Author's Note: So here is more - thank you to everyone for the reviews and for anyone new who has attached an interest to this story :)

***Trigger Warning*** Deals with concepts of child abuse, drug use.

You have been warned.

Until It Sleeps: Chapter 12

Dear Dear Diary I wanna tell my secrets Cause you're the only one that I know Who'll keep them

Dear Dear Diary I wanna tell my secrets I know you'll keep them And this is what I've done.

-Pink

Shouts rang out all the way down the small street in South Boston - both a man's and a woman's voice, swearing, crashing, slamming of doors. It wasn't uncommon in these parts. In fact, it was almost a daily occurrence. Someone was always shouting about something in this street, perhaps a symptom of having too many low-cost rental flats jammed far too closely together inside several ten-storey concrete shoeboxes.

In an alley dividing two of the high-rises a small figure scurried, between cars, dumpsters and bags of garbage, out of sight of most anyone who cared to look. Those who did look would have seen a dark- haired girl of no older than seven, sporting jeans a few sizes too big, and a bright purple and pink tie-died t-shirt. The white sneakers on her feet were almost unrecognisable as white, and barely recognisable as sneakers. In one hand she carried a white plastic bag with a couple of books and some pencils, and in the other was clutched a rolled-up piece of paper that she held with unlimited care, ensuring she wouldn't crease it by gripping it too tightly.

At the sounds of the shouts she stopped, craned her neck and eyed a window on the fourth storey of the building to her right. There was another crash, someone swearing and then suddenly, two storeys higher and five apartments along the window exploded outwards, sending shards of glass plummeting to the bitumen in front of her. The girl took a hesitant step backward, as if expecting something else to follow - a body maybe? - but when nothing did, she threw one more glance at the first window, switched the rolled-up paper and plastic bag between her hands and resumed running.

She dodged the glass under her feet, darting out of the alley and swinging around to the front of the building, up a concrete path to a set of stairs at the very edge of the block. The soft slapping sound of her shoes connecting with steps as she flew up all four flights echoed against the concrete walls. Out of the stairwell, right, then all the way down to the other end she jogged, past the large pile of clothes, several books and a stereo outside 417 that still blocked half the corridor, and would continue to do so until the occupant's boyfriend eventually came home.

She stopped at 425, lowered her bag of books to the concrete and reached into her oversized pockets for her keys. The keyhole was at chest height for adults and a full arms' length from her, but she pushed herself onto her tip-toes and jammed the key in with as much force as she could.

But before she even had the chance to turn the key, the door swung powerfully open, not giving her enough time to regain her balance from having her entire bodyweight leaning against it. She stumbled forward, taking all her concentration to not end up with her face in the carpet. Somewhere between losing and regaining her footing her hand had clamped down on the rolled-up paper, putting a deep set of creases in the middle.

The smell that wafted through the door made her nose crinkle. It smelled a mixture of alcohol, cigarettes, off baked beans, and sex.

To the girl, it smelled distinctly of home.

"Get the fuck inside."

A hand grabbed a fistful of her t-shirt and yanked her forward, throwing her off balance again and this time, the paper fell out of her hand. She gasped, her head snapping around to where it rolled on the floor, and she made a futile attempt to reach forward and retrieve it. She only received another yank in response.

"Kitchen, NOW."

Doug gave her a rough shove away form the door. With an expression somewhere between indignation and silent resignation at what was to come she walked slowly through the lounge room, past the couch, stepping carefully around several empty beer bottles. She heard the rustling of her plastic bag being retrieved from outside and paused, listening intently to any sound that would indicate he had picked up the other, more important item..

"Kid how many fucking times do I gotta say it?!" Doug bellowed. The sound made her flinch. Spurred on by the threat in his voice she half jogged, half shuffled the rest of the way through the open living area into the kitchen.

A woman sat on a stool by the bench, her hands wrapped protectively around a bottle of cheap gin. Her head was bowed, but the moment the little girl entered the woman looked up, in that semi-glazed glare the girl knew so well. Almost in slow motion she watched her straighten to her full height, draw in a deep breath and rock slightly backwards, as if she were the wolf trying to blow down a house.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" She seethed, the stench of alcohol spewing out with every word. "You're asking for it you little bitch I swear."

