i am the wind.
i am the eye of the storm.
i am a fleeting moment in time.
i am forever.
i am who i am-but who am i?
i think in terms of today.
the past is dead, the future uncertain.
i think of loneliness.
i think nicotine is a food group.
i love no one.
i love nothing.
i don't love.
i don't hope.
i don't care.
i regret.
i forget.
i survive.

I feel dead a lot these days. Empty. Swollen up with nothingness until I feel like I might burst and be completely consumed by the bleak, black void. I don't even feel pain anymore. Not pain, or love; hunger or fatigue; thirst or desire. Nothing.

I light a cigarette and gaze out my dingy window to the dark, dirty, wet streets below. So maybe the view's not great, but it's my view. I earned it. I earned everything in my surroundings; the canned food in the broken cabinets, the slutty clothes I wear all the time now, and the old furniture, some of which is almost broken. Like me.

A petite redheaded girl walks across the street below and I find my thoughts turning to Her, to Them. To the people I abandoned, the people who loved me once upon a time, the people who may be dead now because of me. I don't care anymore. I wonder if they're at college now, if they're dead, or worse. But I don't call. The wondering is never enough to make me call. I don't care.

I imagine they've got another Slayer already, probably have for months, if not years by now. Yeah, years. Three to be exact. I guess they'd be in their third year of college now. Their lives have moved on without me; they've probably split up and gone to a million different places by now. Willow, to some fancy English school or something; Xander to the community college of his choice; Cordelia to the most expensive one available; and Oz, maybe Oz is off touring with his band. Maybe he's off trying to find himself somewhere too. Who knows?

I don't care.

I've taken to going to raves almost nightly-partying away my non-existent troubles and immersing myself in sex, alcohol, and nicotine. Out of the three I think nicotine is my favorite-it just doesn't fuck with your head as much as the other two do. Cigarettes keep me sane and grounded. The smoke is thick yet barely there and it can curl around your head and invade every cell in your body and give you something to concentrate on and measure time by. A pack a day means that when I have to buy another carton I've survived another ten days.

Jaded, bitter, unstable, these are the labels I offer myself now, these are all I mean. There's nothing left except those. I guess I'm a lifer, but I could never go home after all this if I wanted to, anyway. It's been three years, like I said, and even three years isn't long enough to forget. I'm a different person now.

I flick the cigarette butt out the window and watch it fall to the sidewalk, then stand and walk over to the spotted full-length mirror to gaze at a girl I barely recognize anymore. She has dull, lifeless green eyes that used to sparkle and shine; and limp brown hair streaked with yellow and purple-this week, anyway. I'm in full club gear: bangle bracelets almost to my elbows, fake black leather pants that adhere themselves to every bone that sticks out in my sickly thin body and every barely-there curve that dissapears a little more each day, and a low-cut, backless black shirt. The backs of my shoulder blades and my hips jut out unnaturally. This is the body I deserve now, a shell of nothingness. Soon I'll probably die, and you know what?

I don't care.

It's time to go, the party awaits. The same sick teens every night. The hopeless, the helpless, the empty, the lonely. All looking for someone to latch onto, someone to take care of them. But the needy can't help the needy, which is something I learned early on. I don't look for help or consolation anymore, I just want the sex. The sex is comforting now.

I'm going to leave.. but I sense her. I know who it is, though I've never met her in my life. She found me and now I have to face her. I need another cigarette, and I grab one just as she knocks on the door. I mutter a word that once upon a time I didn't even know the meaning of, and pull open the door, offering her a disaffected stare.

"Buffy." It's not a question. She knows who I am, she knows where I'm from, and she probably knows something about my life. She has an air about her that makes me feel at once kinship with and hatred for her. She thinks she's hot shit, I can just tell, and she's probably right.

Her brown hair has seemingly natural highlights of gold and red and falls down over her shoulders in curls that wave about as if to whisper all her secrets to you. Her eyes are deep chocolate brown, and dangerous; she could hurt a normal person badly; and she wants to hurt me, I can sense it.

