilated, disgusting and old.
Like she feels.
Like she acts.
Like she is.
Willow smiles and brings the boots to her nose. They smell of lavender and jasmine. They smell of Tara. She stares at the boots and slowly places them on the ground by her feet. She'll keep them. They might be old and worn and wrinkled. But she figures she will be too, one day soon. And someone will find her in a closet, and they will look at her as a boot. One boot. Missing its partner. Lover. Soul mate.
They will find her there. Lonely without her other half. And they will love her. Just as a boot. As one. They will be her other boot, and she won't feel mutilated, disgusting, and old.
She'll feel brand new.
Xander. Upset. Doll.
Christmas Dolls
He's looking for his tie. The blue one with diagonal teal stripes. He's late for the meeting with his boss down at the site. They're starting a new project soon and the buyer will be there. It'll probably be a shopping mall, or apartment building again. They always are.
He's on his knees, digging in the closet of his bedroom. He's pulling out shoes, posters, and boxes of all kinds. Xander's sure the tie fell from the tie rack hanging above. It has to be there. On the ground. Next to the boxes. He pulls out a large rectangular box. It's bigger than the shoeboxes that he thought only occupied the space on the floor of his closet. Forgetting about the tie, he places the box on his lap. Curious as to what it is, he gently feels the sides for the lip of the lid. The box is covered in Christmas wrapping paper. Tiny, painted scenes from The Nutcracker. He lifts the lid to reveal a beautiful doll. And suddenly, he remembers: Two Christmas' ago, when they first started seriously dating, he had taken Anya to see The Nutcracker ballet in San Diego.
She had wanted to go and he had not. She begged and pleaded, dropping hints everywhere. Pointing out the advert in the newspaper and making tiny comments on how many good comments the ballet received in its review. Finally, he had went out and bought the tickets. He didn't let her know. And just as the ballet was finishing up its last week in San Diego, and just when Xander was sure Anya was horribly upset about him not taking her, he showed her the tickets. She'd squealed and jumped and had tears spilling out of the corners of her eyes before she showered him with hugs and kisses.
That Christmas eve, they traveled the 96 kilometers to San Diego and watched the ballet's finest performance. During the intermission, as they were leaving the auditorium, Anya noticed mini kiosks set up in the lobby. Each of them selling priceless memorabilia of The Nutcracker.
She had found something she loved. A beautiful porcelain doll. She stood 16 inches and she was dressed in a pale pink dress with white lace and a pink ribbon in the dark curled hair that framed her nearly white face. It was a reproduction of the little girl, Clara, from the Nutcracker story. Anya fell in love with the little porcelain girl, clutching her to her chest and pleading to Xander with her eyes. Reluctantly, he bought it for her. She was ecstatic. For the rest of the ballet, Anya held that doll as if it were a child. Later on, when they were back in Sunnydale, Xander found out that the Clara doll reminded Anya of her little sister, back when she had been human. She'd loved that doll more than any other of her worldly possessions. That's why, when Clara's hand was broken off accidentally during the move to the apartment, Anya had been miserable. She cried for hours on end. Xander couldn't believe how attached his girlfriend had been to that doll. They tried to fix her hand, and when that didn't work he tried finding a replacement. He never did find another doll quite like that one. After about a month the doll ended up in the closet, and was forgotten there.
Xander holds the doll carefully now. In the box, laying in between the white tissue paper is a ghostly pale hand. The tiny white fingers have a light pink nail polish on them and the wrist is broken. All sharp and jagged.
Like their relationship now. It's broken. It could be fixed, but he doesn't feel like fixing anything today.
He puts the doll gently back in the box and places the lid on top. One day, he'll take it out again, try to fix it, but for now, it will stay there, pushed to the far back of the closet. Forgotten. Like their love for one another.
Xander decides to leave the tie. He doesn't really need it. He stands up and with one glance back to the box holding Clara; he closes the door behind him.
He'll fix the doll another day.
When he's ready.
Dawn. Angry. Cigarettes.
Glowing Cherry
She's Upset. Furious. She's frantically digging through her pockets of the jean jacket hanging in the closet. She needs them. Wants them, and craves them. She needs her release. Finally, a packet of Marlboros falls out of the pocket and lands on the floor by her big toe. Sighing she bends down to pick them up. Opening the tiny carton she walks over to her door and closes it, careful not to wake Willow in the next bedroom. It's 11 PM and Buffy is still at work. She'll probably patrol afterwards too. Dawn has no reason to be extra cautious. She moves over to her bedroom window and opens it. Wind blows the curtains away from the window and makes them billow around Dawn. She pushes them to the side and leans out her window. She reaches into the packet and retrieves her translucent green lighter. She takes out a cigarette too. Placing the smoke in between her lips she flicks the lighter until a small flame dances near her thumb. She lights up her cigarette and throws the lighter on the bed next to her. She breathes in the heavy smoke and holds it there, feeling the smoke flow through her esophagus and down to her lungs where it sits before she breathes it out through her mouth.
She's not trying to be bad. After all that's happened, she's trying to be good. Cigarettes are a stress release for her. When she smokes she feels better, alive. She finds that ironic and lets a laugh escape her mouth along with smoke.
She was in Spike's crypt a month ago, two weeks after he left. Clem was there but he didn't notice her take the full, unwrapped package of smokes. She'd thought she'd give it a go. After all, nothing else was working. Especially not the sleeping pills the doctor gave her. These were now her personally prescribed sleeping drugs. It felt good.
After Tara died, she couldn't sleep anymore. Tossing and turning she'd remember all the horrible thing that happened that week. She couldn't help but feel sorrow, and guilty too. She was angry at Warren. For shooting her best friend. She was angry at herself for not being there to stop Warren or shield Tara. She was angry at Willow for not taking the bullet instead of Tara.
No. Dawn takes that back. She never was angry at Willow. Now Dawn feels guilty again for blaming such a horrible thing on Willow. She takes another drag from the smoke in-between her fingers.
She figures she's like the cigarette she's holding. Deadly, but soothing. No. She only wants to be deadly, and will always be a comfort for everyone else. Nothing will ever happen to Dawn. She'll always be the same, good girl.
But, God... how she wants to be that cigarette. It's intoxicating. Why can't she be that? She sighs and inhales the last of the smoke. Reaching out the window again, she puts out the cherry on the side of the house. She throws the butt in the garbage; underneath all the tissues she's placed in there for cover-up. She breathes a deep breath and picks up the lighter and places it back in the box next to the rest of the cigarettes. Placing them back in her coat pocket, she closes the closet door behind her and crawls into bed. She leaves the window open to get rid of the rest of the smoke. Pulling the sheets up to her neck she closes her eyes.
Yes, one day she will be intoxicating, deadly, and poisonous as that cigarette she held. One day. She'll have to wait, but she doesn't mind.
Unlike that cigarette, she won't be put out anytime soon.
She'll make sure of it.
Next Stories:
Anya. Lonely. Nail polish.
Spike. Giddy. Bag.
Buffy. Sensuous. Jewelry.