Once upon a time my life was very simple

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon. This story is loosely based on a book called Watching the Roses, by Adele Geras. The book Watching the Roses is loosely based on Sleeping Beauty. The title is from a musical called The Witches Of Eastwick.

I Wish I May.

Once upon a time my life was very simple. I went to school, and I came home. I was no trouble to anyone and people rarely worried about me. Now my life is different.

I spend my days alone in my room, sleeping all day and only rising when the sun has set. Then I stare outside and regard the world as it changes before my eyes.

My parents worry. Of course they do. I haven't come out of my room for three weeks. In the beginning they fought. Now there's nothing left to say, so they just drink themselves to sleep. They sleep, and they worry.

I don't worry. I can't seem to let my mind do anything but run through past memories. Times I had before.

Three weeks ago was my 18th birthday party. It should have been wonderful, a perfect day for everyone, but it was ruined, ripped and torn to shreds. Now, when someone comes into my room, I lie very still on my bed, pretending I'm not here, wondering what it would be like if I wasn't. They try and get me to speak but I wont, I can't. It's not going to change anything. The only daily visitor I have is my mother, and I am always in position on my bed for when she enters. She leaves me food, which I eat little of, hours after she has left.

My father, Hank, was a successful businessman, and in his spare time he would tend the garden. My mother, Joyce, ran an art gallery and painted whenever she could. My father would make the garden beautiful, and my mother would paint it. They don't do either now. My mind drifts through the house, and I can hear conversations from where I lie. They don't do anything they used to. This house is as closed off as I am now.

Sometimes I hear people come to the door. They are always turned away. Mostly they are my friends, Willow and Xander. When there is nothing to hear, I think of them.

We three were inseparable in the days before the party. We went to the same school, Sunnydale High, and we would spend every minute together, in the library with the librarian, Mr Giles or at the Bronze with our other friends. From what I hear of their rushed conversations with my parents, they don't do much of anything anymore. They visit every day, but never come into my room. I think they're afraid of what they might see.

I'm afraid of they'll see too. If they see me as what I've become, a shell, a silent, broken, shadow of the person I used to be, then that makes the blurry memory of what happened to me true, and brings it into sharp focus.

I can't think about it now. I couldn't think about it when it was happening.

I must think of my friends.

Before the party, on the days when I was happy and carefree, Willow, Xander and I would sit in the library with Mr Giles and listen to his stories. He had such stories to tell. Stories from his youth, which were always dangerous and exciting, and stories of his life, the people he'd met and the jobs he'd undertaken. We always said he'd lived such a rich life for a librarian. He'd tell us we'd live rich lives too, if only we told the stories properly. After hearing this, the three of us began to tell stories of our own childhoods, times before we met. Xander would tell us about his family warring over the Christmas turkey, and about his uncle Rory's eccentricities. His stories were always the funny ones. Willow would tell stories about her dreams. She dreamed every single night and remembered every detail the next day, and she would fill Xander and me in about everything. Her stories would always end with us trying to discern meaning from the mess.

Dreams have always seemed to me to be thin, inconsistent slips of imagination. An escape from a world where no-one belongs. My dreams trap me. I find myself locked in place as unseen horrors surround me, enveloping me until I wake up shaking. Every night I wonder about Willow's dreams. How did she harness those wild thoughts into such beautiful things? Simple beauties, floating through the subconscious, filling us with wonder. Those dreams are lost to me, and I wonder if I'll ever feel that joy, that confusion again.

I used to tell stories about my aunts.

Willow and Xander used to say that my stories were the best, but I believe it's only because I had the best material. They used to beg me to tell them about my aunts, and I would happily oblige. I would start all my stories the same way, and they never seemed to tire of it.

'Once upon a time, there were seven women who had nothing in common except that they were siblings of a woman named Joyce Summers,' I would begin. 'They were the Kent sisters.'

'Tell us about them!' Willow would always say at that point.