Let her.

I don't respond to the sound of my own name; it's too strange, too foreign. I haven't heard it in years, since He said it.. "Buffy.. I'm so confused.." I feel a tearing in my gut, true pain, something I haven't felt in a very long time. She stares at me for a few moments, sizing me up and obviously not considering me too much of a threat.

"Buffy Summers," she says again, and it's still not a question.

"Actually it's Anne now," I say without emotion. I walk away and go into the kitchen area, leaving the door open behind me. She walks in uninvited and helps herself to a can of soda from my refridgerator.

"Anne?" she repeats with a smirk. "How original. I woulda picked something cool, like Faith or something."

I narrow my eyes. My mother gave me that name. My mother who might be dead now, who couldn't accept who and what I was, who truly loved me somewhere deep down inside. "It's my middle name. What's yours?"

Again, that smirk. "I dropped my middle and last names years ago."

"You know what I mean."

"Faith."

"Figures." I hate to say it, but I've missed this banter. Whether it was vampires or Cordelia, I didn't appreciate the satisfaction of witty retorts until just this moment. Her eyes have a sort of dull sparkle to them that immediately strengthens the kinship I felt moments earlier. I know this girl. I know her because I see her in the mirror every day.

"Why'd ya run?" she asks bluntly. I'm not surprised, because I would have said the same thing.

"Got my reasons. Why'd ya follow?"

"Got my reasons."

Fuck this. "I wanna know why you're here. If you're not gonna offer me somethin' useful then just get out and let me continue my life."

"Some life. Meanwhile Red's back there worrying her witchy little heart sick about you, Giles is two steps away from boarding a plane back to England, and Cordy's in wicked bad shape ever since Xander died. Or she was, until she went into a coma. I'm guessin' she's got bigger issues then Xand-man now."

I stay stock-still. A report. An update. My friends. Xander's dead, Cordelia's in a coma, Giles is leaving, and Willow is a witch..

"My mom?" I ask, my throat dry.

Faith looks at me, disgusted. "Why don't you go home and find out yourself? I'm not your damn messenger."

"Then why did you come?" I think that's a fair question, I really do. "You show up here all sudden like you've got some beef with me or something, and you don't even know me."

"Oh, I know you," her voice has gotten very serious suddenly. "I know you better then you probably know yourself. I know all about Angel; big love, big loss. I know all about you and Mommy having a spat and you taking off like an angry five year old, and comin' here and drinkin' and partyin' yourself into total numbness like you think it's gonna help or something. Well I can tell you somethin', sweet pea.. I been there, done that, and it ain't what it's all cracked up to be.

"The alcohol quits workin' after awhile and the sex becomes somethin' you do just cause ya feel ya need the comfort, which is fine cause it was never about love in the first place, and then all ya got left is your cigs and pretty soon even they're gonna get stale and then where the fuck are you? You got family an' friends back in Cali who've been worryin' themselves sick, absolutely fuckin' sick about you for three years, and that's all I've heard. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy," she takes a breath and looks at me disgustedly again.

"Buffy and her good-vamp-gone-bad, such a sob story, she needed a break. Bull. Fuckin'. Shit. That's the most weak-ass excuse I ever heard. But whatever, ya know, whatever. So me, I get called to be the Slayer, and I come to good ole S.D. to kill me some vamps and save the world and all that junk. But I get there and find out that Sunny-D's already got itself a sweet little Slayer whose white bread life was so horrible she had to run away and leave all the people behind who give a damn about her.

"Boo hoo," she offers sarcastically. "Life's so bad. Well how's life now, babe? How is it?"

I haven't moved the entire time she was speaking. "Life is fine," I say steadily and without emotion. I've gotten good at that now, pretending I don't feel anything even when I do.

