Adult-FanFiction.org : Buffy

Red	By : Prophecy Category: -Buffy the Vampire Slayer > General Views: 5499 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Chapter Six: Blowback

I’m awake, but my eyes are closed, my lids heavy, eyelashes glued together with dried tears.
Where am I?
It was dark, and there was so much blood. My eyes don’t want to open, so I focus on the blood in my mind, dragging my gaze over it slowly and trying to remember where it led. I see bruised, dirty legs slightly splayed where they stuck out underneath a dingy white sheet. It all hits me at once. Buffy.
There was so much blood, and I force myself to open my eyes, fighting the urge to give in and let them close again and forcing them to focus on the edge of the sheet until it sharpens. I try not to blink, knowing that if I allow my eyes to close they won’t open again. I look around slowly, my eyes scanning the shapes and shadows. I part my cracked lips, and I mean to say her name but all that comes out is a quiet rush of breath. My throat and mouth are sandpaper, my tongue swollen and parched.
What happened?
I think of my hand cupping Buffy’s cheek, trying to reassure her I wasn’t dead. She told me what happened. That they’d found my body hanging from the closet rod. Covered in scars, the smell of alcohol thick on my dead lips and still emanating from the few drops left in the bottle on the nightstand. Nothing but dust left in the pill bottle next to it.

Faith’s eyes stared emptily back at her, her skin already gaining a grey pallor. Ligature marks marred her skin across her throat, outlining the rope that had strangled the life out of her. She touched Faith’s hand and was surprised by how warm it still was. Flashes of an ambulance with an exhausted but living Faith on it went through her mind. Faith in a hospital bed, thanking her for saving her life. She watched in silence as they cut her down and pretended she’d gotten here in time to stop it.
She’d know Faith didn’t mean those things, somewhere inside. They’d hurt the same, though, and Buffy tried desperately to convince herself that Faith had been being an asshole, that anyone would have walked out after that, that she hadn’t done anything unnecessarily cruel. None of it mattered, though. It didn’t matter that she knew Faith was full of shit, that she was scared, that she was angry. She knew that Faith’s proclivity towards converting every emotion into anger was just the result of the pneumatic device that was her brain, pumping out gallons of rage per second. She was hurt, so she slammed the door and she left. She couldn’t have stayed away long. She knew that and she took for granted that Faith knew that, too. That Faith knew she’d come back anyway, that whatever it was that brought them together over and over again wouldn’t let them stay apart for too long. She thought Faith knew she’d be back.
But now Faith was here on the floor in front of her, her eyes unseeing, her skin already starting to cool. Her clothes were soiled and Buffy felt sick and part of her wanted to run again, but she only clutched Faith’s hand tighter, mentally counting all the different ways she could have stopped this.
In the days and weeks that followed, Buffy grew increasingly angry that nobody would listen to her. Faith wouldn’t do that. Faith wasn’t a coward. Faith wouldn’t give up. Faith never backs down. Why would Faith take a bunch of pills and hang herself when either one on their own would have been sufficient? Question after question, like a dog with a bone Buffy rattled around the building telling anyone who would listen that something about this whole situation stank like hell. People just looked at her with pity, like they could see her guilt tattooed across her face. She insisted that something else had to have happened, but even she couldn’t argue with the obvious long history of self-abuse written in the multitude of scars across Faith’s body, and one day she stopped storming into Giles’ office and demanding he look harder for the truth. One day, she too gave up and though her own body continued to move, everything inside her that mattered was dead too.

And then they’d come. Pried us apart, forced me to the ground as they dragged her screaming, flailing form away. I struggled in a way I hadn’t in months, forcing the skeletal body I now inhabited to push back, my arms reaching for her even as I felt the needle slide into my flesh and everything faded away, my eyes shutting against my will over the tears.
I force my body to sit up despite feeling like every inch of me is weighted down with sandbags, and everything is upright for only a few seconds before I focus in on the legs, twisted at an unnatural angle. Too much blood, there’s way too much blood and I know nobody could survive that much loss. Adrenaline pounding in my ears, I grab the edge of the cot, the wall, a chair. I pull myself over to her body and the drugs slow me down like I’m walking in the ocean, each step taking an agonizingly long time. I finally reach the cot and, shaking, I reach a hand out, touching her leg and praying I’m wrong.
But I’m not. The cold, pale flesh that greets me sends a shock through my system, and I suddenly know exactly how Buffy felt when she watched them cut my body down. The world pitches beneath me, everything spinning and dancing, the walls melting down as I fold deep inside myself. Somewhere in the distance I can hear someone screaming and I think it’s me, but who can be sure? How can I be sure of anything anymore? And what does any of it matter anyway?
Buffy’s dead. Nothing matters anymore.
I slide to the ground with a wail and curl into a ball, the last of the sedative losing the battle against my body’s visceral reaction. I press my cheek against the concrete, soaking up the cold and feeling whatever hope and humanity was left inside me leave my body. For half a second I think that might be enough, but it’s not and before I even realize I’m doing it, I bang my head against the floor. The pain feels good; real. I can hold onto this. I do it again. And again, and again, and again. I let out a guttural scream and pick up the pace, slamming my head against the cold floor over and over. I feel the skin of my forehead split and the blood runs warm and wet down my face, past my eyes, mixing with tears.
I scream and scream and slam and slam and I bleed as I become pure, unfiltered hate. The blood runs down my cheeks, touches my chapped lips, and I’m so relieved that something, anything at all, is real, that I feel my face stiffly spread into a smile. I keep going as I hear the familiar sound of the jangling keys, several voices calling out and barking orders. Hands go around my arms, my legs, my head. They press me to the ground and I arch up, spittle and frothy blood spraying as I struggle violently against them.
I vomit and start choking and the hands roll me onto my side, thumping my back, trying to clear my airway. I bite down on a finger and hear a shrill male shriek. The bloody finger recedes and the last thing I hear before I feel the sharp pinch of a needle hitting my neck is the same voice calling me a bitch.
The drug spreads through my body with a warm feeling and I sink against the ground. I don’t want to let them think they won, think they conquered me. Not now, when I have nothing at all left to lose. Through the haze of the drug taking my system over, I slowly lift up my right hand. It feels like I’m pushing against quicksand, but I mumble, my words garbled as the drugs pull me deeper.
“Sorry ‘bout your finger.. you can have mine..” I force my middle finger up and let my lips spread into a small smile, and I know it was worth it when the guy I bit howls with rage. It’s the last sound I hear before I slip into grateful darkness.
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Red