Faith

I was surprised to see him. He use to come often, maybe once, twice every two weeks and I always pretended like I hadn't been spending the day waiting for him. But eventually, he would visit only once a month. And then once every two months. And so it went on and on until it had been four months since the last time I had seen him.

I was never pissed that he had stopped coming. Figured he would. I mean, the second a person waltzes into your life, you just have to kind of sit back and wait around for the time they decide to roll out. It always happens that way. Which is why I always try to skip out that moment before they do. Yeah, so shrinks call it a 'defense mechanism'. Well duh. What else is there? There are only two things in life: screwing or getting screwed. The former has always worked out better for me anyway. That is, it did. My new domesticity behind the steel bars kind of put a damper on that route.

Anyway, like I said, I was surprised to see him. And even though I would never go out of my way to show it, I was kind of . . . happy. More than happy. I was having a rough week anyway. They had just let me out of solitary for having slapped up this fat-ass bitch Suzy. She and these other two bitches tried to make me their new jailhouse playmate during the morning showers. It's a good thing that being locked up doesn't put a damper on the Slayer skills. Cause girlfriend, you need those as much behind bars than you ever did fighting some wicked teethy vamp on the Hellmouth. I mean, it's not like I knew that it would get out of hand . . . that I would knock her into a coma. Bitch had it coming.

But like I said, that's why they had put me in solitary for a week. And it was driving me nuts. I kept having these dreams of random shit . . . my drugged-out, ho-bag mom, my drunk, brawling dad, all those years on the streets, all those random guys I screwed just so I would have a place to sleep at for a night . . . stuff about Wilkens, giving me shitloads of cookies . . . about Allen, sitting there with a stake sticking out of his chest . . . and then other stuff . . . about her . . . B.

She would always be holding the knife the Mayor gave me, but instead of her stabbing me with it, she would always throw it into my hands and I would thrust it into her stomach. She would look me in the eyes, all teary and heartbreak and I would always try to say the same shitworthy thing: "I-I'm sorry B. . . . God I'm so sorry." But it didn't matter. She always ended up falling off the roof, leaving me staring at her blood on my hands.

Every night with the dreams. I was really going out of my brain. So I was pretty amped when he visited, sitting across a glass panel, grasping a phone.

"Hey Faith."

"Hey Angel." I smile and I think I'm about to cry from seeing him, I'm so lonely. Don't get any ideas though. Me and Angel? Double eww. I mean the guy's . . . not a guy at all, he downs O-Neg like its Jacks D. Plus he's probably 2 centuries older than me. I mean, I've never been good at math but I'm smart enough to know that equals buttloads of Just Plain Gross. No, I gave up that whole idea a long time ago. It really was much more of a Buffy thing than anything else. I'm glad to see him because he's the only person since . . . well since Buffy and the Mayor that has ever treated me like I wasn't shit.

Except there's something wrong with him. He's wicked pale. I mean, he's always pale, complexion of choice for the undead. But he's beyond pale, not to mention high-level broody. Yeah I know, seriously typical as well, but like I said . . . more so . . . unusually so. He just holds the phone and he doesn't say anything, he just kind of twitches, so I start to get nervous. "Whoa dude," I say, trying to get something out of him, "Who died?"

By the look on his face I know that's not the right question to ask. I don't think I've ever been so sorry to say the words. But hey, haven't always been known as Miss Tactful, so I figure he would cut me some slack. But his face is still frozen and he kind of peers at me from under his eyebrows. From what I see, his eyes are incredibly dark and . . . hurting. The silence lasts for a couple seconds but it feels like forever.

"Buffy, Faith. It's Buffy. She's dead."

I don't remember what first crossed my mind when I heard that. I just . . . froze, you know? Everything became still. I think the first thing I whispered was "No."

"It's true Faith. She's dead. She died a couple weeks ago."

"No." I don't know what's happening, I'm just so fucking mad that he's telling me like this, all emotionless, like he doesn't care that he's screwing with my head. Out of all the things that push my buttons, he knows B does it the most.

"Faith . . ."

"NO. A-Angel you're LYING. You son-of-a-bitch, you're fucking LYING!!!" I dropped the phone awhile ago and I'm screaming at him through the glass window, thrusting up my fists against the cold pane. "You bastard, you're LYING!!!"

He stands up and I see fear in his eyes. The same look the hunted gets when I come in for the kill. "No Faith. You have to believe me. It's true, she's dead. S-she d-died trying to save the world . . ." The poor sap's voice breaks. "I-it looks like she succeeded."

