A/N: Buffy's dead. Dawn's numb. Oh what ever will happen?
I don't own anything.
"I don't know what to do anymore," she whispered, her head in her hands and a distressed appearance was written on her face.
"She didn't even come home last night. I have no clue where she is. She could be doing... I wouldn't put anything past her."
Words were spoken in a rush and I tried to make them out. I felt appalled at Tara for saying such things.
"She's fine. Probably at one of her bloody friend's house," Spike reassured the blonde witch and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
I know he could hear my heart. Probably smell me. He is a vampire after all. I climbed up into my room by the tree and I'm now up stairs, listening in on the two's conversation. I think Tara is crying. She seems so worn out.
I did that too her.
"No, Spike. She's not fine. You don't see her like I do," Tara spoke with a quiet voice. She took a deep breath and continued. "She never talks. Or eats. Or does anything. She leaves without telling us where she goes."
My body turns cold as she's talking. Who gives her the right to tell this to anyone? And to Spike, no less. Who gives her the right to even care?
"I can't control her. I never really could. I don't know what to do. I want what's best for her. That might involve social services. Because I obviously can't give her what she needs."
And I've heard enough. I go into my room and shut the door, blocking the voices from entering my brain. I climb out the window again and onto the roof. And everything's peaceful again.
There is no social services here or Tara or Spike or portals where sisters die. Or lost souls. Or cancer.
There was just me and the sky. Free-falling and being weightless.
Oh what a beautiful feeling.
Suddenly, I'm being ripped from that world and into this harsh one. Everything is being pushed on me and it's hard to breathe.
"The bint's really thinkin' 'bout calling a social worker, you know. So you better get your act together," Spike says, while joining me out on the roof. He crouches down and sits beside me.
"Shouldn't smoke; 's bad for you," he says when he pulls a cigg out from its carton and places it between his lips. He lights it and exhales.
I give a smirk. He knows I smoke. He can smell it on me. But he's giving his disclaimer and I nod all the same. I place my own fag between my fingers and light it.
"Yeah. It's real bad."
And I inhale real deep, in spite of myself.
Take a couple more years off. Let the nicotine plague my lungs. Suffocate my air capacity. Kill me faster. Let the Surgeon General be right. Come on, kill me.
I dare you.
Okay, me and mom just got in a big fight and I'm about to fucking scream. And I might be grounded. So, I think I'll post the rest of the story now.
R&R. Thanks. KC.