"You think so," she stated quietly. I try not to get angry-she doesn't know me, I tell myself. But the sad truth is, she does. That's why I couldn't go home once I'd left, I guess. Cause it was such a lame excuse. Little ex-boyfriend, little parental argument.. but that's me, Impulse Girl. And now look where I am. Sitting in a crappy apartment getting yelled at by some girl I never met who knows me better then I do. Actually, that's not a huge feat.. cause I don't know myself at all anymore.

And I swear I don't care.

So an hour later we're still sitting at my falling apart table, staring at each other. Somewhere along the line, one of us made tea and I'm thinking it was her, because I don't drink tea. I move to scratch an itch and am startled by the sound of all my bangles clanking together. I'd forgotten those.

Faith jumps, too. After all, it's been dead silent in here for an hour. I look at the bracelets, suddenly as disgusted with myself and my existence as Faith was earlier. She, however, looks more and more comfortable each second. That bothers me. This is my life. She can go back to Sunnydale and live the life of the good Slayer and fight the good fight and whatever else needs being done. I'm the fuck-up here, and as bad of a title as it might be..

It's mine.

I tug on a purple streak of hair, chewing thoughtfully on the end of it. Xander's dead. How could that have happened? He was supposed to be the main man, in charge of it all. Former army guy, loyal puppy, and tension-relieving jokester. Life in Sunnydale without Xander must be pretty bleak. If I'd been there, could I have saved him? Probably.

I swallow the lump in the back of my throat, the lump that's labeled Guilt in big old black letters, and reach for my cigarettes, idly wondering if it's possible to smoke more then one at a time. I light up, hands shaking, and watch as Faith takes one as well and smirks at me. She knows, she knows what I'm feeling, and she's glad. She wants me to feel guilt and pain and remorse. Three years of not feeling anything, and now some white trash newbie Slayer with an attitude to rival my own is making me feel again. Damn.

She studies me for a few minutes, takes a long drag, and exhales the smoke slowly. "They still want you back, ya know."

I shake my head. "No. They don't. They don't even know me anymore. They want the old Buffy back."

She rolls her eyes and stands up, wandering to the window. "They want you back in their lives anyway they can have you. You oughta be thankful they care so much. Must be nice."

"Yeah," I say softly and thoughtfully. I know they miss me. I missed them too, before I became this pathetic excuse for a human. Buffy The Vampire Slayer died a long time ago, and Anne the Wreckless Lifer was born; and I honestly don't think Anne is ready to relinquish control of my body and life to Buffy. I voice these thoughts.

"Fuck," Faith says. "You really are fucked-up, aren't you? Ya got, what, like Sybil goin' on over here. A whole buncha people in one pretty rainbow-colored head, huh?" She comes over to me slowly, gazing at me as though she can feel all the pain I should be feeling. She lightly touches a few strands of my hair, twirling them gently. "These don't make you alive, you know," she whispers.

I pull away from her, staring at the rapidly cooling cup of tea in front of me. When did I buy tea bags? "I know that."

She stares at me sadly, her eyes wide. "Do you?" She pulls the sleeve of her shirt up to her shoulder to reveal a tattoo around her upper arm. "It doesn't make you alive. You're pierced, right?" she asks knowingly.

I reluctantly stick my tongue out, and the dim light reflects off the tiny metallic ball through the center of it.

"That don't make you alive, either. Ya know what makes you alive? Love. It's all about love. I never knew it, either. Not until I came to Sunny-D. Red's a helluva girl, Buffy. And you got some lovin' friends and family. And I can't see why you would wanna give that all up for this," she gestures around the room, a sick look on her face. "This shit."

I grit my teeth. "I worked hard for this shit. I'm independent. I got a job."

She makes a face and speaks disdainfully. "Oh yeah? Where, a diner? The local Piggly-Wiggly? Or just Rent-A-Lay?"

Before I realize what's happening, my fist shoots out and catches her in the jaw. She looks stunned for a moment. "Don't even say anything," I say. "Don't even. I will kick you out and you can go back to Sunnydale and tell everyone to fuck off." I'm in control again; I'm numb; emotionless. "Otherwise you can stay here for as long as you want. But if you criticize me again, I will send you home in a wheelchair."