"NOOOO!!! I don't believe you!!! Shut up!! Just shut the hell up!!!" I'm going psycho bitch in front of everybody, I know it. I don't care, I just want to kill him. Why is he telling me this? Why is he bringing up her now? Why is he telling me such lies? I start trying to punch the glass through and he kind of springs back from the pane. I keep trying to punch the glass, with all the other prisoners and visitors staring at me and whispering. I don't care. I just want him to say it isn't true.

I don't even know why. Why? Why does some Noxzema model princess from plastic-fantastic Sunnydale continue to give me grief after all this time? Her and her goddamn Superfriends, always trying to show me up by making with the goody-goody, always brown-nosing to the fates. Her and her whole holier-than-thou routine that was so tired, yet got her so much goddamn respect that you wanted to gag. Her and her self-righteous attitude that made her think that she could save the world one more time. While I'm sitting here playing patsy with a bunch of hairy woman convicts. Why shouldn't I be ecstatic when I hear the news? Why do I keep hoping this is just one big nightmare?

Because no matter what I do, I can't escape it. This goddamn conscience of mine haunts me everywhere I turn, making me see her face, all puppy-dog eyes and fear. I hate her. But more than that, I hate what I did to her. And I hate myself for that too.

She had everything I ever wanted. The sweet, adoring sister, the loyal, drippy followers, the nice, un-drunk father-figure, the totally supportive mother with the big clean house, the devoted, drooling boyfriends. I wanted all that. I mean, she and I had so much in common. We both were chosen to fight the forces of darkness. But at least she got to have a life before that, a happy, we-are-the-world type life. I never did, my memories before becoming a Slayer were full of dark, ugly bullshit that I never wanted to look back on. I guess that's why I got so much into the whole slayage. I mean, that's all I had. It completely took me over. Killing became my long-lost sister, Murder became my next-best friend. It filled me up entirely until I became addicted to it like dope. I was excited that I was doing something I liked. And that I kicked ass at it.

But then she got better than me at that too. Until there was nothing left for me. She had the perfect life and was the perfect Slayer. It wasn't fair.

So I made it my business to make her life miserable. She had to know what it felt like to have her life out of control. It was the only way I lived mine. She needed to know what life was like in my neck of the woods. She needed to pay.

So I did all I could. Buddied up with the Big Baddie in town, tried to destroy the world, tried to steal the love of her life, bagged the rebound guy. But it didn't help. Everywhere I go, she would be following me, her face reminding me of the killer I was. I didn't want to be a killer anymore. I tried to run so far from all of that bullshit, but she just kept throwing back in my face.

Why you do it B.? Why'd you have to be so goddamn nice to me when I first got to Sunnydale, try to make room in your sad group of Scoobs just for me? Why did you treat me like such a friend, when I never knew what it was like to have one?

So I bailed. I bailed quick. It wasn't just because her saintly antics nauseated me. It was because I was afraid. Afraid it would all go away in flash, the way everything good that happens in life always does. I didn't want to stick around for the moment she would stab me in the back like all the others, catching me off-guard. I wanted to be the one to do it first.

Did it make you feel better Faith? When does it ever? When do my decisions ever make me feel better? I made a choice in helping her and her stupid friends with that church that one time. I made a choice to try to make my life right by going to Angel. And she wouldn't take it. She wouldn't let me back in to say I'm sorry. And now it's too late. I never will.

Because I'm sorry. God, every single day I'm sorry.

So all I can do is scream. Scream at the son-of-a-bitch that looks so goddamn sad and small in his big leather jacket, like he's afraid the glass pane isn't enough for protection from a tiny hysterical girl. I scream and scream and scream until it feels like it turns into hot tears that leave me yelling and kicking on the floor. Soon guards come and restrain me and I feel a sharp pain in my left arm. They're sticking this big ass needle in my arm, trying to sedate me. And it works. I go limp and they carry me back to solitary confinement and dump me in some cot and slam the door shut again. I fall asleep for awhile and when I wake up I forget where I am. Then I remember. I remember everything. And I still whisper "No, no, no, no," rocking back and forth, back and forth all sweaty and shaking. But then I just drift back into mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." That leads to me crying, all over again, hard, sharp. I haven't cried in years. You'd think I'd have a reason to, being stuck in here. I never thought I would cry over this. But here I am. Rocking back and forth in the cot, gripping my knees, mumbling I'm sorry until I can go back to sleep again.