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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
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In the distance is a line defining where I've been—the state I'm in

And ever since it began to slip from my two hands I've been

Taunting fires, touching wires, been believing liars.

Everything they said, painted in red.

I am fading in and out—

What are you gonna do?

Save me now, from this danger?

You don't know how.

I'll find my way out when I'm in the red.

Listening to strangers inside my head,

The darkening angels beneath the bed.

I still see what you said.

What are you gonna do?

No way for you to save me.
- Sara Bareilles, “Red”

Interlude: Buffy's Diary

It's hard to write. My body is still weak, and I'm so full of stitched wounds that I'm afraid if even one stitch gives up my whole being will fall apart like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. But Giles thinks it's important for me to write down everything I know, everything I remember, before it fades away.
It's already getting hard to put the pieces in place. I want to block it all out, and the IV that keeps feeding me morphine makes it easy to let myself float away. But remembering might be the only chance we have of getting Faith back, so I'm going to try. So here's what I know:
- The council faked Faith's death. Willow won't ever forgive herself, I don't think. She keeps saying she should have known, should have felt that it wasn't Faith's essence. Several of the girls had gone home for the weekend and only one never made it to her mother's house. Giles had the grave dug up and of course the glamour had faded by then. We had another funeral for Shannon and moved her name from the MIA list to the KIA list.
- Once they had Faith, they killed her, thinking they could activate more Slayers the 'natural' way. And when that didn't work, they drugged her. They gave her electroshock "therapy" without sedation. They tortured her. They tore her apart physically and mentally and when she couldn't tell reality from lies anymore, they leaned on her until she broke and gave up Kennedy's name.
- We thought the scythe's power was everlasting; that every girl who was born a potential Slayer would be born a Slayer from then on. Giles thinks the Council had reason to believe otherwise; that all of this was to get information about the spell and the scythe and confirm their suspicions that the mass activation was transient, and by extension repeatable as new Potentials entered the world as pink wriggling infants.
- I think and Giles agrees, that the Council intended to figure out the ritual, take me out, and build their own army of Slayers. Not necessarily in that order.
- I was taken from the cell before they brought Faith back. While they were punishing me for Kennedy's suffering ending faster than Quentin wanted it to, Faith was finding her body, hidden under a glamour. Discovering Faith's body had broken me—but Faith was already broken when she discovered mine.
- I am a murderer.
I'll never stop seeing Kennedy's face in my dreams. I'll never be able to forget the feeling of her life leaving her body. I know it was an act of mercy and so does Willow, but that doesn't mean much when I still see her blood on my hands.
It made me realize something I didn't expect, though. It's made me understand Faith a little better. It's given me a glimpse at what she was carrying around on her shoulders even before the Council took her. Even before Sunnydale. Even before she was a Slayer.
Oddly enough, it made me understand that I'll never fully understand Faith. And maybe if I had just accepted that a long time ago, things could have been very different between us.

Chapter Nine: Headshot

I was such a fool to hurt you

'Cause you're the one I always turn to

When I'm going out of my mind

I just bite the hand that feeds me

Instead of loving ones that need me

But I want it more this time

I was wrong. It's hard to say

At least I learn from my mistakes

I would change everything
- Hedley, Dying to Live Again
I sip the coffee tentatively, but it’s still too hot and it burns the tip of my tongue. Wincing, I set the cup down to let it cool a little more. I get up and check the thermometer in the window before opening it, closing my eyes briefly and smiling when the spring breeze hits my face. There’s still just a touch of cool in the air. Today would be a really good day to do some work in the garden, and I make a mental note to get Faith to come out with me. The rain’s kept us trapped inside for four days already and I can practically feel the caged tiger aura emanating from her.
I check the time and head through the living room towards the bedroom. If I let her, Faith will sleep the whole day away, but she’s got to at least wake up long enough to take her medications.
I head into the bedroom and pause for a minute, looking at her face—peaceful in sleep—and just taking her in. Quietly I sit down on the edge of the bed and brush her dark, wild hair back off her forehead.
Patient has difficulty separating reality from fantasy and is prone to violent outbursts and bouts of rage.

Patient has a long history of multiple and ongoing traumas.

Patient is unresponsive to treatment. Recommend sedation.

