FOUR

* * *

Willow was there.

Watching.

Watching her.

People watched her all the time. It was hard not to notice, after a while. She was the center, the linchpin. The slayer. It was she who had brought them in, Willow and Xander. It was she who they looked to for leadership, for guidance.

How am I doing? she wondered.

Perhaps not so well. Because of me, of my world, Willow is a recovering addict. She could have gone to Oxford or Harvard if I hadn't included her in my circle of friends. And Xander? What kind of a man would he have grown into, had it not been for my friendship? He's afraid now, all the time. Afraid of doing anything. Afraid of Anya.

Is it because he expects me to rescue him?

I don't know.

But it's like everything and everyone I touch dies.

I miss you, Mom. I miss you, Giles. I need you.

#

Willow was there, watching her.

"Are you all right, Buffy?"

Buffy looked up. There was concern, and no little fear, on her friend's face.

I dragged her into the basement, Buffy thought. Left her to die. My friend. How could I do this to my friend?

"I'm fine," she said.

Willow nodded. She had that uncertainty in her face; in part it was simply a feature of her, in part something more, now. Buffy remembered back, to those first weeks in Sunnydale, to the Willow of then. A more innocent Willow.

All grown up now, walking on the razor's edge.

"You're sure, Buffy? You look --"

The words trailed off. Buffy forced a smile.

"I'm fine. All fixed up."

"The antidote?"

"Drank it all. You watched me."

"It worked?"

This was the real question. Buffy supposed it had; it had been a hallucination, that place, the hospital. Just demon poison affecting her mind. And yet ....

Mom and Dad.

Gone now.

I made them go.

Because she had. There was doubt, somewhere deep inside her. It had not been the antidote that had brought her back. It had been something more, something she wasn't quite able to define, something in the sight of the demon, tearing into her friends, into her sister.

Something that she could not tolerate the sight of.

"It worked," she said.

Willow smiled. She had a sweet smile, even when riddled with doubt and fear.

#

And my smile? Do they see what is inside of me?

Dawn was out, sleeping over at a friend's. She did that a lot lately. She was growing, too, taller now than Buffy, and always with that look to her that was a mixture of resentment and need. It was an old thing, this look, a feature of Dawn that in the old days had been merely irritating.

There were no old days; it was all made up.

Buffy paused, her hands plunged into the hot, soapy water of the kitchen sink, feeling the plates and pots and pans. Where had she heard that before?

Willow was out too; she hadn't said where. Maybe she was with Xander at the Bronze. It was good that they had each other; they needed each other these days, and that's what old friends were for, really.

Not like me. I had old friends, once. I was pretty and popular and happy.

Buffy thought back. The kitchen was a mess; the house was a mess. She had to clean it up, had to keep it clean because there were those people from Social Services who were always coming to check on things, were always asking about how things were, about how Dawn was.

But they never ask how I am.

This thought came suddenly. Who ever asks how I am? Who ever asks how I feel? I was in paradise; in heaven. Everything is harsh here and no one understands.

No one.

Buffy pulled her hands from the water, dried them. Her bed was upstairs and without changing she crawled into the safety of darkness.

#

Lights, fluorescent.

A chair.

She could feel the chair.

The world was wrong. It had a stuff to it that was like molasses, invisible, that got in the way of right being. Legs close, keep them close, and hands likewise.

Because afraid 'fraid 'fraid.

She was sitting.

Eyes open and watching. A desk and him there, behind the desk.

I know your face. I remember.

I want no no no ....

Voice.

"Buffy?"

His voice. Little man, with balding and glasses he watches you. His voice, gentle soft.

A whimper, her own.

"How are you today, Buffy?"

Your hand; her hand, up, in your hair. You feel your hair. Tug tug now.

He waits, waited, for the answer.

"Don't know," she said. "No no no ...."

"It's all right, Buffy."

This office. You were in here, remember? And over there, in those chairs, were Mom and Dad and they were looking at you and they were talking and there were words, remember?

Undifferentiated schizophrenia.

Voices.

Crazy crazy crazy crazy girl! Listen listen crazy crazy girl!

She whimpered again. The man, little man with balding and glasses, was closer, had moved closer. She looked at him.

And there was good in the balding and glasses, and there was good in his voice.

"Buffy? I know this is hard, but I want you to look at me."

I want Mom and Dad.

"I don't know ...." she said softly.

His voice.

"Buffy? What don't you know? Can I help you know it?"