She raises an eyebrow. "We'll see about that. But I ain't about fightin'. I'm just the messenger here."

"I thought you weren't a messenger," I say dryly, sitting down in the window and facing outside.

"I said I wasn't your messenger." That damn smirk again. "I work strictly for Red. I owe her. This is me paying my debts, like I always do."

"Oh yeah? So what's her message?" I can't bring myself to say her name aloud. Faith digs into her pocket and pulls out a folded up piece of paper. She hands it to me and heads towards the bathroom.

"I'm just gonna.." she motions towards the doorway and enters it. I guess she wants me to have privacy. Ain't that mighty white of her.

I unfold the paper and glance at the handwriting, which is still familiar to me after all this time. I mumble softly under my breath.

"Dear Buffy,

I hope this-and Faith-get to you safely. I guess it's kind of pathetic but even after all this time I still keep holding onto this little thread of hope that you might come home to us. We miss you, Buffy. Giles barely talks anymore, and Xander's.. gone. We always knew Spike would get to one of us one day, right? He turned Xander and.. I had to stake him. I had to stake the boy who I've known my whole life, my best friend. And I can't help but blame that on you. If you were here, maybe it wouldn't have happened.
Cordy took it pretty hard. One night we were patrolling.. while you were doing god-knows-what wherever the hell you are, and Cordy met the business end of a mausoleum. She took that pretty hard too, because now she's in a coma. Which I also feel is your fault.
Whatever happened with Angel.. it's been three years already, Buffy. I know you're alive, and you're staying somewhere, and I know you want to come home. Because I know you, Buffy. And we want you to come home. We've been through a lot without you here, lost a lot of people, grown a lot, made decisions. I still feel like a lot of this is your fault, but I've also grown mature enough to be able to forgive, if not forget. Have you? Please come home. Faith will bring you.

Love always,
Willow."

I wipe a hurt tear off my cheek. I want to feel angry at her for accusing me of causing deaths and destruction.. but I can't because I know she's right. It is my fault. If I was there, I could have prevented most, if not all, of it.

Faith comes out of the bathroom and hands me a tissue. "Ya comin' home?"

"I want to," I say softly, surprising myself. "But not yet. I need a little more time."

Faith looks out the window. "I'll stay. Until you're ready to go home, I'll stay." I nod. "I gotta go call Willow and tell her I'm staying for awhile. Do you wanna know how they're all doing?"

I shrug. "I don't care."

She looks at me, her gaze steady and sure. "Yeah, ya do." She grabs her jacket and walks out, shutting the door behind her.

"That's a nasty habit, you know," Faith says, motioning towards my cigarette. It's the last in my old pack, but that's alright because it's just about midnight. Just because eventually I'm going home doesn't mean I'm not still measuring the days.

"I know. Don't you?" I retort, pointing to her own cancer stick. I bought her her very own pack so she'd quit bumming mine. I can't count the days if she smokes half my pack. She shrugs. "So what do you owe her for?"

She looks at me like I'm insane. "Who?"

"Her." I bite my tongue. Dammit, Buffy. Say her name. "W.." I swallow. "Willow." There. I said it. Not as hard as it seemed. The gut-wrenching pain should stop at any moment now..

The bright lights of the club ahead call out to me. They sing, enticing me with sex and alcohol and mind-numbing techno; things to make me high or low, happy or sad, crazy or sane. I want to run, leave Faith behind, and escape to it. Drink a few; enough so I don't care who I dance with next; inhale some secondhand pot smoke to lift my spirits; and then find someone. Someone to touch me, hold me, cry out my fake name and pretend they care about me for a night, or even less.

"Oh. I got real banged up one night and she worked her magic and healed me up better than new. I figured when she wanted me to come find you, I owed her," she takes the last drag and flicks the cigarette onto the ground without bothering to step on it.