'The oldest sister was called Cordelia, and she would call herself the most outspoken of the sisters. The real truth was that most of them were contenders for that title. She had long dark hair, and married a wealthy man called Allen Francis Doyle when she was very young.'

Predictably, at that point, Xander would always ask the same question. 'What happened to Doyle?'

I would smile, and answer the same as I always did. 'Doyle was killed when he tried to defend a bank teller during a robbery. Aunt Cordy would always tell us how he died helping the helpless.

'The next sister was called Anya. She never married, and spent all her time in the shop she owned, counting her money. When she was younger, she'd spend all her time in relationships with young gorgeous guys who she knew would screw up. After the relationship failed, she and her sisters would all find a way to punish the guy. They would spread rumours about him, or give him these concoctions that would lead to curious but usually mild illnesses.'

At that point Xander would always make the same joke about how it was no surprise that she never married. Willow and I would smile like always, and I would continue.

'The next sister was called Tara, who was really smart, and very enigmatic. She always told us that there was real magic in this world, and real evil too. She was very quiet with strangers but when she was with her sisters she opened up and became the most interesting person in the room.'

'She sounds wonderful,' Willow would breathe at this point.

'The fourth sister was called Joyce, and she married a man named Hank Summers and had a beautiful baby girl named Buffy!' I would always laugh at this point, while Xander and Willow would roll their eyes at me. 'Buffy was born into this world amidst celebrations; you see, Joyce and Hank never thought they'd be able to have children.

'The next sister was called Faith. She was the toughest of the eight, and always stood up for her sisters when they were in trouble. After Faith came Kendra, whose birth was totally suspicious. Their mother had in fact been having an affair when Kendra was conceived, which was really, really clear when she was born. After a few months of living with this fact, the marriage fell apart completely and their father left their again pregnant mother to raise them alone.'

'How awful!' Willow would gasp.

'However, several months later, the last product of the sisters' parents' marriage was born. Harmony was conceived just after Kendra's birth, and she was as happy a baby as they came. Cheery and vivacious, Harmony cheered up everyone after the utter devastation of their father leaving them.'

'But that's only seven!' Xander would complain.

'Ah yes,' I'd continue mysteriously, even though they both knew what was coming. 'There was one more sister to be born, as a result of their mother's second marriage. A mere year after Harmony's birth, their mother bore Glory.

'Glory was an outcast in the family, never sharing in her sisters games and instead amusing herself by immersing herself in dark things, magic and evil. When she reached the age of sixteen, she moved away from her family and travelled, searching for something to satisfy her craving for darkness.'

'Did she ever find anything?' Willow would whisper.

'I don't know. No-one's heard from her for years,' I would laugh, and that would be the end of it.

My head fills with thoughts of Glory and I can no longer recall the comforting memories of my friends.

I fall into my bed in the early hours of the morning, only having been awake for a few, and once again drift into unconsciousness with images of Glory and the party flitting through my mind.

When I wake, the first thing I hear is voices through my window. Willow and Xander have arrived for their daily visit. I hear them as they exchange awkward pleasantries with my mother. They're invited upstairs to see if they can reach me. They decline. It's the same dance, day after day. I quickly calculate the date today and realise that another visitor is due soon.

I hear Willow and Xander leave, and my mother walking slowly back to her bedroom. She needn't bother. I can hear the approach of someone else outside already.

I believe this time alone has made me hear the tiniest noises through the thick sheets of silence that surround me. Aunt Tara would tell me that this is an everyday magic. I used to believe her instantly when she spoke of the world this way. To think that there were divine, romantic reasons for little things seemed so beautiful. But now I find it hard to believe there's any kind of magic in the world. This time alone has also made me see evil everywhere.

As I predicted, someone arrived at the door, announcing that arrival by ringing the doorbell. The sharp noise shot through the house like an alarm bell. None of our visitors ever rang the doorbell. They used soft knocks to announce their presence, as if too loud a noise would make this fragile house fall down.

There was only one person who rang the doorbell anymore.

'Spike?' I heard my mother say downstairs.

