Sometimes I think that I should have more in common with her than I do. We've been through similar things; You punished both of us, at different times and for different things. She is ahead of me in life by some few years, but that hasn't made a difference to her. We're both out of Your good grace. Why are our personalities so separate, if we have had almost the same life?

She is deftly rolling the dark red lipstick out of its silver tube. After her lips are covered to her satisfaction, she smacks them together and inspects herself. She looks dressed to kill.

On her bed, I ask, "Are you going to go to a party?"

"Of course I am," she snaps, apparently annoyed with me. "You think I'm going out of my way to impress you?"

"You're supposed to be watching me." It is a faint hope, and even I know that it won't work.

"I'm supposed to be living a nice life of luxury inside a damn glass cage, but you can see how much I'm enjoying that." Soft boots are pulled up to her thighs and zipped closed.

I shake my head. "What will I say if someone comes and checks to make sure you haven't left me alone to set the house on fire?"

"Tell them that I'm a delinquent, they'll believe you," she grunts, in a bad mood. But then, she always is.

As she turns around in the mirror on the wall, I say, "It won't matter to you whether you go or not."

"That's right, little girl," she suddenly growls, dropping her hands and rounding on me. "I'm a poor, misguided teen with a sad past that is trying to forget with self-destruction."

She is stalking towards me, hands in fists. I scoot back across the bed to the wall. "You know what? I'm not going to let your lack of guts stop me from having some fun. I'm not going to cry and be a victim. I'm going to go out and live my life, because no one can force me to do otherwise!"

As I'm curling up, pressing to the wall to stay away from her, she seems to reconsider and tosses her purse onto a chair. Sitting down on the mattress, she takes a deep breath and continues, more calmly, "We both know why I've been saddled with you. They're hoping I'll learn to take responsibility for something."

"But you're not going to."

"No, I'm not. I'll be a proper adult when I say I will, not them."

"This defiance won't make Him like you," I whisper.

Her eyes narrow. "I don't care. Bad things happen when he doesn't like someone, but bad things still happen when he does. Nothing will get better, even if he decides that you're not as much of an idiot today."

I move closer to her, calming down. "You don't believe that you can make yourself a better person?"

"I don't. I don't need to, anyway." She lies down, so that she's facing the ceiling and I can see all of her face. "The truth is that we're all alone."

"I'm here with you."

She snorts, almost laughing, but not quite. Actually, I've never heard her laugh. How odd. "You don't get it. We're alone in our own heads. There's not going to be some magical moment when you realize that living like we are isn't so bad, because it really is bad and there's nothing we can do to change it. The only cure is a bullet in the brainpan."

"And that's what makes you sad, that you can't change what you already have?"

"You're being intentionally retarded." With more patience than I think she really possesses, she says slowly, "I'm not sad about it. I'm pissed. It's all his fault, for doing this to all of us. We're all alone, and we're always going to be alone, and there's not even room for hope."

I lay down, next to her, looking at the same ceiling. We've both been through such similar things. Why can't I see the ceiling the same way that she does? Did I just take a different lesson to heart? "That sounds a lot more like sadness to me."

"Do you see me crying?"

"That doesn't mean that you're not sad…" She doesn't respond, and we both stay still for a little while. Finally, I ask quietly, "You really don't think that it matters, whether He likes me or not?"

"Not at all. He'll be just as possessive, and he'll keep you away from others. You'll still be alone."

"Couldn't I just be together with my special person? I wouldn't need anyone else. That way, I wouldn't be alone."

"I have a special person, too, you know." The way her voice breaks makes an ache flutter through my chest. "He especially doesn't want any of us to have special someones. I think that he really wants our special someone to be him, so that none of us will go away."

"Because He's alone, too?"

She stands up, making the bed shift under me. As she maneuvers out the open window, she pauses and answers, "Listen to me. Just because he's alone doesn't make it okay for him to force us to be that way. It's taking away our humanity."

After she disappears, I stay still.

You are alone, yes. But just because we're all alone doesn't mean that we're not human - the little pain in my heart lets me know that I'm still alive. And You're the one that gave it to me.

She and I are alike in many ways. But she rejected You completely. I still want You to see me. Maybe then we can be together, and not as alone as before.

Can I be Your special someone? Can I possibly change enough for that?

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Whedon shout-out! Yes! Anyway. I can never tell if there is any emotion in what I write (am I immune to it, being the author?) so I don't know if this is at all interesting. She was more patient than I wanted her to be - I think I mentioed, in the story itself - but she is a bit of a wilting flower.