Part 1

~ April, 1998 ~

Quiet was the word you would use to describe the house. While other families were busy laughing and carefree-ing the cool night away, the two occupants of this home were just silent. They sat in separate rooms, distracting themselves with meaningless tasks. It was all just to pass the time. It had been that way for a while now. Going back a few months ago, if you had walked into this cheerful little house, filled with artwork and soft lights, it would have been the stable assumption that there would be music and laughter and the perpetual fragrance of cookies and homemade lasagna. Now, the smell was barely a lingering memory of what this family had been: something that was no more.

The house still appeared inviting to the outsider's perspective but the two living there had a jumpy aura to themselves now.

It was ironic in a way: for years she had struggled along in school and now Buffy could practically be at the top of her class. That is, if she was still enrolled there…which she wasn't. This was merely a tiny reason in a dictionary-sized book of reasons for the quiet. Her mother used to pride herself on lecturing Buffy about school and how "important grades were if you were going to get into a good college" and "don't you even say you don't want to go to college, Buffy, don't you even start that." "Why can't you be more like Willow?" "Can't you focus on school for two seconds?" "Honestly, Buffy, you're driving me up the wall!" "Boys aren't the only thing in this world, you know!"

Boys. That would have been a laugh…had Buffy been able to. But she had taken one path and was now unable to will her face to form even the ghost of a smile. If it was true that laughing made you healthier then she was surprised she wasn't dead by now. She went through the days, dragging herself through the house, cleaning, studying…whatever she could do. She couldn't really tell if she was sad…or maybe bored… Hell, maybe she was even happy.

Or not.

Buffy wanted to be something; not just stuck in the middle of the hole she'd dug deep and hopped right in. Climbing out wasn't an option anymore. It could have been last September (which was nearly seven months ago) when this whole thing had started. She could have ended it right there. Then again, so could he. But neither did. Were they just not mature enough; didn't have the will power? Or was it that they were trying to follow something that, in this society, was dispraised: their hearts. They had followed their hearts and…it had ruined them.

Buffy glanced out the window and into the late April night. Though it was moderately warm, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself and shivered. All the houses on the block were buzzing with life and joy. The lights were on and Buffy could barely made out the silhouettes of the people. But not in their house… Never their house…

The clock read twelve-thirty and Buffy knew she was tired. She knew she should sleep. Yet she made no move to get up from her customary place by the sill. She could feel the slight bagging of her eyes, the skin exhausted from holding itself up for so long with no rest. Like Buffy. No rest for the wicked. And that's what she was, right? Wicked. At least, that was what everyone was saying.

Buffy recalled the time, when she was probably no more that six or seven, when she'd sneak out of her room on Sunday afternoons and creep onto the stairs to eavesdrop on what her mother and friends were saying. Because every Sunday, the good day of the Lord, was gossip day. Joyce would prepare ice-tea and cakes and delicate devilled eggs and the women would gather in the living room, and boy, would they talk. They talked about how Grace Newman had gotten drunk again and passed out on the steps of town hall and how little Darrel, who was only ten ("Poor thing!"), was going to have a hard, hard life without a father ("I never did like him!"). They talked and talked and Buffy listened and listened. No single person lasted more than two weeks; their story would die down and a new one would pop up. When that happened, Joyce and her friends were like wolves to an injured deer: they dropped everything and grabbed that scandal and immediately began tearing away at the outside until they got the complete story. No one lasted long. No one but Marcy Ross.

Marcy Ross. Buffy remembered that name well, for it was permanently imprinted in her mind. Her mother and those chattering friends of hers had put away many cucumber sandwiches over that girl. Marcy had been sixteen years old when everything happened. She was…well, plain. There was nothing special about the girl with her ordinary brown hair and brown eyes and her simple jeans and T-shirts. She was neither outstanding nor failing during her time at Sunnydale High, just average. On any given day, you would have found Marcy sitting in the middle row in her classes or maybe headed off to band practice. Or perhaps she was trying to hangout with the girls who wore their pricey, tailored pants and their permed hair. But that never worked. They wouldn't even make some snide comment; they'd just ignore her. She wasn't there to them. Or to anyone else for that matter.

Nobody took the time to find out about her family but it was assumed that they were just as plain as the daughter they had produced was. All anyone knew was that one-day Marcy had stopped going to school. After nearly two months the principal had contacted her parents, not wanting to have the reputation for having kids dropping out for no reason. (Wouldn't want to smudge their unblemished record, of course. Heaven forbid…) As it turned out, Mr. and Mrs. Ross had no idea that their daughter had been skipping school.

Buffy could still hear the sound of her mother making those appropriate clucking sounds of disappointment as the women recapped for nearly the tenth time how Marcy had admitted that she had gotten herself pregnant. And Buffy, little second grade Buffy, had also felt dismayed at the girl. That was disgusting! She was sixteen! And the worst part was that Marcy couldn't even recall who had impregnated her. In the back of her mind, Buffy had also wondered who on Earth would want someone like plain old Marcy Ross…?

Now things were different and Buffy felt an odd sense of connection to the girl that she had heard being talked about oh so many times but never actually met. What had become of her anyway?

The solemn kind of reminiscence was postponed as a soft knock sounded from the door. She was only vaguely surprised to see her mother's head hovering at the entrance to her darkened room.

"Buffy, you should probably get to sleep soon. You should…rest."

Buffy nodded but continued to stare out the window. As silence settled upon them, she wondered why Joyce even bothered anymore. Buffy always sat there into the wee hours of the morning, until her eyelids couldn't stay open and collapsed down into restless slumber. Every night, Joyce came to the door and would tell her to get some rest. And Buffy would nod without ever saying anything, and after a few minutes her mom would leave. That was the way their lives went now.

Would tonight be any different? No reason it should be. Buffy shut her eyes in a ritualistic defeat as she heard the door shut. (Not that either ever tried to win their tired battle.) What Buffy had done had no only ruined her life but Joyce's as well. Her group of rumor-driving friends was now awkwardly silent around her now, and they had abruptly ceased their weekly quarry. Buffy had been desperately seeking that thin, thin, thin silver lining of the storming cloud that was her life. And what she had found had calmed her on a wry sort of way (though it proved no consolation to Joyce): it was times like these that you found whom your true friends were. And Buffy had them.

She rubbed her eyes, almost too tired to feel tired. And God that didn't make sense. But nothing did anymore… She had so many regrets; things she wanted to take back but couldn't. The biggest was definitely her mother. She had never meant to let her actions dump consequences on the woman who had raised her. And she wanted her mom to forgive her…or yell at her or…something. Anything but this. She couldn't take this.

And there was another big regret, one that ate away at her conscience everyday and would for the rest of her life. That other person who her pitiful and selfish decision had effected so deeply. Buffy knew that she should be crying right now, but she had no more tears left. She wasn't sure if the full impact had hit her yet. Everyday all she did was wake up and think, "Is this really happening? Is this really what my life is?" And the answer was always yes. Yes had a depressing finality to it. It sounded so…well, final.

Did you screw up your life? Yes. Did you know what you were doing? Yes. Did you care? Yes. Did you lie to your mom? Did you lie to your friends? Yes, yes I did. Do you feel guilty? Do you feel awful? Yes, already! So you slept with him? You slept with that man and he told you he loved you? YES! God, he told me he loved me OK! Yes! And you believed him? Yes! You're a foolish child… I know I am. You're foolish and grotesque and you ruin everything and you're too young! You are just too young! You are seventeen years old and you are too young to have this baby!

Yes.