JEWEL TONES – EMERALD
(Five Faiths That Never Were, Part 3)


When you were five, it was a pony. When you were seven, it was a birthday party. When you were eleven it was breasts. When you were thirteen it was to not have breasts. When you were fifteen it was power. And when you were seventeen it was being Buffy.

For as long as you can remember, you've always wanted something.

You know, you think you know people. You spend every day with them, you fight with them, and listen to their stories about their pathetic little lives; how their boyfriend was the evil undead, how much their world sucks because they got gifted with more power than a normal person. You listen to them whine about how much everything sucks and all the while you're looking around wondering how you could get a piece of that life that sucks so bad, 'cause from this angle? That kind of sucking looks pretty damned good. The kind where your father beats you, where your mother drinks herself into oblivion, that kind of sucking pulls you right down into a black hole of hate that you try to bury at the bottom of your soul. But that kind of life, the kind of hate that it inspires, that stays with you. No matter how much you wish you could burn it out of you it stays like a brand, like a mark of Cain. And even if you manage to hide it it's always there, just waiting to be discovered, just waiting for its chance to betray you.

So you listen to them whine, these people with easy, idyllic lives they don't even realize the value of, the kind you'd give your left arm to have, and you learn to hate them, too. You wonder how the hell they ever got so spoiled, so blind. And you start to wonder what it'd be like to be them. To have a piece of that for even just one second. And despite all the walls you've built up over the years, you try, at least a little, the best way you know how, to become part of that. But they don't even know you exist. They make you feel like less than you ever were. And that hatred starts to burn a hole right through you straight to hell.

But still, you think you know people, these people especially. They're soft, and they're good, and they're heroes. All the things you'll never be. But you've got one up on them, because you can go places they'd never dare to dream. So you take it, take that one thing they don't have, the one thing they'll never have, and you run with it. You become the best at it. Hard where they're soft, evil where they're good, a villain to their hero. And after a while you start to believe that you're better, smarter, faster than them. They're trapped in a tiny world with no windows, but you, you've got vision kid, and you're gonna go far.

'Til one of those soft heroic people you thought you knew so well shoves your own knife in your guts and leaves you for dead.

That's the worst. You build up this idea in your head that you know things, that you're smarter, that you're way ahead of the game. And then one of these whiny dimwits comes out of nowhere and surprises you with a knife in the gut. Might as well have been a knife in the back. Not that you didn't knife them in the back, 'cause technically you did. But hey, villains do stuff like that, and that's what you are.

Correction. That's what you were.

You think you know people… but it turns out the old cliché got it right: you never really know a person 'til you walk in their shoes.

The grass is always greener, huh?

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So you switch bodies, switch lives. You get a taste of what it's like to have family that loves you, friends that actually give a shit, a boyfriend who's gentle and kind, what it's like to be a hero. You play all the parts like an actress working for an emmy, trying to keep the mocking smile from your lips all the while. They're all still so pathetic. So stupid. The tiger is right in their midst and they don't even have enough sense to see it. Idiots, just like you always figured.

Except that they're not.

It takes you a little while, weaned as you are on fists and hatred, but you finally start to figure out; it's not that they're stupid. It's that they genuinely trust you. Of course they never question you. You're the hero, the one they look to when things go wrong. The one who always knows what to do. The one they love and adore. You finally get all the love and adoration you've been wishing for your whole life. And you hate them even more for it. Because it's not really for you, Oh no. It's for her.

New life, new body, everything you always wanted, and guess what? You still hate yourself.

You've never been a hero, never been a friend, never been loved. You've never been any of the things these people love about her. But for the first time ever, you want to be.

But you barely even get the chance. One good deed and then you're shoved back into your own body, back into your own crappy little criminal life. Only now you understand just how miserable you are.

So what do you do? Keep going, try to make something better of the lousy hand you've been dealt and the even worse mess you've made of it? No. You plant a seed and nurture a death wish. Easier to give up than to try. And you've already fallen so far there's nowhere lower left to go, right?

Wrong.

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South America. The grass may not be greener here, but the trees are. The emerald green of tropical plants is a welcome change, but it doesn't take long to figure out they're just a cover, a prettier mask to hide the decay. Thick, misty jungles filled with sick heat and poverty. The faces are different, and the smells unfamiliar, but it's not all that different from home, is it? If you could call the place you grew up in a 'home'.