'Joyce. She come out yet?'

Spike was a friend of mine from school. Never as close as Willow or Xander, he was nevertheless a confidante and occasional study buddy. He came here every week, the only one of my friends to actually come into the room and see me. He tells me everything I'm missing, locked up here in my tomb. He begs me to awaken. He doesn't know what happened, because no-one knows. They think they do, but they don't, and I'm not telling them.

'No, Spike. She's still upstairs.'

I hear the heavy stomping of his big black biker boots as he makes his way to my room.

I arrange myself on the bed, and close my eyes just as he walks in.

''Ello Buffy.'

Even with my eyes shut, I can picture the scene perfectly in my head. Spike is standing in the doorway with my mother hovering behind him. He's wearing a long black leather duster even through winter in California is hardly cold enough for one. He's probably got a red shirt on over a black t-shirt, or maybe just a black shirt on. His jeans are black and his boots are the same as always.

That's one of the comforting things about Spike. He never ever changes.

'I can take it from here, Joyce,' I hear him say. His voice is loud compared with the hushed tones everyone else uses around me.

I hear my mother pad away, probably to go back to her room with her favourite schnapps.

Spike shuts the door behind him, and stomps over to sit in the chair next to my bed. He reaches over and I can feel him brush some hair off my face.

'You're awake.'

He knows. He always knows.

My eyes stay resolutely shut.

'Fine.' He sighs. 'Have Willow and Xander been yet today? They probably have…' he sits back in his chair; I hear it creaking. 'Bet they didn't come up.'

I flinch, and I know he sees it.

'I knew it.' He sighs again. 'I wish I could make this better, pet…Please just look at me?'

He's made the same pleas for the past two weeks. I can't look at him for the same reason Willow and Xander can't look at me. I'm scared of what I might see. I'm terrified that my silence is hurting him; them; everyone, and I'll be able to see it.

'Please, pet, talk to me?'

I've always heard voices in my head. Alive and pure and singing to me with their innocence. That voice is different now. It's sharp, and talks in riddles. The meandering streams of silliness that once flowed through my mind are gone, dry. I know that if I started to speak, I would have a different voice.

I sense him leaning over me. I can feel the heat radiating from him as he grabs my shoulders.

Suddenly for reasons I can't fathom, I was crying. Two tears eked out from under my eyelids, and, seeing this, Spike let go of me like I was electrically charged.

'You know I'm here. You know I'm here…'

As Spike fell silent, I found myself thinking back to a time just before the party. I was with Willow and Xander, and we were discussing the guest list.

'Are you going to invite him?' Willow had said excitedly.

'I don't know if I can…he's so busy, and so far away!'

'He loves you, Buffy, he'll come!' Xander had insisted.

'Okay…we'll send an invite,' I'd agreed, smiling happily. Suddenly we'd all become aware of Spike lurking nearby, a certain look on his face. I'd seen that look before. Hurt, confused, and slightly angry.

'Spike!' I'd called, still smiling. 'Come join us!'

'Nah,' he'd replied in his rough cockney accent. 'I'll leave you guys to your party stuff. Guess I'll be meeting your honey there…' He'd turned his back and walked away.

'Okay, was that just me or did he seem totally jealous?' Willow had raised her eyebrow knowingly.

'Spike? Jealous? Over me? Don't be silly, Will!' I'd grinned, dismissing the thought.

Xander had shaken his head at me before we'd moved onto another topic, and this was what was on my mind as I lay here with Spike marvelling over two tiny tears that I'd shed while he was with me.

Spike and I had always had a strictly friendly relationship. He and I weren't remotely compatible. In fact we'd fought bitterly the first few years we knew each other. And yet here he was. Rejoicing over a tiny indication that I still recognised him, and knew he was there.

While Spike was there, I believe I fell asleep. When I awoke, I had turned in my sleep onto my stomach, and Spike was gone. I'm certain that he's still marvelling over the fact I'd moved as much as to turn over in his presence.

A/N: Let me know what you think, please.