After The Rain By: Joanne Joseph
Her leg was throbbing as she floundered slowly up the three flights of stairs. There was a window unbolted on the top landing and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains. There was no bulb in the light fitting, which swung gently backwards and forwards, but moonlight shone on the top few steps.
Her fingers, once smelling of soap and lavender, were now crisscrossed with clotting scars, like lattice for a wooden fence. Her hair, once held perfectly out of her face with pretty jewelled clips and silk scrunchies, now fell snarled against her face like a matted curtain. Her eyes, once brightly slate blue, now dulled down to a thin, ashen, washed out grey. Her eyes, which had once shone with expression and love for those around her, now stood lifeless and frozen, not caring about those who surrounded her, whether they felt concern for her or not, whether she lived or not.
Because, you see, even though her appearance was atrocious, and she looked more than a little worse for wear, it was the abrupt change on the inside that mattered so deeply. What had become of the little girl with the butterscotch blonde braids, who loved everyone, no matter what their skin colour, or religion, or personality? Who lit a world with her big smile?
She faltered at the top of the flight of stairs, shivering in the raw cold that whipped through the partly open window, clad in only a transparent white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of ample faded jeans, blemished with blood, where she had fallen. Hugging her pale, trembling arms around her slight frame, she lurched through the familiar, mustard- yellow carpeted corridor. What strongly resembled a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she remembered when her father had brought her to the carpet store, so that she could chose the colour. She had said that they were the colour of tulips in the springtime.
There were no more tulips. The flowers had gone about the same time everything changed. Where there had once been quaint, colonial homes, there now stood a reeking, dilapidated bar, its decrepit hinges barely holding the heavy wooden doors upright, and most of its windows smashed into shatters. Instead of the classic brass mailboxes, there stood heaps of broken beer bottles, and smouldering cigarette butts, ground into the sodden pavement. Instead of the bold headlines of the local paper declaring the charitable act of a benevolent neighbour, they now boasted of the town's latest break-in, or murder.
She was not woken up every morning by the smell of fresh waffles wafting up the stairs and into her bedroom, or the sound of her mother's cheery voice calling her up from the depths of sleep. She was woken up by the sounds of beer cans clattering down the sidewalk, of drunken laughter, and of windows shattering. She was aroused from sleep by the sound of young mothers lamenting for their dead children, by the sound of heart-wrenching cries from recently orphaned children, and the sounds of husbands weeping for their murdered wives.
This was the only alarm clock that a fifteen - year - old had. She shook her head when she felt tears clouding her vision, and grimaced as she set one foot in front of the other on the ratty yellow carpet, careful to avoid the shards of broken glass from a expensive vase thrown against the wall. The walls, painted a yellowing light blue, were streaked with gunpowder, and splashes of blood. The huge photograph, which usually dominated a titanic portion of the wall, was now facedown on the floor. She was wearing a beaded white dress with a poofy skirt, her dark blonde hair in curls. She was singing for the Christmas pageant. Her cheeks were laden with heavy pink blush, and her mouth was a shining red 'o'. She remembered how her mother cried when she had sung, and how she had told her how proud she was of her. She blinked back tears. Suddenly, the whipping wind that had rattled the window frame before, cultivated into a full-fledged, blustery storm, which thrashed the open window back and forth, splintering the wooden frame. The thin, gossamer green curtains hung limply on its plain wooden rod, sopping and gashed.
A flash of lightening filled the hallway with bright white light, followed by a clap of thunder. Mammoth-sized raindrops pelted the carpet in front of the window, like shining, tear-shaped, silver bullets. Another gust of squally wind tore through the house, driving her hard against the wall. Her head lolled back, but she forced her eyes open, not willing to fall asleep, in fear of never waking up again. Through her pain-streaked oblivion, she could hear the muffled sound of her cell phone ringing.
Grimacing, she gingerly shifted positions on the drenched floor, as she delved into her pockets for the tinkling intruder. Her fingers not brushing against the cool metal, she warily got on her bleeding hands and knees, inching around in search of her phone. It wasn't so much that she had something to do to keep her awake, as much as the fact that nobody had ever called her for so long. She had grown distant with her friends, either acting livid or hostile whenever they tried to talk with her. After a few catastrophic months, her friends just gave up on her, and their friendship ended all together.