South America. Land of Freedom, Land of Cocaine, and you've got a heavy yen for both. Doesn't take long before you're snorting that extra bump to get you through the afternoon, the next hour, the next five minutes. A little bit of that stuff and you forget about life in Sunnydale, forget how it hurts, feel like you can fly. And then a little turns into a lot, and the sins start to pile up higher and higher. Slayer strength means you don't have to work for a living; you can just roll people for money. Bad for the soul, bad for your conscience, but hey, a little extra lump of snow makes it all look better in the morning. Some days it doesn't even seem like a bad way to live.

And then he shows up. The guy you always wanted, the only one who ever seemed to care about you. Sure, he cares about her, too, but at least he knows that you exist.  You thought no one would ever find you here in this practically third world country, never figured any of them would care enough to come this far after you. But he does. Of course he does.

You think you know people… You think they're not all that smart but at least they should have enough pride, enough sense to know when to leave you alone and let you sink to the bottom. Doesn't he know? Can't he see? Why can't he just let you waste away into oblivion? The heroes won. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be? But then, that's the trouble with people who think they're heroes; they've got delusions of grandeur. Think they're better than everyone else. That's why you've always hated them so much. You want to hate him too, but you've never been able to do that. Still can't. You look at him and you still see a little bit of hope; feel a spark kindle in your heart that could blossom into an inferno. And you hate him for inspiring you.

It's a bad night; too much tequila, not enough cocaine and your nerves are jumping like crazy. He's angry, but he's solid, and he's talking sense, and you're starting to sober up and understand way more than you want to about your immediate future. He mentions her name. You bristle. You argue with him. Eventually it comes to blows. And it feels so good to be able to let go, doesn't it? So good to finally put your fists against something and give voice to the hatred in your broken heart. You never meant for it to go that far, but that hatred took on a life of its own, grew like a cancer while you weren't looking. Betrayed you one more time. You never meant for it to happen, but in the end that didn't change the dust on your hands or the tears on your face.

He came to help you. Came to save you. Came to help you save yourself. The only person who understood. The only person left who cared about you at all… and you murdered him.

You feel something break inside you, and then everything just goes numb. That black hole opens and starts devouring everything in sight, spins into a swirling vortex that eats every dream, every hope, every spark, growing until there's nothing left but an empty, mindless void behind your dark eyes.

Cocaine isn't enough anymore. There's nothing that could fill the emptiness inside you, and after that night, you don't even try anymore. You think you know who you are, what you're destined for, and you decide there's no going back. Some sins can't be forgiven.

Day blends into day, and soon you only care about time when it tells you you need another needle in your arm. You get slow, you get sloppy, and pretty soon you're too doped up to even be able to soften up average pedestrians for their money. But there are other ways. None of them pretty.

Demons love you. They get off so hard on fucking a Slayer that sometimes you think they might just explode. Vampires though, they're the best. Not only do they view fucking you as something akin to a religious experience, but for a chance to get a taste of Slayer blood they'll pay twice as much. Business is good, and that black hole seems to dry up and fade away right along with your body. Pretty soon you're nothing but skin and bones, a walking skeleton who's got more of a chance of falling down dead than making it through another night.

Slayers can O.D. Who knew?

Laying there in that dirty gutter in a third world country where no one knows your name, you smile peacefully at last. There's no more want. No more pain.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, kid.

You weren't supposed to be like this. You weren't meant for the harsher elements of the world. You weren't put together to withstand the little deaths, the moments that kill like inches, the tiny stabbing pains that chip away at people's hearts day after day. And you'd laugh if you knew it, but you were made for gentler things. For happier things; like unicorns and rainbows and true love. Nasty turn of fate being born to the family you were, even nastier getting picked for a Slayer. You built up the walls to protect yourself, hid away that innocence and love until you didn't know which was real and which was the construct. Tangled in confusion, wrapped in wanting. You bit down hard against the world and it was like biting into tin foil, a slow, metallic sting that poisoned your blood.

Nothing turned out the way it was supposed to.

But then, what does?

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Whistler sighs and closes Faith's eyes. He sits and stares at her a moment longer, seeing roads demolished and paths not taken, and he wonders…

He's still wondering as he rises and walks off into the humid night air.

And he thinks maybe he always will.