Nothing ever gets in my way
Nothing ever gets on my mind
Nothing ever makes me stop to think about
Nothing of the kind
Nothing ever puts me out
Nothing ever pulls me in
Nothing ever makes me want to jump
Nothing makes me want to begin
Nothing ever gets me down
Nothing ever gets me uptight
Nothing ever makes me run around

And nothing makes me feel I might

Faye Spector.

I am Faye Spector.

She stared at herself in her little compact mirror, sitting on her bed. She was tired of moping. She had a whole new identity to familiarize herself with. She had family looking for her. People who cared that she was alive. A sister, at least.

A sister.

Faye had a sister somewhere. She didn't take her eyes off her reflection as she reached across and pulled one of her dresser drawers open. She had done a rush job of cleaning up her room after Spike's rampage yesterday by grabbing handfuls of things and pushing them into drawers and cupboards and boxes. Not that she had a hell of a lot to call her own. Mostly just stuff like creams and bath gels and shampoos. She had a few clothes lying around but nothing she could wear practically.

She pulled a sponge and her bottle of foundation out from the drawer she was searching through and dabbed some of its liquid under her eyes.

Right.

No use moping. Have a cigarette.

Don't mind if I do, Faye thought to herself, smiling and reaching back into the drawer for a stray cigarette. She found one hiding in the sleeve of a sweater she had never worn. It still had the price tags on it. She'd forgotten to return it. It was one of her treats to herself. She would do the old trick of buying something, wearing it and then returning it the next day claiming it wasn't her colour or whatever. She pulled the sweater out in front of her and touched it to her face. It wasn't the sort of thing she'd normally wear. It didn't display any cleavage or midriff. It was pink.

Pink.

What the fuck had she been thinking?

She whipped off her red sweater and halter top and tugged the neck of the pink sweater over her head. She held the compact back so that she could see her head and shoulders in it. It didn't look too bad. This might actually be something that Faye Spector would wear. She leapt from her spot on the bed and rummaged through more drawers. She found a pair of black cuffed capris, once again with the price tags still on it. She tore off her hotpants. She pulled the yellow band from her hair.

Once she was done she looked down at herself, not having the luxury of a full-length mirror, mildly pleased with what she saw. She put on some lipstick. She suddenly felt as though she could do anything.

And it was that philosophy that took her to the doorway of Spike's room. Spike was lying back against the short, steel headboard of his bed, silently brooding over a cigarette. The room was blue with smoke and darkness.

Faye pointed a finger at him like she was pointing a gun at his head.

"Fuck you," she said.

"Pardon?" Spike replied, looking as though he were stunned but determined not to show it.

"You heard me. I said fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck Julia. And fuck your stupid, chicken shit deathwish."

Lyrics used from The Cure's Harold and Joe. Don't sue, please.