Finding the small silver phone flung across the room, her quivering fingers flicked open the cover and tapped the flashing "Talk" button. "Hello?" her voice rasped, struggling not to drop the small phone, which was now slippery with perspiration and blood. She tried to clear her aching throat, and then tried again, her voice more understandable now. "Hello? Is this Buffy?" She winced when she heard her real name. Buffy meant innocent, pure. She was nothing like what her parents had dreamed of when they named her. She swallowed back the bulky knot in her throat, which was growing heftier by the second. "Yes, that's me." She slumped back down to the ground, wincing when her raw back grazed the coarse wall.
"Thank God! I thought you weren't here, or something. It's just that, we knew each other for so long, and we always connected so well." Buffy strained to hear the voice of the caller on the other end, only making out a few scattered words. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the curtains were now rippling gently; the storm was subsiding.
"Um, I don't mean to burst your bubble, but who is this?" Buffy was blushing the colour of her blood-soaked jeans; she felt so awkward on the phone, after all, she hadn't talked to a person in two years, even by phone.
Laughter erupted on the other line. "I knew you'd say something like that. You were always the witty one." Buffy rolled her eyes at the jovial laughter, but she felt she could detect something else in her voice. Despair. Something that Buffy was fair too accustomed to. Buffy narrowed her eyes to slits. She knew that voice from somewhere. Somewhere, in her past, before all the pain and misery. She felt a pounding sting right behind her eyes; she was concentrating too much. She abruptly felt the urge to get up and totter to her room. Not having the strength to disagree with herself, she clamped the cell phone in between her clenched teeth, and excruciatingly hobbled down the hallway to her room. What was once a ten- second breeze became an agonizing, three-minute marathon. Shouldering the partly open door, she staggered to her unmade bed, and then collapsed on it, surveying the room. After a recent sabotage by a group of drunken gang members, the room was in huge disarray. A brass lamp that had once squatted proudly at the head of her desk was now hurled to the other side of the room, and was now in shards.
The writing desk, on which she had spent hours toiling over daunting math problems and strenuous ten-page essays, was now flipped on its back, with two of its legs broken off. The bulletin board, which had just weeks ago bragged of dance ribbons and perfect report cards was now severed neatly in half, and surged with bullet holes, so many that you could literally connect the dots. Her peeling, wine-coloured walls were covered in splatters of blood and gunpowder. The demolishers had even had enough time on their hands to spell out curse words with their ammunition. The carpeted floor was swathed in empty bullet shells and even fragments of glass from when they had rammed their fist into the window. Even her stuffed bear hadn't been left untouched. The fur was clawed at and matted and torn, and one of its button eyes was ripped out of its socket. One of its ears was torn off, exposing clumps of downy white stuffing.
Gently scooping the bear up into her lap as if it were a wounded child, she caressed it to her cheek, its coarse fur scratching her. Then, setting it down on her knee, she dropped the phone and compressed it to her swollen ear. "Hello?" She inquired into the phone, half-hoping the caller had hung up; the other half hoping that whoever was on the line was still on the line.
"Oh, there you are! I thought you had been disconnected, or something. You know these phone companies, always cutting people off. By the way, you notice the storm earlier. Whoa! I was almost knocked off my feet, it just blew the wind out of me!" The caller, Buffy could gather by now, was definitely a girl. No guy could talk so long.
Curiosity was getting the better of Buffy, and she couldn't hold it in any more. "Do you mind me asking again who this is?" She interjected, her gaze drawn to a fallen music box on the floor. The delicate porcelain hadn't cracked, just chipped. Even in Buffy's hurting, bleary-eyed state, she could see the hairline fracture. Supporting her aching body with her scabbed elbows, she lifted herself off the mussed bed, and lurched her way to the toppled music box. She cradled it to her bosom, fingering the small fissure with a manicured nail.
This worn music box was the only thing that Buffy had of her parents; that, and her name. Actually, she usually didn't even use her real name, at least for the last two years. Her so called 'friends' called her Rory, which meant rebel in Irish. She couldn't stand to be called Buffy, knowing what it meant, and how she could never live up to her parents' expectations. She could never be that little, preppy schoolgirl with a gingham dress, pigtails, and polished Mary Jane shoes. She could never be the girl she was. Never. Suddenly, a sword of white sun speared through the grey clouds and caught the jagged glass of her shattered window. She peered out of it.