I did the best I could to piece together what happened. Faith’s frequent freak outs take their toll on both of us, but I’m always careful to listen to what she says between sobs. I write it down, I promise to remember what she can’t anymore. I convince myself that if I know the truth, the whole truth, she’ll come back to me.
In her sleep, she looks like herself. Mouth open slightly, a steady rhythm of snores passing her parted lips.
The day I decided to bring her home was simultaneously uneventful and the most important day of my life. I sat across from her quietly. I used to talk the whole time, but it didn’t seem to matter to her one way or the other. So mostly we just sat with our hands laced together. It took a few months to convince them that I could care for her at home; that residential treatment wasn't going to help her any more than it already had. They said nothing would and I said I didn't care.
An orderly brought her out to my car in a wheelchair, and once he put the brakes on, I thanked him and sent him back inside. As I stood there for a moment, regarding the fragile waif Faith had become as she stared ahead blankly, I realized that I would never let her go again. Whether or not she improved or got worse, she had become mine to take care of the way I should have done from the beginning.
I got her into the car and I drove her home to the spacious but modest single-floor house that would become our home. And when we'd gotten inside and I'd brought her to her bedroom, I squatted down to her eye level. I rested my hand over hers, looking into her distant gaze, and I whispered, "You're home now." And I knew it was finally a promise to her that I wouldn't break.
I shake the memory off and gently rub her arm.
"Faith.. wake up.. Faith.."
Her arm tightens around Mr. Gordo and she buries her face deeper into the pillow, grunting. I can't help but smile. Any day that starts without screams is a good day around here.
Eventually I goad her into opening her eyes, and I swallow hard when they flash with fear before she has a chance to take in her surroundings.
I would give anything to make that look go away forever. Anything to undo what, really, was ultimately my fault.
"You're safe," I tell her, touching my pinkie finger to the tip of my nose. We'd come up with the sign as a joke years ago, sitting in her room at the school, both high as kites. We'd been up all night giggling and having sex in between bong hits and slices of pizza.
"You eat like you were raised by wolves," I'd told her. She'd responded in the worst fake British accent I'd ever heard. I asked her if she was okay.
"Why yes, I'm bloody delightful.. why e'er doest thou ask?" she replied.
"'Cause thou has thy's pinkie on thee's nose, not in the air. Are you.. trying to be British or performing Shakespeare right now?" I'd barely gotten the words out between giggles, imitating her pinkie-to-the-nose gesture.
Somehow over the years it had evolved and become our secret sign for 'I'm okay' or, in her case, 'five by five'.
Her panicked face searches mine for a minute before something clicks and she slowly raises her own pinkie and touches it gently to her nose. Her body unclenches a little bit, and she looks around the room, taking it in section by section, as she always does. I watch her face for a minute as the entire range of emotions passes across it, each in turn.
I let her slowly come back to herself as I dole out her morning medication regiment, lining up the pills from largest to smallest.
She takes me by surprise when she pushes herself into a sitting position despite the pain I know courses through her spine with every move. She reaches out and wraps her thin, cool fingers around my wrist, and for a moment we are reversed. She looks calm and collected, and I am frozen in fear. She's never hurt me during a breakdown—not intentionally anyway; never lashed out at me before. I cringe involuntarily as she glances at the bottle in my hand and the neat little row of pills standing at attention and then slowly lifts her eyes to meet mine.
I look back at her quietly, frozen in a partial flinch but more from conditioning than actual fear, and wait.
Her voice has become more gravelly, the damage done to her vocal chords by months of screaming and more than a few strikes to the jugular is permanent, they say. Her eyes, which usually dart around constantly, are steady and focused on mine.
"Don't." The word is barely audible as it slides out between her lips, and it comes out as more of a plea than a command.
I look at the little drill team of pharmaceuticals, ready to march in perfect formation down her throat. Seroquel, Trazadone, Klonopin, Xanax, Percocet, Skelaxin, Naproxen.. Anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-convulsants, anti-anxieties, anti-inflammatories. Anti-Faiths. She takes 12 different pills multiple times a day. They make her calm, sedate her to sleep, stimulate her to wake up, ease her physical pain. A shot of versed at bedtime so she won't remember her nightmares.
I know better than to fall into trap of believing this will last. Her lucid moments are fleeting, and always feel like a cruel prank from the universe. I try to keep my mind focused on what I know to be true right now: that it's been over a year of occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, and neuropsychiatric care. That she's had to re-learn everything from talking to how to walk unassisted. That she still can't tie her shoes.
But she doesn't let go of my arm, and she's still looking into my eyes as her mouth struggles to understand what her brain wants it to do. "Don't.. make.. me.." Her words are slow, but clear as day.
I swallow hard. I don't want to put myself through this again. After the first few months I had to stop hoping and let her go. I had to stop searching for the Faith I missed and learn to love the Faith I have. If I let myself hope this is anything more than a temporary anomaly, I'm going to end up burned and resenting the Faith I have.
She hasn't moved, so I clear my throat. "You.. you don't want your meds?"
She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, pronouncing her words carefully and gesturing at her head slowly. "Makes it.. dark."
I try to hold back the tears, afraid if I upset or scare her, she'll disappear faster. "They.. they're supposed to help.."
With the hand that isn't gripping my arm, she awkwardly shoves the pills off the nightstand. I flinch instinctively, but she doesn't panic or scream. She just stares at me defiantly, like a child who's still reaching for the cookie jar after being told no.
For the first time since the council faked her suicide, Faith's eyes bore into mine, daring me to try to force her.
She's challenging me.
And suddenly I don't care if it breaks me, and I let myself hope.
- 8
- 9
- 10
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