TWELVE
* * *
Somehow from this, she emerged in his office.
In the chair again; he was sitting in another chair, facing her, the desk behind him.
She had been watching him but there was no awareness of this.
He watched her back. His face was serious.
"Do you hear them, Buffy?"
Voices. She listened. It was quiet. She shook her head.
He nodded.
"That's good. I think the medication is working."
She watched him for a moment.
"I'm sick?" she asked.
"Yes."
She watched him again, for a very long time. Then she spoke slowly.
"I want to die."
He didn't react; she had expected something, a raised eyebrow perhaps, a look of fear or surprise or sympathy. But there was nothing save for his response.
"Why?"
She began to answer but her voice drifted off. It was not a reason but a feeling and it was hard to put into words. A feeling.
"Because," she said slowly.
His gaze didn't vary, but there was something in it, something equally hard to explain. Something that made her want to tell him, that made her want to make him understand that it was just too much anymore, just too much with Dawn and Willow and always something dark and evil somewhere, and just too much with her thoughts about Spike, her need for him and her revulsion at that need. Too much to be the slayer, now, to be so alone, to be responsible for all of them.
"Because it's too much," she said.
"Too much? What is too much?"
"Everything I have to do. Everything I have to be. I have to take care of them."
"Your friends."
She remembered, suddenly. Other words, in this office. From the other doctors.
It's all a delusion. They are all just delusions. You have to fight them, Buffy, destroy them. You have to let them die.
Telling her to kill her friends and her sister.
"No!" she cried.
"Buffy?" he asked.
"You don't think it's real! You think I'm just crazy! You made me try to kill my sister! You don't even think she's real! She hates me because of you!" Her arms were in close now, her legs moving likewise. He was dangerous, this one was. Just like the last one. Just like all of them. She had to get away from them, had to find Willow, had to get more of the antidote.
His voice remained calm. "Buffy, have I ever said your friends were not real?"
"You don't believe they are."
He looked thoughtful, brought up a hand and scratched an itch at the tip of his nose. Then he nodded.
"I cannot see them," he admitted. "And I can't talk to them. Only you can do that. But it is not important to me whether I can do these things. What is important to me is that you can."
"You want me to kill them," she accused.
For the first time his face responded, and he frowned, shaking his head.
"No," he said. "I have no right to demand that of you. They are your friends and you have a right to them. Buffy, I will tell you now what I want, and I believe this is what your mother and your father want also, though they themselves are afraid and they may not know it. All right?"
She did not answer. Let him talk. Let him prove that this hallucination is real. Let him try. She remembered now, time after time in this office, with the other doctor, and before that still more doctors, all with the same words, the same arguments.
It isn't real. They are not real. Your friends and your sister and your lovers are not real. They only exist because you are sick, because there is something wrong with you.
You have to destroy them to get better.
She waited, her eyes accusing, and he began to speak.
Only his were not the familiar words.
"I want for you what I want for all my patients, Buffy. I want you to be able to be happy. I want you to be able to see the richness of the world, and its pain also. I want you to be able as best you can to face all the challenges of the world, however you perceive them."
Danger! Deception!
"You're lying," she said.
He shook his head.
"You think I'm crazy."
"I think you are ill. I do not believe that you are crazy."
She opened her mouth to speak again, stopped short. Somehow she knew that he was the first to say it, to use the word, the word they all avoided but that they all thought. He had said it.
Crazy.
He was watching her.
Not crazy.
Sick.
This was something different.
She drew her arms closer to her chest, drew on the only defense she still had.
* * *
Somehow from this, she emerged in his office.
In the chair again; he was sitting in another chair, facing her, the desk behind him.
She had been watching him but there was no awareness of this.
He watched her back. His face was serious.
"Do you hear them, Buffy?"
Voices. She listened. It was quiet. She shook her head.
He nodded.
"That's good. I think the medication is working."
She watched him for a moment.
"I'm sick?" she asked.
"Yes."
She watched him again, for a very long time. Then she spoke slowly.
"I want to die."
He didn't react; she had expected something, a raised eyebrow perhaps, a look of fear or surprise or sympathy. But there was nothing save for his response.
"Why?"
She began to answer but her voice drifted off. It was not a reason but a feeling and it was hard to put into words. A feeling.
"Because," she said slowly.
His gaze didn't vary, but there was something in it, something equally hard to explain. Something that made her want to tell him, that made her want to make him understand that it was just too much anymore, just too much with Dawn and Willow and always something dark and evil somewhere, and just too much with her thoughts about Spike, her need for him and her revulsion at that need. Too much to be the slayer, now, to be so alone, to be responsible for all of them.
"Because it's too much," she said.
"Too much? What is too much?"
"Everything I have to do. Everything I have to be. I have to take care of them."
"Your friends."
She remembered, suddenly. Other words, in this office. From the other doctors.
It's all a delusion. They are all just delusions. You have to fight them, Buffy, destroy them. You have to let them die.
Telling her to kill her friends and her sister.
"No!" she cried.
"Buffy?" he asked.
"You don't think it's real! You think I'm just crazy! You made me try to kill my sister! You don't even think she's real! She hates me because of you!" Her arms were in close now, her legs moving likewise. He was dangerous, this one was. Just like the last one. Just like all of them. She had to get away from them, had to find Willow, had to get more of the antidote.
His voice remained calm. "Buffy, have I ever said your friends were not real?"
"You don't believe they are."
He looked thoughtful, brought up a hand and scratched an itch at the tip of his nose. Then he nodded.
"I cannot see them," he admitted. "And I can't talk to them. Only you can do that. But it is not important to me whether I can do these things. What is important to me is that you can."
"You want me to kill them," she accused.
For the first time his face responded, and he frowned, shaking his head.
"No," he said. "I have no right to demand that of you. They are your friends and you have a right to them. Buffy, I will tell you now what I want, and I believe this is what your mother and your father want also, though they themselves are afraid and they may not know it. All right?"
She did not answer. Let him talk. Let him prove that this hallucination is real. Let him try. She remembered now, time after time in this office, with the other doctor, and before that still more doctors, all with the same words, the same arguments.
It isn't real. They are not real. Your friends and your sister and your lovers are not real. They only exist because you are sick, because there is something wrong with you.
You have to destroy them to get better.
She waited, her eyes accusing, and he began to speak.
Only his were not the familiar words.
"I want for you what I want for all my patients, Buffy. I want you to be able to be happy. I want you to be able to see the richness of the world, and its pain also. I want you to be able as best you can to face all the challenges of the world, however you perceive them."
Danger! Deception!
"You're lying," she said.
He shook his head.
"You think I'm crazy."
"I think you are ill. I do not believe that you are crazy."
She opened her mouth to speak again, stopped short. Somehow she knew that he was the first to say it, to use the word, the word they all avoided but that they all thought. He had said it.
Crazy.
He was watching her.
Not crazy.
Sick.
This was something different.
She drew her arms closer to her chest, drew on the only defense she still had.