Before, their used to be a stark white church, with its tall steeple, and clanging brass bell. She remembered playing with her friends in the patch of yard in front of the church, instead of sitting quietly in the glossy pews, listening to the sermon. How every single Sunday, she came back home with her good dresses streaked with grass stains and sweat blotches. The church wasn't there anymore. It was just a strip of junkyard, piling with reeking garbage, with swarms of flies circling it. That, and a small strip of graveyard. The fine line between the cemetery and junkyard was very noticeable. First of all, the flies never dared to move to the graves, as if they knew there was something not to be disturbed there. Secondly, flowers bloomed by the graves, poking out of the cracked, parched soil. They were not anything pretty, just small purple and gold wildflowers, dotting the burial ground.
Buffy's mother and father where lying underneath one of those tombstones. The funny thing was, there were tall, intricate statues, to small, plain slabs, but it didn't really matter, because marble statue or not, small slab or not, you were dead, no getting around it. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor, strong or weak, beautiful or ugly, stout or scrawny. When it came down to it, all that mattered was if you're living or not. You might be Bill Gates, but if you're sleeping under the ground, you're just as dead as anyone else.
Buffy felt tears burning behind her eyelids, but she blinked them away, as if she was blinking away her problems. If only it were that easy. She felt the strength to look out again, but instead of focusing on the cemetery, with its tall, striking wrought iron gates and naked, leafless trees, she focused on the sky. The storm had definitely quieted down. Now, there was a calm breeze rustling the last of the trees' leaves, and even sending a few pebbles skittering down the dusty, winding road. But there was no sun, except for the single, isolated ray that had glared against the window before.
Lifting the phone to her ear, she was jolted to her laughter. Hoards and hoards of it. What's so funny? Is this a stand-up comedy, or something? Buffy was thinking. Because, you see, Buffy felt there was nothing to laugh at in the world. All the fun and giggles had passed away quickly, like clouds racing through a sunlit sky. Just as it would to you, if you were a fifteen year old, who went through the same things she did, you would scoff at other people's laughter, simply because, that was something you couldn't do anymore.
"You haven't changed a bit, Buffy. You're still the polite, well-mannered girl from so many years ago. Not one bit." The voice on the other end confirmed, between shouts of laughter. Buffy could feel herself shaking her head. If she was so well-mannered and polite, why did she have to get into trouble by hurling insults at the drunk gang, causing her all the fresh cuts and bruises that randomly criss-crossed her once smooth, flawless face. She was anything but well mannered and polite.
"And, to answer your first question, I'm Willow. Ring a bell?" Even now, her voice hinted laughter. Willow? Buffy sputtered inside her brain. The same Willow, with the wild, reddish swirls of hair, with the merry laugh, and the dazzling smile? Who would pout if you called her Will, and was the first person in grade 3 to wear glasses? Who played with her in the park, picking armfuls of daisies for mother's day, and who drew lopsided squares to play hopscotch in? That Willow? Buffy was overwhelmed by the sudden rush of memories. "Willow?" She squeaked out. That was all she could manage after two years of silence. Just stupidly repeating her name. But that was enough. "Buffy," Willow drew in a sharp breath, suddenly turning serious. A side of her that Buffy didn't see quite a lot of.
"The reason why I called was because I knew that you would understand me. You always have, from the time we had to put my cat, Sneakers, to sleep, to the time my mother wouldn't let me pierce my ears." Willow was stalling; Buffy could see that, crystal clear. But it wasn't like her to beat around the bush; she was more of a 'take a stab at it' kind of girl, who got to the point quick and precisely.
For the first time in the conversation, Willow was speechless. "Willow, what is it?" Buffy asked in what she hoped to be a gentle, but prodding voice. It wasn't like Willow to be this way. It wasn't like her at all. Buffy had never acted this way; her words were always accurate and clear- cut, take it or leave it. The only time she had acted like this was when.
"Willow! Did something happen to your parents?" Buffy had expected tears, or angry shouting, but instead, she got. laughter. Not the other laughter, filled with elation and mirth. This was sarcastic laughter, tightened by terror, like tightening the strings on a guitar. Tense, and strained. "Did something happen to my parents? Heck, something happened to my parents. They just happened to be walking their own way, minding their own business, when out of nowhere, someone runs over them. The light was red, and there was a pedestrian walk sign and everything. And this person, this cold- blooded murderer, didn't even run over them because they did something to him, heck, he hadn't even seen him before in his life. He just trampled them because they 'happened to be in his way'." Her voice was quavering now, and Buffy was almost certain that she was sobbing. Buffy was shocked by the resemblance between her and Willow, and the way they had taken the news.
