Disclaimer: Once again, only the words.

Part Two: The Realization.
(Buffy's POV.)

"The dirt was clogging my throat, covering my eyes. Old rose petals were pushing against my nostrils, smothering them with the stench of decaying flowers. It was a kind of spicy scent, slightly sweet, but at the same time disgusting and monstrous. I could smell the death that was slowly decaying my white sundress, which had now been reduced to tattered and dirt smeared strips. Above and below me, I could sense the hard black wood of the coffin, thin but strong. It was better than a cardboard coffin; that I could guarantee. I wouldn't be dug up for a long time. Idly, I began to wonder how long it would take for my body to die. I didn't know how my spirit had been pulled back into this rotting corpse, but it had infected it with a strange revitalization that made this vessel heal, slowly. And now…
It seemed as if I needed air. The dirt and petals that were choking me were becoming fatal, and the stale air in the coffin wouldn't last long. Not only this, but I was hungry. So hungry. I craved things I never had in life, seafood, caviar, fine lobster in butter sauce… it seemed so delicious to me. I needed it, and I couldn't find it.
Right about now, I'd give anything for a juicy steak.
Then again, there was my escape. Up above, beyond this hole in the ground. So I went. Clawing at the dirt that leaked through the cracks in the coffin, pushing at the wood with my fingertips, punching it, and finally infiltrating it through a crack. I smashed my hand through the splintered wood, making a hole large enough for my head. Slamming my elbow into the side of it, I succeeded in making it large to fit my torso through. Absently, I noticed that I was thin. Too thin. Making a mental note to stop drinking slim fast, I continued. Now I easily clawed through the loose dirt above me, and finally…finally…poked my head through. And emerged, like a deranged butterfly from it's cocoon.
The first thing my eyes set upon was him. Him.
Why is it always him? In some tired, exhausted way, I didn't want to see him. And in another excited, relieved way, I wanted to collapse into his arms forever.
Instead, I pulled myself out of the grave, and fell upon the cold, hard, dirt. No welcoming arms this time. He only stared. And said one. Single. Word. "Buffy?""