The girl's eyes turned down to her shoes, then she jumped again when the sound of books and pencils slamming onto the kitchen lino heralded Doug's entrance. He stormed past her, deliberately knocking her shoulder on the way.

"It's fucking true." He thrust the loose piece of paper out towards the woman, seething. The girl craned her neck again to ensure it was the picture they were looking at, but her shoulders slumped in dismay at the creases now crossing it. Doug spun around and glared at her, jabbing at the paper. "Who the fuck is this!?"

"He lives across the street." She said, "I..I was drawing it for him cos he didn't have nothing to put up on his walls."

"Since when have you been hangin' around strangers huh?"

"He's not a stranger!" She shouted. "I know him - I see him every day on my way from school.'

"So you drew a picture of you and some old guy, and you signed it `Kid'?" He snapped. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

The girl glanced between the woman and Doug, and eventually settled on staring at the benchtop somewhere in between them both.

"But mom the teacher said-"

The woman lurched forward with almost impossible speed for someone so drunk, nearly knocking her stool over. "I told you not to fucking call me that!" She hissed, pointing harshly at her. Fucking hell, how many times do I have to tell you!"

The girl's resolve did not waver. "But the teachers said-"

"Fuck the teachers! What would they know? Just because I gave birth to you doesn't make you my fucking responsibility!" She snarled again, taking a step away and glancing at Doug. She shook her head. "Do you know how hard it was to explain to your teacher why the fuck you had `Kid' written on your paper!?"

"But. that's my name." The girl said softly.

The strike hit the little girl's cheek before she even saw it coming. She fell backwards, but her hands and arms were already ready to break her fall. She blinked up in time to see the woman towering over her, her left hand balled into a fist and the gin held firmly in her right hand.

"Don't be an idiot." The woman spat. "I don't even know your name." She lifted the bottle to her mouth and poured a generous amount past her lips, swallowing with a grimace and slamming the bottle back on the bench. "I told you to make up a fucking name, and stick to it! How fucking hard is that? Do you know what happens when teachers start asking questions?" Crumpling up the drawing, she thew it at the girl. "Social security gets involved. They take you away, and I lose my fucking payment for keeping you in this house."

She shook her head again and made a face of utter disgust, swigging deeply from her gin. Then, in the next instant she seemed to forget the young girl had ever been in the room, plastering her best lewd smile on her face and beckoning Doug toward her with one finger. Doug, equally ignorant, chuckled huskily, closing the distance between them with small, over-emphasised steps.

Still on the floor of the kitchen the girl slowly reached for her picture, taking it into her hands and beginning to unwrap it, but without a second's hesitation Doug's arm swooped down, snatching up the paper, crinkling it tighter and tossing it in the bin without so much as glancing in her direction.

Perhaps not so equally ignorant, after all.

"Don't even think about getting it out." He muttered. He pushed himself against the woman roughly, sliding his hand up to cup her breast. "Now, where were we?" He growled in her ear. Then, as if as an afterthought he kicked at the ground, connecting with the small girl's ankle. "Get the fuck out and leave us alone." He snarled. "And don't come out until tomorrow morning or you'll wish you never fucking breathed."

Rolling onto her stomach, away from the hate and the anger and the sight of her mother getting it on with Doug, again, the girl rose to her feet and padded softly back through the lounge room, into the corridor and around to the right where her room - no bigger than a small study and jam-packed full of junk - awaited her.

And she didn't come out. Not for dinner, for the bathroom, not even for a glass of water.

Not until the next morning.

She returned from school the same way as yesterday, but this time she didn't go straight home. The girl instead darted across the road to a smaller block of apartments, slipped through the fence behind it and into another alley. This time, she wouldn't lose her prize to Doug and her mom.

She could tell he was there from the small cloud of cigarette smoke that, by all appearances from a few yards away looked like it was seeping out of the walls themselves. However, a few more steps yielded a small alcove, reserved for the garbage dumpster that nobody ever bothered to store there and instead left a few feet away, up against the wall. In the interim the alcove had become home to an elderly man, or at least seemingly elderly. Years of homelessness always age a person more than their share of years. For the most part residents and visitors to this area of town kept well away from him, casting him aside as a homeless bum who had more than his share of screws loose.

