ELEVEN
* * *
She slept and dreamt dark, featureless oblivion.
She was, she knew, there, curled by her bed, the phone beside her, too weak with despair to move, even to crawl up and into bed. She was, she knew, there, lying flat on her bed, wrapped in the bleached, yellowed bedsheets all the beds had, there in the ward.
It was her room, her nightstand, the phone by her. And her own voice, as she wept into the empty dial tone, as she tried to talk over the voices that wouldn't go away, that were accusing her as Dawn had accused her. Trying to explain to the dial tone that should have been her Watcher, her friend, trying, but explaining being so hard, so impossible, just mumbling something about Willow and disappearing and then more words and nothing and nothing and nothing on the other end.
Because it was hard to sleep sometimes, in the ward. Hard to sleep well with all the meds and all the confusion and sometimes all the voices. And it was hard to sleep now too, because there was Mom and Dad, there beside her bed, looking down at her as she felt the drugs kick in, and she not wanting to let them go, afraid that when she awoke they would be gone.
So she slept, curled by her bed with the phone and nightstand near, lying in bed in the ward beneath the yellowed sheets.
Dead.
And so there were, she supposed, no dreams to dream anymore.
* * *
She slept and dreamt dark, featureless oblivion.
She was, she knew, there, curled by her bed, the phone beside her, too weak with despair to move, even to crawl up and into bed. She was, she knew, there, lying flat on her bed, wrapped in the bleached, yellowed bedsheets all the beds had, there in the ward.
It was her room, her nightstand, the phone by her. And her own voice, as she wept into the empty dial tone, as she tried to talk over the voices that wouldn't go away, that were accusing her as Dawn had accused her. Trying to explain to the dial tone that should have been her Watcher, her friend, trying, but explaining being so hard, so impossible, just mumbling something about Willow and disappearing and then more words and nothing and nothing and nothing on the other end.
Because it was hard to sleep sometimes, in the ward. Hard to sleep well with all the meds and all the confusion and sometimes all the voices. And it was hard to sleep now too, because there was Mom and Dad, there beside her bed, looking down at her as she felt the drugs kick in, and she not wanting to let them go, afraid that when she awoke they would be gone.
So she slept, curled by her bed with the phone and nightstand near, lying in bed in the ward beneath the yellowed sheets.
Dead.
And so there were, she supposed, no dreams to dream anymore.
