Shine.

The razor gleams in the harsh bathroom light.

She shouldn't. Buffy didn't save her so she could kill herself. She should walk away.

But she won't.

Drip drop as her blood cascades down the bathtub walls. The pain hurts, but it fills the
hollow, bitter space inside of her.

Breath comes in ragged gasps as she grows colder and colder.

Her blood is just that, blood. It has severed the purpose it was invented for. And so has she.

They'll find an empty corpse in the bathroom. What will they think?

Dawn doesn't care.

Let someone else care now.