She approached him boldly - a wide grin plastered on her face. The moment the old man saw her he gave a `whoop' and grinned back.

"Princess!" He puffed around his half-burned cigarette. "How was school?"

The girl shrugged, dropping her plastic bag of books and pencils on the step. "School's school." She said nonchalantly. The grin faded only slightly, however it was soon replaced with a sly, mischievous glance at her hand. The old man tilted his head to the side and peered at her.

"What's you got there?"

Then the brilliant grin was back - he had noticed her prize. She held out her hand, and out of the sleeve of her cardigan dropped a sizeable chocolate bar. The man blinked.

"Ooo where'd you get that one then?"

"I took it on my own!" She stated proudly, nodding. "Gots it from the corner store."

"Bet they never saw you coming, princess."

"Nope!" She said triumphantly, breaking the chocolate bar in half and ripping the packet open. She passed him the larger half, turned around and dropped down onto the concrete step beside him. "Not even close."

This had become almost a daily routine. They would sit in amicable silence for several minutes - he would puff away at his cigarette and munch on anything she had managed to steal for him, and she would sit and simply stare at the wall opposite her, enjoying the time to herself.

This time, however, the silence lasted barely a minute, before she turned to him and stared.

The old man broke into a smile and took a long puff of his cigarette, only turning to blow the smoke outward rather than into her face. "What's on yer mind, Princess?"

She continued staring at him, seeming to battle with the question in her mind. Then, she blinked and tilted her head.

"What's your name?" She asked finally

The old man, unfazed by the nature of the question, simply grinned. "Beats me."

She frowned. "But what do people call you?"

"Oh, everyone's got a name for me." He shrugged and bit into the chocolate, relishing it with an enthusiastic `mm-mmm'. He swallowed then leaned across to her. The girl wrinkled up her nose at the unwashed, unkempt smell of body odour mixed with old cigarettes and alcohol that surrounded her, but she didn't move away. "Most of `em I got no time for."

"What... can I call you?"

"You can call me whatsoever takes yer fancy, princess."

She contemplated his comment for a moment, her face thoughtful. Then, she turned to stare at him, her eyes taking in every detail, ever line, every missing tooth. They travelled down the length of his old brown coat, his dirt-stained grey trouser pants, and his fading blue shirt. They paused again at his worn-out black shoes. He looked like he could have been one of those important, business people, who had just stepped out of his office building in his suit one day, sat down on the pavement and never got up again.

Then, her eyes flicked across to the garbage bag that held all of his "special" things - as he called them - shoved in the corner of the alcove he spent his time in, out of sight prying eyes. He had always kept it tightly closed, but today it was half-open and she could see the corner of a soft, thick blanket, a torch, and a bright yellow box of Cheerios.

Her eyes brightened.

"I want to call you Cheerio." She said, matter-of-factly.

He seemed surprised, for a moment, and a brief look of concern crossed his face when he realised where the word had come from. Immediately, he reached for the bag, his unsteady hands - bordering on panicked - bunching up the plastic and hiding its contents once more away, further into the alcove, out of sight.

She looked at him and smiled, catching his hand with one of hers on the way back to his lap.

"It's okay." She reassured him. "I won't tell nobody."

The man simply stared at her, as if unsure whether a seven year- old's word could be trusted. Then, he broke into another big, toothy grin.

"Cheerio it is then." He said with a `whoop' gesture. "Cheerio." He tried the name out again. Yes, he could certainly get used to it. He leaned in closer. "So, what shall I call you?"

The girl frowned. "Well...I don't know."

"But you gotta have a name! A princess like you?"

She nodded, thinking back to how he had rationalised it.

`Everyone's got a name for me.'

She licked her lips. "Well, my mom says I don't got no name cos she can't remember what the nurses put on that." Her small brow furrowed. "..piece of paper that's what proves to the gov-nent I'm born."

Her mind suddenly diverted to her mother's words. `I don't care what you call yourself, just find somethin' and stick to it.'

