Walking in Fear
Prologue
There was nothing to it, she recited again to herself as she passed down the dim corridor. The silence shrieked in her ears like a heavy metal band, unending, maddening, drowning in sorrow. She had done this to herself, there was only one way to solve it, to save them; to face what she had created.
There was no sideways motion here, no escaping, no hope. Just moving forward, terror but especially sorrow pulling at her, squeezing her heart and holding her back, but she strode forward regardless. Her footsteps, sounding small and weak to her ears, marked each step; slower and more cowardly than she had intended. She could feel her breath in her throat, fearful and shallow, her nimble fingers trembled as she made weak fists. It was somewhere ahead.
The dim light from each doorway cast alternating patterns of light and dark across her path, across her steps, her face. She shuddered, again seeing its eyes as she looked down at it, in unrestrained anguish and pleading.
"Save me," it had begged, she had begged. But fear had overridden her then, she had given in to it, and had sent the thing to a hell worse than any conceivable. Now it was back. No. Now she was back, killing, laughing, knowing she would come for her. And so she came.
Dawn walked down the hallway, towards her fear. The walk stretched time into forever. Her building terror, her quivering breath and clammy palms the only indication she was approaching her destination. She had tried to come to terms with her own death; that nauseatingly unnatural conclusion which gnawed at her insides with each step. In the stale, cold air of this ungodly corridor, and the fear which pervaded it, she had tried to rationalize it to herself. This was her doing, and if she died - no, when she died to finish it, she might be able to stand the thought of herself again.
It was only her body which she had failed to convince. As far as it was concerned, she should be running as hard and fast away from this place as possible, or at the very least finding a high place from which to fling herself. But not this. Anything but this- this living hell of indescribable agony to which she was headed.
Before her body could quite find the motive to end itself then and there, she had arrived. The cold metal of the door opened without a sound and the light of a crescent moon illuminated the room in shades of black and silver.
With no motive but fear itself, she found herself wanting to vomit. The stale air had suddenly become too intense to inhale, the cold too much for goose bumps to quell.
The still figure standing by the window said nothing as Dawn approached, her stomach quivering, no longer breathing at all. She gripped the hem of her shirt to keep her hands from trembling.
This was the epitome of horror. With a now furiously trembling hand, she reached out, a slight whimper escaping her. Before she could touch the shoulder, the figure turned, its rotting, moldering face the parody-maker of all death Dawn had yet seen.
"Daughter," the corpse of Joyce mouthed.
Dawn awoke to the sounds of her own screams. Before even Buffy could awake and rush into her sister's room, Dawn's screams had degenerated into panicked and sorrow-stricken sobs. She clutched her bunched covers, soaked with her own cold sweat, her breath ragged and shallow, the fear from her dream following her to the waking world. The sorrow of her mother's death driving into her heart like an auger.
Only when her older sister's arms wrapped around her, hugging her, holding her close, stroking her hair, uttering words which tried to penetrate the nightmare, did Dawn's sobbing diminish to mere whimpers. She trembled ceaselessly.
When a light had been turned on and Buffy and Dawn were sitting comfortably in Dawn's bed, snuggled tight, some minutes later, Buffy broke the comforting silence.
"Dawnie, tell me about your dream," to the resulting silence she added, "mom?" She felt Dawn's head, nestled up to her shoulder, nod. Buffy gave her an additional squeeze.
It had been two and a half weeks since Joyce had died of her brain aneurysm, and Buffy and Dawn had both been plagued by varying degrees of nightmares. None so far, however, had led to this.
"Do you want me to sleep here tonight?" Buffy asked softly.
Dawn shook her head and sniveled. "No. Thanks, I'm fine now." She sat up, trying to brush her hair from her tear stained face. "Thanks," she added again.
"We'll talk tomorrow," Buffy consoled her. With another hug and a kiss to her forehead, Buffy went to the door. "Get some sleep." And the light went out, leaving the room lit in tones of black and silver.