THIRTY
* * *
Screaming.
Just screaming.
It shattered the still air around her, echoing forever. Not only fear, this scream. Not only shock. Not only pain and not only anguish and not only rage. More than these, and all of them; more than they could be.
Screaming.
Shattered.
There was motion around her, motion away. From just the corner of her eye she saw Annie, eyes wide in terror, scrambling off. Others too, just shadows, just fading things, for Buffy felt herself slipping away, felt it all crumbling, all semblance of reason and right in the universe dissolving. There was no escape now, no sanctuary. Only the yawning pit remained, and as she screamed again Buffy felt herself plunging forward into it, into the maelstrom that was despair.
Somewhere, in a place she was, there was more.
Watch now.
Her, running, away away away, from where her best and truest friend Willow has been consumed by a thing that is an infinity of darkness. Far back somewhere, there is the voice of Xander, calling after her, fading even as he does into nothing, as her legs carry her and she flees, blind to what lies ahead.
Her, in the ward, fists against the walls, fingers scratching at them, fingernails tearing away, as she screams, as the blood from her fingers painting a shimmering image of eternal pain along the faded white walls.
Her, in the gymnasium, in her beautiful new gown, crumbling to her knees. Somewhere nearby Cynthia, her best and truest friend, calling to her. Somewhere nearby her mother, reaching for her, but there is nothing.
For there is not death in merely one world, in merely one way. No.
Everything is death.
Everything is pain.
All that there can be, all that there is, all that there ever will be, is agony, sharp and cold and forever.
Screaming in the shattered panes of reality.
* * *
Screaming.
Just screaming.
It shattered the still air around her, echoing forever. Not only fear, this scream. Not only shock. Not only pain and not only anguish and not only rage. More than these, and all of them; more than they could be.
Screaming.
Shattered.
There was motion around her, motion away. From just the corner of her eye she saw Annie, eyes wide in terror, scrambling off. Others too, just shadows, just fading things, for Buffy felt herself slipping away, felt it all crumbling, all semblance of reason and right in the universe dissolving. There was no escape now, no sanctuary. Only the yawning pit remained, and as she screamed again Buffy felt herself plunging forward into it, into the maelstrom that was despair.
Somewhere, in a place she was, there was more.
Watch now.
Her, running, away away away, from where her best and truest friend Willow has been consumed by a thing that is an infinity of darkness. Far back somewhere, there is the voice of Xander, calling after her, fading even as he does into nothing, as her legs carry her and she flees, blind to what lies ahead.
Her, in the ward, fists against the walls, fingers scratching at them, fingernails tearing away, as she screams, as the blood from her fingers painting a shimmering image of eternal pain along the faded white walls.
Her, in the gymnasium, in her beautiful new gown, crumbling to her knees. Somewhere nearby Cynthia, her best and truest friend, calling to her. Somewhere nearby her mother, reaching for her, but there is nothing.
For there is not death in merely one world, in merely one way. No.
Everything is death.
Everything is pain.
All that there can be, all that there is, all that there ever will be, is agony, sharp and cold and forever.
Screaming in the shattered panes of reality.