"Oh. That why you came, then? Pay your debt?" I ask. I'm just making light conversation, enough to calm me down so I don't bolt, because that's what I want to do right now.

"Yeah. I gotta be even and straight with everyone, I don't need no angry demons comin' after me or somethin'. Especially not Little Miss Sabrina over there, cause she's gotten wicked powerful recently. That's not the only reason, though. I wanted to see you. I wanted to see this chick that had everyone so crazed about her. For awhile I just tried to fit in, y'know, but.. I'm not you, Buff. And that's what they wanted then, and what they want now. You. They made a little place for me, sure, cause they're nice like that. But they're not my friends. And I still don't fit in there."

She says that with more acceptance then sadness, like she understands and is resigned, or something. Well, congratulations to her for being more mature then me. All I can think of is that I ran away because I killed Angel; not because Mom kicked me out-I knew even then that she didn't mean it; and not cause I was expelled-who cares? It was because I killed Angel.

Thing is, I don't even care anymore. He was a vampire, and it was bound to happen sooner or later. Okay, he was the first guy I ever loved, and he did take my virginity. Big deal. Especially now. Slutty The Vampire Layer, that's me. She fucks anyone that doesn't move fast enough, ladies and gentlemen. Bravo. Good show.

Faith looks at me strangely, as though she can hear my thoughts. She seems to shake it off, though, and turns towards the club. Yeah, we're going together. I insisted on going and she wasn't interested in staying in my shitty apartment by herself, so here we are.

Inside the air is so thick with smoke, you almost don't even need a pack, you can just breathe in and get your nicotine fix for the night. The scent of alcohol is heavy in the air as well, and it takes me over, leading me to the bar where I order a few shots of tequila. That's always how I start the night. Not really enough for me to get drunk, that happens later, as more and more guys-and even some girls-come over to buy me drinks and tell me how beautiful and sexy I am.

I slam the shots back quickly and wipe my lips, turning back to Faith, who looks a little impressed. I ask if she is.

"Well, yeah," she says. I can't help but smile a little-being a Slayer gives me a huge tolerance for alcohol. "Hard to believe you're the innocent, perfect little Buffy Summers everyone's always talkin' about." She shakes her head and my smile fades as I realize it's not my tolerance she's talking about. "You're actin' worse then I do, but everyone still loves ya. How's it work for a gal like you?"

I shrug, suddenly intensely uncomfortable in this conversation. Innocence is something I lost a long time ago.. or at least, that's what I've always told myself. That it was the Slayer thing that took my innocence away. Not Angel, not the fact that I ran away, not the fact that I'm an alcoholic, nicotine addict, and a slut to boot. Yeah, so who the hell am I kidding? The Slayer thing made me stronger in the beginning. Now I'm weak. I took my own innocence away.

"I don't know how it works," I mumbles, and buy her a screwdriver. She's my guest, after all, and mom always taught me to pay for my guests when taking them out somewhere.

I'm not ready to go home yet.

Faith lets the matter drop and I truly like her for it. I think she gets me the way no one has for a very long time. "So.. dance or what?" Without waiting for an answer, she makes her way over to the dance floor. I follow but hang back a little, just watching her as she puts her arms above her head and rolls her hips, eyes closed. She's feeling the music.

It's a steady, pounding rhythm that makes the whole place vibrate under your feet. I can't hang back any longer and I join her on the floor, dancing a few inches away. Her hair is flying wildly around her shoulders and she looks incredibly enticing.

Knock it off, Buff. You're not going home with anyone tonight. Except her, I remind myself. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and concentrate on the present. What happens tonight, tomorrow night, a week from now-none of that matters. Just this moment.

I want her. So what? I want a lot of things. I want to take back the last three years; go back and do things right.. but I can't. I want to pretend I never knew any of Them, that this is the only thing I've ever had in my life.. but I won't. And I want to take the brunette girl dancing in front of me home and make love to her.. but I shouldn't.

