Author's Note: Hey, readers! How are you? This is a new snippet, and I really hope everyone enjoys it!

The Blood On The Blouse

Willow pulls the dresser away from the wall. The antique piece of wood creaks as it's pushed along the floor. She reaches her hand behind it and looks for the rolled up shirt that she keeps wedged between the dresser and the wall. The shirt she pulls out every now and then to remember. Or to forget. She's not quite sure why she keeps it hidden or why she needs it, and won't tell anyone about it, not even Buffy or Xander. All she knows is that she needs it to stay sane, to stay good, to be Willow, and to know who that is.

She fumbles around behind the dresser before giving up and flicking on the lights. She pulls the dresser farther away from the wall.

It's not there.

"Kennedy?" Willow cries frantically. Afraid.

"What's wrong?" Kennedy asks, her brows knit together, as she enters the room and stands in the door frame.

"Did you do something with a blouse that was behind this?" Willow tries to mask the panic and fear and sadness in her voice. She doesn't want Kennedy to see. To see how weak she is, or to see why she pulls the dresser from the wall to touch a blood-stained blouse.

"You mean that white top that was covered in blood splatters?" Kennedy asks, her voice laced with confusion. "I found it back there when I was cleaning."

Willow closes her eyes to calm herself. She takes a deep breath.

"What did you do with it?"

Kennedy crosses her arms defensively. "What do you mean, 'what did I do with it'? I washed it. It was covered in blood. I figured it was from our last Scooby-gang hurrah, and it fell back there."

Willow feels the anger bubbling up inside her. She washed it. That blouse was the last piece of her she had left. In the world. The last time Willow wore the peasant-style blouse had also been the first. She had bought it far before then, but considering the circumstances, felt the blouse was too happy-looking to wear. Funny, Willow recalled, coming from the girl with hula girls and daisies hanging from most of her clothing. But she had worn it that day because she was happy. Everything was right again and it was perfect. But it wasn't.

So now she keeps the blood-splattered blouse, with a blood-inked map on the back, rolled behind the dresser. Because it's what helps her remember and forget all at the same time. It makes her remember who she is, what she's done. Who she loved. No, Willow corrects herself. Loves. Because she still loves her, the one who's blood decorates Willow's beloved blouse. She still loves her and she won't stop. And she hates to say it. She hates to look at Kennedy and know that it's not perfect. She still loves her. She always will.

And that's why she keeps the shirt hidden, unwashed and just for her. To feel close to her and to remember her in her last moments, their last moments. The last moment that the world meant something.

Willow sees Kennedy reenter the room before she even realizes she left. Kennedy has the blouse in her hand. Washed and folded. Neat and perfect, blood gone, and perfectly white. It's clean. It's wrong.

Kennedy hands the blouse to Willow, puzzlement still present on her face. "I'm sorry if I did something wrong. I just figured I'd do something nice and wash your blood out."

Willow holds the shirt in her hands. She holds it up and allows it to fall unfolded. She examines the shirt and remembers how pretty she used to think it was. And how pretty it is now. She thinks to herself that maybe now she can wear it again.

And then she laughs at that. At the idea that she could ever wear it again. That she could wear it again and not think of her, of them, of who she was and what she became. That she could ever wear the blouse and not feel crazed, evil, dirty, wrong. That she could ever wear the shirt and kiss Kennedy and not be thinking of her. She could never wear it and not feel it crawling under her skin, in her blood, in every inch of her, the evil. The pain. The anger. The magic. She could never wear it and not remember it. The quick noise and the splatter of blood. Holding her in arms and begging. Begging for something she had no right to beg for. But begging for something she owed her. Something she needed but wasn't allowed to have. She could never wear the blouse and not feel the tracing of a map against her back, or imagine her own skin being ripped from her body in a single, quick, motion. Willow could never wear it.

Willow folds the blouse again. She stands up and opens the top drawer of the dresser. She places the shirt neatly on top of a pile of numerous other things. And then she silently slides the drawer closed. Kennedy stands in the doorway, unmoving, still unsure of what is wrong or why she feels overwhelmed with guilt.

"It wasn't my blood."

I hope everyone enjoyed this snippet. I love getting comments, questions, suggestions, or constructive criticism. Please feel free to review or PM me and let me know what you think, or tell me what you'd like to see in the next snippet. Always open to ideas and suggestions. Thanks for reading!