"...And she says she don't care what I calls myself s'long as it's the same an' no-one gets spicious what might tell the gov-nent on her so I get taken and she loses her paycheck. So I figures I call myself Cassie at school after that pretty lady on TV everyone's talkin' bout an' Doug mom's boyfriend thinks is hot an' wishes mom was as hot as her."

`And don't fuck it up by changing half way through.'

"..But I don't really like the name cos I want my own and mom and Doug calls me `Kid' all the time. Can't remember when they called me anything else."

`Because if the government finds out and takes you away from me, then I lose my money, and I'll come after you so fast that you'll wish you weren't fucking born.'

She shrugged. "So I guess you and me's the same an' it don't matter what you call me." She frowned and looked at him earnestly. "S'long as it's not `kid' cos I hate that name."

`...and if you ever tell anyone, I'll drown you in the fucking Charles.'

Cheerio nodded. Unbeknownst to anyone but him, this conversation was one of the most sobering in his life. Here was this girl, barely seven years old, holding her own against a world that thought nothing of her. Here she was. Unafraid. Cheerio had learned many times over that the human race was, for want of a better word, down- right fucked. This girl - this one, small, scraggly, dark-haired girl, gave him hope.

"I'd be much obliged, little Miss," He began, bowing his head. "If you let me call you Faith."

She blinked, then screwed up her face.

"But that's a word!" She said, pouting. "You can't name me after a word that's cheating!"

He laughed. "Sure I can - you named me after a breakfast cereal!"

She seemed to ponder that, then broke into a tiny, cheeky smile. "'Spose I did." She giggled. "Why Faith anyways?"

Cheerio simply smiled. "You'll figure it out some day."

He'd worded it so she wouldn't understand, but would perhaps a few years later, when the meaning behind it could be dealt with with something more than childhood understanding. What he had done, was pay her the highest compliment he knew how to give. But he couldn't have her finding out about it now.

`Faith' grew suddenly serious - far more serious than any child should be - and pointed at him. "You gots to keep it secret cos I'm not sposed to tell anyone I don't got no name."

Cheerio smiled, a sad smile.

"Safe with me, Miss Faith." He said. "Safe with me."

"HEY!"

A shot rang out loudly, echoing backwards and forwards, up and down the street, the rain carrying it all the way to the ground. The dark figures scattered like startled rats. Each ran in their own direction, off into the shadows, away from the man with the gun.

He moved closer, leaning over to inspect the damage in what little light was offered by the early evening. A sudden movement in the corner of his eye made him turn, and only barely miss a whirlwind of dark, matted hair scramble past him, her short legs scrabbling for purchase on stone pavement drenched by the downpour.

"Hey.. whoa." He said, squinting into the darkness and spying a small gap between the wall of their apartment building and the dumpster in the alley.

She beat him - a girl no older than eight - finding the damage first, her arms flung out, grubby hands reaching, desperately seeking life in the crumpled mass of battered limbs and blood.

"Cheerio.." She whimpered, sobbing. "Cheerio wake up."

Tracks of dust mingled with rain and tears lined her face. Her hands pulled at his clothes, angrily yanking at the lapels of his tattered brown jacket. "Come on.." She begged, punctuating each syllable with a jerk. The old man's head, twisted at an impossible angle, simply lolled back each time she tried. Eyes lifeless. Body bloody.

The man who had disturbed the peace, and ultimately stopped the beating, knelt down close to the gutter, which was now beginning to run a shade of red.

"It's just some old homeless guy, kid." He said, almost sympathetically. "Nobody'll miss `im."

As if registering him for the first time he watched her release her hold on the man's jacket. Her hands and clothes were now stained with his blood, her face having caught bubbling spatters that still seeped from a cut above his eyebrow and out both nostrils.

"My name is Faith." She snarled, leaning back into a crouch, her hand still resting gently on the homeless man's body. "An' he wasn't some old homeless guy. His name was Cheerio." Her eyes filled with fresh tears and she wiped the back of her hand across her nose, smudging his blood across her upper lip.