I snicker to myself. Make love.. there's a phrase you don't hear out of my mouth too often. More like never. Although I want to fuck her brains out and make her cry my name over and over again.. I want to hold her afterwards and I want her to cry out 'Buffy'. I'm suddenly very sick of hearing the name 'Anne'..

I know some people here, the same people that are here every night. Two of them are oggling me from the bar, obviously trying to decide if I think they're worth another go round.

Faith, who has long since opened her eyes, nods towards them. "Friends of yours?"

I shrug. "They're regulars here."

"One on the right looks pretty tasty," she smirks at him.

"That's Ty," I say, referring to the one with spiked blue hair. "Looks are decieving, cause he sucked in bed." The one time I actually bothered with him, that is.

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Anyone here you haven't tried?"

I offer her another shrug. "Not really."

"What about farm boy on the right?" she says, motioning to the other one, who's licking his lips and staring at me. Short blonde hair, penetrating green eyes, looks like your typical sheltered Iowa gentleman.

I shiver a little, remembering our times together.. "Once again.. looks can be decieving. That's Razor.."

"Razor?" she looks like she might crack up. "What, is he in one of those like white-boy gangs or something?"

"That's not why he got the nickname."

"Why?" There's a devious glint in her eyes, as though she just knows I'm gonna reveal something awesome to her.

"You don't wanna know."

She stares for a second, then it dawns on her and she doesn't know whether to look impressed, aroused, or just kinda frightened. "And you know this from personal experience?"

"I told you.. not many people here I haven't done by now."

"Got scars?" she looks morbidly curious, like someone driving slow by an accident cause they're hopeful yet afraid that they'll miss the body.

I shrug. "A few."

"Can I see?"

"Not in public."

I can't even describe the look on her face, it's priceless. Innocent, perfect Buffy Summers, huh? Shit happens, I guess. I also guess I'm a better actress then I thought.

What I don't tell Faith or even plan on telling her is that I met Razor when I first started coming here. I was really vulnerable, and looking anywhere and everywhere for someone to hold me. I'll never tell Faith or anyone most of what I've done. I'll also never tell her that of all the things I've done, I regret running the most; and letting Razor show me how he got his nickname, second-most. I have scars from him, alright. Inside, ouside, and everywhere in between.

Faith reaches out and cups my chin. "You're crying.." she says softly, more surprised then concerned.

It's true. A single tear found its way down my cheek, dripped off my chin and continued running down my chest. She leads me over to the bar and orders a cup of water for me. I'm numb, completely numb, and not in that empty way. I'm numb from the pain, from the memories, from the regrets.

Razor is standing next to me, touching my thigh roughly, moving his hand up a little to where he probably knows there's still a scar.. A scar I allowed him to inflict.. I want to scream and pull his hair out and kill him for hurting me all those times.. but I let him do it. I begged him to do to me what I was too cowardly to do to myself. Fuck.

"Anne.. got plans tonight?"

Faith sees the look on my face and instantly captures his wrist in a death grip. She holds his arm firmly and pulls it away from me, lifting into the air and looking straight at him, a pissed look on her face. "Yeah. She's got plans tonight. She's got plans with me. So I suggest you back the fuck off and find some other lonely little girl to go play with."

I've never seen Razor look so scared in his life. He nearly cries out from the pain as she gives his wrist a final squeeze and tosses his arm down to his side. He glares at me and goes back over to Ty, who shakes his head and laughs at him. Faith glares stonily after them, then looks back at me. "Let's go home," she says softly. I know what she means by that, and it's not my apartment here. She wants to go back to Sunnydale. But me?

I'm just not ready to go home yet.

I can feel again.

I feel it all. A dull ache in my heart; sharp pains everywhere; my stomach clenching and hungering. I haven't eaten in a long time, I think, as Faith cooks; and I want to cry out to her, tell her to stop, that I don't need food, that I want to be empty again. I can't move, though. The pain is too intense.

I hate feeling.