"When I heard what had happened, I thought it was all a joke. I mean, just this morning, my dad was there, eating his bagel, and reading the Sunday paper. And just this morning, my mother was at the kitchen, brewing coffee and flipping bacon. So, how could it be, that this evening, they aren't here. You know, it just doesn't work that way with me."
Buffy felt herself echoing the same phrase her friends had repeated to her thousands of times. "You know, Willow, whether you like it or not, things can't always go your way. Maybe the things that you go through are there to make you stronger. You know, your parents did die a heroic death. If they hadn't been walking down that pedestrian walk, then someone else's child would be suffering. Like you're suffering."
"I know it sounds really, really mean, but I want someone to suffer like I did, you know. I like being selfish when it comes to things like the parents I love. I feel really selfish, and I want to do anything I can to travel back in time, change everything that happened. Heck, Buffy, you knew how much I loved them. I would jump in front of that car if I could, you know that. If only I could push the Rewind Button on the VCR of Life, everything would be different."
"But you can't, Willow. You know you can't. If we could, I would too. You're not the writer of the play of life; you're just the actress. Someone else writes the lines, but it's up to you how you take them. If it was as simple as pushing a button, nobody would die. It's just the cycle of life, Willow. You're born, you grow up, you get a job, you raise a family, you retire, and you die. For every death, there'll be at least one birth. Think about it. If it were as easy as pushing a button, my mother and father wouldn't have been assaulted and killed by those gang members. If it were as easy as pushing a button, they'd be alive, I'd be dead. Now, I'm not righteous or anything, I'm every bit as bitter as you are. But, I think sometimes to myself, why did my parents die, instead of me. You know, there must be some reason that God kept me alive, while he let a pregnant mother, and loving father just die. There must be some purpose to my life; otherwise, I should be out there, in that graveyard with my parents. And, also, there should be some reason for my parents to die. I mean, if there wasn't, why are they out there? I know it's corny, but all things really do happen for some reason." Buffy had never talked this long out loud, not to anyone. But, in a way, by helping Willow through her pain, she was really helping herself. Because, the same feelings that Willow was speaking about, where battled in herself for two years.
"Wow." That was all Willow could utter. "Your parents really died? I never knew, I'm so sorry. It must sound so selfish, coming from me. I mean, I've lived with my parents, enjoyed their love, cherished them, for much longer than you have."
"That's not true at all. I still enjoy their love, and I still cherish them. My parents will always hold a part of me. Always. No matter how many friends or boyfriends I go through, no matter how old I get, my parents will always own a piece of me. And that doesn't change. Never. And it will never change with you either, because you won't let it."
"Thanks, Buffy, the pep talk really helped. More than you'll ever know. Maybe, one day, you could call me again, and we could talk. You know, like old times. If you want, I mean."
Buffy's eyes brightened, hinting of their normal, brightly slate blue colour. "Sure, Willow. I'd like that. And Willow?"
"Yeah?"
"You're wrong about one thing. I do know how much I've helped you. Because, all that I've been lecturing about, I'm still trying to work on. Death isn't just something you let slide by, you know. But one day, you'll understand why your parents died. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, not next week, not next month, maybe even not next year. But one day, you will."
Willow sighed. "But it's just so hard, you know. But you talking to me has really helped, Buffy. I wasn't joking when I said that. Thanks. I mean it."
"And thank you, for helping me see where I wronged. I mean it."
"Can we stop thanking each other and hang up the phone? This cell phone's got hourly rates, just like every other one on the planet. At least every one that Nokia makes."
"Okay, okay, I get your message. Talk to you later."
"Yeah. You too."
As Buffy flipped down the cover of her cell phone and shoved into the back pocket of her jeans, she felt her eyes drawn to the window. To her astonishment, a perfect blue, cloudless sky shone back at her, shimmering in the heat. The sun, like mirror, threw back rays of light at her, making her squint against the intense glare. A hazy, multicoloured band stretched almost ceaselessly across the horizon. "If you want a rainbow, you have to put up with the rain," Buffy whispered, gently placing the music box on the makeshift nest of velvety bedcovers on her bed. "Buffy," she murmured, absently stroking the cool porcelain. She liked the sound of it. Innocent, pure. She turned to stare out the shattered window once more.
The sun, with its luminous rays and fiery gold brilliance, seemed to be smiling down on her. And then, in the first time in years, the pig-tailed, gingham-clad girl smiled back.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: To prevent a life like Willow's from being destroyed, please DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. You could be saving lives. Thank you.