Slowly, she turned to him, and the man would swear over and over again in years to come that he had never seen such an angry, haunted look in a child's eyes. Now, at this angle the man could see a bruise that traversed the length of her right cheek, sneaking across the space beneath her eye. There were grazes on both knees, and deep blue indentations in her left arm. Finger-shaped marks.

"You should've killed `em."

The iciness of that girl's voice struck him to the very core.

"Killin's for scum." He said quickly, then flicked his eyes up the wall to the first level apartment window, studying it closely for any sign he had been seen. "Hey, do you live up there?"

The little girl thought around that question, then her eyes, and voice hardened.

"Nope."

Faith shot upright in her bed, flinching unconsciously at the creak that resonated through the room. Wiping her hands furiously down her body, on her arms, her legs, her tank top she blinked the vestiges of the dream away, trying to force the feeling of his blood from her hands - the sick grinding of his head flopping on a broken neck.

Fuck. what was she doing?

She wiped at her face, shuddering. It had taken her days to realise his blood was on her face. Fuck.

She was going to be sick.

Unceremoniously throwing the blanket off her body Faith staggered to her feet, lurched across the carpet and flung herself at the door, yanking it open with no time or inclination to do so quietly. She was only concentrating on two things - one, keeping the contents of her stomach down, and two, remembering where the hell the upstairs bathroom was.

She heard Buffy call out to her softly as she threw herself into the corridor but didn't even register it. One arm wrapped around her stomach and the other up against the wall for support, Faith called on all the reserves of brain function she had and pictured the house in daylight.

Right.

Carpet gave way to cold tiles, and Faith couldn't help but remember how cold the pavement had felt against her bare legs that night. She'd thought it was just the rain, but it hadn't been. His blood had been everywhere. All over the pavement, running through the gutters, all over her.

She half walked, half stumbled the extra distance to the toilet, her hands reaching out, bracing herself against the seat. It took barely a second for her brain to connect to her stomach, and she vomited violently, over and over again until she had nothing but bile to expel and barely the energy to hold herself upright. Her fingers still held tightly to the toilet seat even as she slumped in an untidy heap onto the cold floor, bone-tired but too afraid to close her eyes, just in case the images would be there, waiting for her.

Where were they coming from? Why now? She'd managed to file all that shit away in the `do not open, EVER' section of her head a long time ago. She hadn't thought about him in years. Almost ten years.

Fuck, it was like she was a gram away from a fucking overdose.

"..Faith?"

Faith flinched at the voice, holding up her hand in defence of herself, or perhaps defence of the picture she painted. Unfortunately with one less hand to steady her she unbalanced and her other hand slid away from the toilet, hitting the tiles with a slap and folding her body away from the voice.

"Go back to bed, B-" She rasped, the vile taste of stomach acid mixed with old popcorn dancing across her tongue, enticing her to be sick again. Of all the people in the world she didn't want her to be here. She didn't want Buffy to be here. Miss pristine existence. Miss perfect fucking life. "-this is my shit."

She felt as filthy as she had been that night, like his blood still stained her, covered her hands and arms - sticky, semi-congealed. The dust that stuck in her eyes.

Buffy moved into the bathroom, and reached down to her, touching her arm gently. Too gently. Too fucking gently for her. Faith flinched away, hiding herself from it.

"Get.. the fuck... away from me Buffy."

Buffy didn't move. Instead, she leaned forward again, reaching out, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Faith let me help you."

But this time Faith jerked forward, pushing Buffy away from her, wiping a hand savagely across her mouth.

"I don't need your help!" She snarled. "I don't fucking need it!"

Her eyes burned brightly with the fire she knew inside her so well. The one that told her she was nothing. She was alone. She was worthless. The fire of self-loathing, the one that screamed for people to hear and yet isolated her so far away from them at the very same time.

Buffy was too gentle. Not rough enough. Not rough enough for what she deserved.

She had to get out.

Scrambling to her feet, Faith flung herself out of the bathroom door and sprinted down the hallway, a shocked Buffy only having moments to decide whether to follow her or not. But by the time the decision was made there was the scrambling sound of bare feet pounding down the stairs, and a door slamming.

And Faith was gone.