Her leg was throbbing as she floundered slowly up the three flights of stairs. There was a window unbolted on the top landing and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains. There was no bulb in the light fitting, which swung gently backwards and forwards, but moonlight shone on the top few steps.
Her fingers, once smelling of soap and lavender, were now crisscrossed with clotting scars, like lattice for a wooden fence. Her hair, once held perfectly out of her face with pretty jewelled clips and silk scrunchies, now fell snarled against her face like a matted curtain. Her eyes, once brightly slate blue, now dulled down to a thin, ashen, washed out grey. Her eyes, which had once shone with expression and love for those around her, now stood lifeless and frozen, not caring about those who surrounded her, whether they felt concern for her or not, whether she lived or not.
Because, you see, even though her appearance was atrocious, and she looked more than a little worse for wear, it was the abrupt change on the inside that mattered so deeply. What had become of the little girl with the butterscotch blonde braids, who loved everyone, no matter what their skin colour, or religion, or personality? Who lit a world with her big smile?
She faltered at the top of the flight of stairs, shivering in the raw cold that whipped through the partly open window, clad in only a transparent white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of ample faded jeans, blemished with blood, where she had fallen. Hugging her pale, trembling arms around her slight frame, she lurched through the familiar, mustard- yellow carpeted corridor. What strongly resembled a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she remembered when her father had brought her to the carpet store, so that she could chose the colour. She had said that they were the colour of tulips in the springtime.
There were no more tulips. The flowers had gone about the same time everything changed. Where there had once been quaint, colonial homes, there now stood a reeking, dilapidated bar, its decrepit hinges barely holding the heavy wooden doors upright, and most of its windows smashed into shatters. Instead of the classic brass mailboxes, there stood heaps of broken beer bottles, and smouldering cigarette butts, ground into the sodden pavement. Instead of the bold headlines of the local paper declaring the charitable act of a benevolent neighbour, they now boasted of the town's latest break-in, or murder.
She was not woken up every morning by the smell of fresh waffles wafting up the stairs and into her bedroom, or the sound of her mother's cheery voice calling her up from the depths of sleep. She was woken up by the sounds of beer cans clattering down the sidewalk, of drunken laughter, and of windows shattering. She was aroused from sleep by the sound of young mothers lamenting for their dead children, by the sound of heart-wrenching cries from recently orphaned children, and the sounds of husbands weeping for their murdered wives.
This was the only alarm clock that a fifteen - year - old had. She shook her head when she felt tears clouding her vision, and grimaced as she set one foot in front of the other on the ratty yellow carpet, careful to avoid the shards of broken glass from a expensive vase thrown against the wall. The walls, painted a yellowing light blue, were streaked with gunpowder, and splashes of blood. The huge photograph, which usually dominated a titanic portion of the wall, was now facedown on the floor. She was wearing a beaded white dress with a poofy skirt, her dark blonde hair in curls. She was singing for the Christmas pageant. Her cheeks were laden with heavy pink blush, and her mouth was a shining red 'o'. She remembered how her mother cried when she had sung, and how she had told her how proud she was of her. She blinked back tears. Suddenly, the whipping wind that had rattled the window frame before, cultivated into a full-fledged, blustery storm, which thrashed the open window back and forth, splintering the wooden frame. The thin, gossamer green curtains hung limply on its plain wooden rod, sopping and gashed.
A flash of lightening filled the hallway with bright white light, followed by a clap of thunder. Mammoth-sized raindrops pelted the carpet in front of the window, like shining, tear-shaped, silver bullets. Another gust of squally wind tore through the house, driving her hard against the wall. Her head lolled back, but she forced her eyes open, not willing to fall asleep, in fear of never waking up again. Through her pain-streaked oblivion, she could hear the muffled sound of her cell phone ringing.
Grimacing, she gingerly shifted positions on the drenched floor, as she delved into her pockets for the tinkling intruder. Her fingers not brushing against the cool metal, she warily got on her bleeding hands and knees, inching around in search of her phone. It wasn't so much that she had something to do to keep her awake, as much as the fact that nobody had ever called her for so long. She had grown distant with her friends, either acting livid or hostile whenever they tried to talk with her. After a few catastrophic months, her friends just gave up on her, and their friendship ended all together.
Finding the small silver phone flung across the room, her quivering fingers flicked open the cover and tapped the flashing "Talk" button. "Hello?" her voice rasped, struggling not to drop the small phone, which was now slippery with perspiration and blood. She tried to clear her aching throat, and then tried again, her voice more understandable now. "Hello? Is this Buffy?" She winced when she heard her real name. Buffy meant innocent, pure. She was nothing like what her parents had dreamed of when they named her. She swallowed back the bulky knot in her throat, which was growing heftier by the second. "Yes, that's me." She slumped back down to the ground, wincing when her raw back grazed the coarse wall.
"Thank God! I thought you weren't here, or something. It's just that, we knew each other for so long, and we always connected so well." Buffy strained to hear the voice of the caller on the other end, only making out a few scattered words. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the curtains were now rippling gently; the storm was subsiding.
"Um, I don't mean to burst your bubble, but who is this?" Buffy was blushing the colour of her blood-soaked jeans; she felt so awkward on the phone, after all, she hadn't talked to a person in two years, even by phone.
Laughter erupted on the other line. "I knew you'd say something like that. You were always the witty one." Buffy rolled her eyes at the jovial laughter, but she felt she could detect something else in her voice. Despair. Something that Buffy was fair too accustomed to. Buffy narrowed her eyes to slits. She knew that voice from somewhere. Somewhere, in her past, before all the pain and misery. She felt a pounding sting right behind her eyes; she was concentrating too much. She abruptly felt the urge to get up and totter to her room. Not having the strength to disagree with herself, she clamped the cell phone in between her clenched teeth, and excruciatingly hobbled down the hallway to her room. What was once a ten- second breeze became an agonizing, three-minute marathon. Shouldering the partly open door, she staggered to her unmade bed, and then collapsed on it, surveying the room. After a recent sabotage by a group of drunken gang members, the room was in huge disarray. A brass lamp that had once squatted proudly at the head of her desk was now hurled to the other side of the room, and was now in shards.
The writing desk, on which she had spent hours toiling over daunting math problems and strenuous ten-page essays, was now flipped on its back, with two of its legs broken off. The bulletin board, which had just weeks ago bragged of dance ribbons and perfect report cards was now severed neatly in half, and surged with bullet holes, so many that you could literally connect the dots. Her peeling, wine-coloured walls were covered in splatters of blood and gunpowder. The demolishers had even had enough time on their hands to spell out curse words with their ammunition. The carpeted floor was swathed in empty bullet shells and even fragments of glass from when they had rammed their fist into the window. Even her stuffed bear hadn't been left untouched. The fur was clawed at and matted and torn, and one of its button eyes was ripped out of its socket. One of its ears was torn off, exposing clumps of downy white stuffing.
Gently scooping the bear up into her lap as if it were a wounded child, she caressed it to her cheek, its coarse fur scratching her. Then, setting it down on her knee, she dropped the phone and compressed it to her swollen ear. "Hello?" She inquired into the phone, half-hoping the caller had hung up; the other half hoping that whoever was on the line was still on the line.
"Oh, there you are! I thought you had been disconnected, or something. You know these phone companies, always cutting people off. By the way, you notice the storm earlier. Whoa! I was almost knocked off my feet, it just blew the wind out of me!" The caller, Buffy could gather by now, was definitely a girl. No guy could talk so long.
Curiosity was getting the better of Buffy, and she couldn't hold it in any more. "Do you mind me asking again who this is?" She interjected, her gaze drawn to a fallen music box on the floor. The delicate porcelain hadn't cracked, just chipped. Even in Buffy's hurting, bleary-eyed state, she could see the hairline fracture. Supporting her aching body with her scabbed elbows, she lifted herself off the mussed bed, and lurched her way to the toppled music box. She cradled it to her bosom, fingering the small fissure with a manicured nail.
This worn music box was the only thing that Buffy had of her parents; that, and her name. Actually, she usually didn't even use her real name, at least for the last two years. Her so called 'friends' called her Rory, which meant rebel in Irish. She couldn't stand to be called Buffy, knowing what it meant, and how she could never live up to her parents' expectations. She could never be that little, preppy schoolgirl with a gingham dress, pigtails, and polished Mary Jane shoes. She could never be the girl she was. Never. Suddenly, a sword of white sun speared through the grey clouds and caught the jagged glass of her shattered window. She peered out of it.
Before, their used to be a stark white church, with its tall steeple, and clanging brass bell. She remembered playing with her friends in the patch of yard in front of the church, instead of sitting quietly in the glossy pews, listening to the sermon. How every single Sunday, she came back home with her good dresses streaked with grass stains and sweat blotches. The church wasn't there anymore. It was just a strip of junkyard, piling with reeking garbage, with swarms of flies circling it. That, and a small strip of graveyard. The fine line between the cemetery and junkyard was very noticeable. First of all, the flies never dared to move to the graves, as if they knew there was something not to be disturbed there. Secondly, flowers bloomed by the graves, poking out of the cracked, parched soil. They were not anything pretty, just small purple and gold wildflowers, dotting the burial ground.
Buffy's mother and father where lying underneath one of those tombstones. The funny thing was, there were tall, intricate statues, to small, plain slabs, but it didn't really matter, because marble statue or not, small slab or not, you were dead, no getting around it. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor, strong or weak, beautiful or ugly, stout or scrawny. When it came down to it, all that mattered was if you're living or not. You might be Bill Gates, but if you're sleeping under the ground, you're just as dead as anyone else.
Buffy felt tears burning behind her eyelids, but she blinked them away, as if she was blinking away her problems. If only it were that easy. She felt the strength to look out again, but instead of focusing on the cemetery, with its tall, striking wrought iron gates and naked, leafless trees, she focused on the sky. The storm had definitely quieted down. Now, there was a calm breeze rustling the last of the trees' leaves, and even sending a few pebbles skittering down the dusty, winding road. But there was no sun, except for the single, isolated ray that had glared against the window before.
Lifting the phone to her ear, she was jolted to her laughter. Hoards and hoards of it. What's so funny? Is this a stand-up comedy, or something? Buffy was thinking. Because, you see, Buffy felt there was nothing to laugh at in the world. All the fun and giggles had passed away quickly, like clouds racing through a sunlit sky. Just as it would to you, if you were a fifteen year old, who went through the same things she did, you would scoff at other people's laughter, simply because, that was something you couldn't do anymore.
"You haven't changed a bit, Buffy. You're still the polite, well-mannered girl from so many years ago. Not one bit." The voice on the other end confirmed, between shouts of laughter. Buffy could feel herself shaking her head. If she was so well-mannered and polite, why did she have to get into trouble by hurling insults at the drunk gang, causing her all the fresh cuts and bruises that randomly criss-crossed her once smooth, flawless face. She was anything but well mannered and polite.
"And, to answer your first question, I'm Willow. Ring a bell?" Even now, her voice hinted laughter. Willow? Buffy sputtered inside her brain. The same Willow, with the wild, reddish swirls of hair, with the merry laugh, and the dazzling smile? Who would pout if you called her Will, and was the first person in grade 3 to wear glasses? Who played with her in the park, picking armfuls of daisies for mother's day, and who drew lopsided squares to play hopscotch in? That Willow? Buffy was overwhelmed by the sudden rush of memories. "Willow?" She squeaked out. That was all she could manage after two years of silence. Just stupidly repeating her name. But that was enough. "Buffy," Willow drew in a sharp breath, suddenly turning serious. A side of her that Buffy didn't see quite a lot of.
"The reason why I called was because I knew that you would understand me. You always have, from the time we had to put my cat, Sneakers, to sleep, to the time my mother wouldn't let me pierce my ears." Willow was stalling; Buffy could see that, crystal clear. But it wasn't like her to beat around the bush; she was more of a 'take a stab at it' kind of girl, who got to the point quick and precisely.
For the first time in the conversation, Willow was speechless. "Willow, what is it?" Buffy asked in what she hoped to be a gentle, but prodding voice. It wasn't like Willow to be this way. It wasn't like her at all. Buffy had never acted this way; her words were always accurate and clear- cut, take it or leave it. The only time she had acted like this was when.
"Willow! Did something happen to your parents?" Buffy had expected tears, or angry shouting, but instead, she got. laughter. Not the other laughter, filled with elation and mirth. This was sarcastic laughter, tightened by terror, like tightening the strings on a guitar. Tense, and strained. "Did something happen to my parents? Heck, something happened to my parents. They just happened to be walking their own way, minding their own business, when out of nowhere, someone runs over them. The light was red, and there was a pedestrian walk sign and everything. And this person, this cold- blooded murderer, didn't even run over them because they did something to him, heck, he hadn't even seen him before in his life. He just trampled them because they 'happened to be in his way'." Her voice was quavering now, and Buffy was almost certain that she was sobbing. Buffy was shocked by the resemblance between her and Willow, and the way they had taken the news.
"When I heard what had happened, I thought it was all a joke. I mean, just this morning, my dad was there, eating his bagel, and reading the Sunday paper. And just this morning, my mother was at the kitchen, brewing coffee and flipping bacon. So, how could it be, that this evening, they aren't here. You know, it just doesn't work that way with me."
Buffy felt herself echoing the same phrase her friends had repeated to her thousands of times. "You know, Willow, whether you like it or not, things can't always go your way. Maybe the things that you go through are there to make you stronger. You know, your parents did die a heroic death. If they hadn't been walking down that pedestrian walk, then someone else's child would be suffering. Like you're suffering."
"I know it sounds really, really mean, but I want someone to suffer like I did, you know. I like being selfish when it comes to things like the parents I love. I feel really selfish, and I want to do anything I can to travel back in time, change everything that happened. Heck, Buffy, you knew how much I loved them. I would jump in front of that car if I could, you know that. If only I could push the Rewind Button on the VCR of Life, everything would be different."
"But you can't, Willow. You know you can't. If we could, I would too. You're not the writer of the play of life; you're just the actress. Someone else writes the lines, but it's up to you how you take them. If it was as simple as pushing a button, nobody would die. It's just the cycle of life, Willow. You're born, you grow up, you get a job, you raise a family, you retire, and you die. For every death, there'll be at least one birth. Think about it. If it were as easy as pushing a button, my mother and father wouldn't have been assaulted and killed by those gang members. If it were as easy as pushing a button, they'd be alive, I'd be dead. Now, I'm not righteous or anything, I'm every bit as bitter as you are. But, I think sometimes to myself, why did my parents die, instead of me. You know, there must be some reason that God kept me alive, while he let a pregnant mother, and loving father just die. There must be some purpose to my life; otherwise, I should be out there, in that graveyard with my parents. And, also, there should be some reason for my parents to die. I mean, if there wasn't, why are they out there? I know it's corny, but all things really do happen for some reason." Buffy had never talked this long out loud, not to anyone. But, in a way, by helping Willow through her pain, she was really helping herself. Because, the same feelings that Willow was speaking about, where battled in herself for two years.
"Wow." That was all Willow could utter. "Your parents really died? I never knew, I'm so sorry. It must sound so selfish, coming from me. I mean, I've lived with my parents, enjoyed their love, cherished them, for much longer than you have."
"That's not true at all. I still enjoy their love, and I still cherish them. My parents will always hold a part of me. Always. No matter how many friends or boyfriends I go through, no matter how old I get, my parents will always own a piece of me. And that doesn't change. Never. And it will never change with you either, because you won't let it."
"Thanks, Buffy, the pep talk really helped. More than you'll ever know. Maybe, one day, you could call me again, and we could talk. You know, like old times. If you want, I mean."
Buffy's eyes brightened, hinting of their normal, brightly slate blue colour. "Sure, Willow. I'd like that. And Willow?"
"Yeah?"
"You're wrong about one thing. I do know how much I've helped you. Because, all that I've been lecturing about, I'm still trying to work on. Death isn't just something you let slide by, you know. But one day, you'll understand why your parents died. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, not next week, not next month, maybe even not next year. But one day, you will."
Willow sighed. "But it's just so hard, you know. But you talking to me has really helped, Buffy. I wasn't joking when I said that. Thanks. I mean it."
"And thank you, for helping me see where I wronged. I mean it."
"Can we stop thanking each other and hang up the phone? This cell phone's got hourly rates, just like every other one on the planet. At least every one that Nokia makes."
"Okay, okay, I get your message. Talk to you later."
"Yeah. You too."
As Buffy flipped down the cover of her cell phone and shoved into the back pocket of her jeans, she felt her eyes drawn to the window. To her astonishment, a perfect blue, cloudless sky shone back at her, shimmering in the heat. The sun, like mirror, threw back rays of light at her, making her squint against the intense glare. A hazy, multicoloured band stretched almost ceaselessly across the horizon. "If you want a rainbow, you have to put up with the rain," Buffy whispered, gently placing the music box on the makeshift nest of velvety bedcovers on her bed. "Buffy," she murmured, absently stroking the cool porcelain. She liked the sound of it. Innocent, pure. She turned to stare out the shattered window once more.
The sun, with its luminous rays and fiery gold brilliance, seemed to be smiling down on her. And then, in the first time in years, the pig-tailed, gingham-clad girl smiled back.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: To prevent a life like Willow's from being destroyed, please DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. You could be saving lives. Thank you.