She's turned the radio on; to keep her company, I guess. No one really likes to be alone. She sings along softly, drumming her fingernails on the counter. I wonder what she's thinking about? She thinks I'm sick, a freak, seriously disturbed. She wants me. She hates me. She's jealous and grandiose at the same time. She's considering knocking me over the head and dragging me home to let Them deal with me. I'm not her problem but she wants me to be. She wants to heal me. She wants to hurt me.

She brings me oatmeal. I can't move so she sets it down on the floor and grabs me under my arms, propping me up against the wall. I feel like a rag doll; limp and unable to move at all. She sits on the edge of the bed with the bowl in her lap. She studies me, her wide brown eyes curious and concerned.

"Can you eat?" she asks softly. I can hear the radio but I can't say anything. "Buffy. Buffy, it's not a big deal." I want to scream at her, tell her it is a big deal, since when does innocent Buffy Summers let, much less encourage, strange guys to cut into her like a Thanksgiving turkey? I'm not me, I want to cry.

She shakes her head and lifts the bowl, and for a moment I see a maternal flash in her eyes; she wants to help me; and I think that she may actually try to feed me. But she shakes it off and puts the bowl on the bed next to me. She gets up and goes over to the kitchen area, sitting down and propping her feet up on the table.

I stare at the bowl, little shards of fake strawberry bits dotting the surface. My stomach growls and I find myself sort of wanting to eat, but I still can't move. I close my eyes, thinking maybe if all I can see is the dark, I'll be able to clear my mind.

~*~

When I open them, I'm laying in the bed and the bowl is gone. Faith is in its place and the covers are over both of us. It's very dark in the apartment, and I guess I slept all day. I gaze at Faith while she sleeps, her pouty lips parted slightly and her hair tossed wildly in every direction. She's snoring softly and her leg is touching mine. My bracelets have been taken off and so have my shoes. Guess she got all maternal after all.

The pain has lessened; dulled. It hasn't gone away, by any means, but it's not as hard to deal with now. Sleep helps, I guess. I don't usually get much, so the last twelve hours or so to me was the equivalent of a week of sleep to a normal person, if I had to make a comparison. I roll onto my back, finally able to move; and think.

Without sleeping or eating, it was a lot easier to be numb and empty-because I truly was. But if I'm ever going to go home, I have to be a functioning human being again. I roll onto my side again and stare at Faith a little more. I've known her for less then twenty-four hours and she's gotten to me already. I want to fix my life so that she can be in it. Easier said then done, though.

I touch her cheek gently and climb out of bed and go over to the kitchen area. I pull out my last slice of bread, tear off a corner that's gone moldy, and pop it in the ancient toaster. I realize I'm still in club clothing and begin stripping as I walk over to the dresser. I leave my clothes on the floor and slip into a raggy tee shirt that says "Rehab is for quitters" that I swiped from some one-night stand or another. I actually put on underwear, little blue nothings, and go back into the kitchen.

Of course there's no butter, but there are a few mini-packets of jelly from god only knows when. I spread the grape goo on the toast and pull myself up onto the counter, munching away thoughtfully.

What happened? I ask myself. What happened to get you to this point? What happened that left you sitting on a counter in a shirt whose owner's name you probably didn't know even then, eating stale bread and craving a cigarette? Life. Life is the answer. Life happened when you least expected it; when you were busy making other plans, like Lennon said.

Life attacked from behind and kicked your ass because you weren't ready for it, Buff. You weren't ready for true pain and suffering, for accepting consequences, for dealing with things. You were a child. A lonely, confused child. And you still are. Too young to have sex, too young to fight vampires, too young to understand the divorce, too young to be left alone every time your mom had to go art-buying, too young for life. But guess what?

So is everybody else. Faith over there, sprawled out across the entire bed like it's her territory? She's a child too. And Willow, hacker and witch extraordinaire? She's a child. Giles? Yeah. Him too. Not a damn person on this planet has it all figured out yet, Buff. And you think you're the only one who hasn't unlocked the secret of life, the secret of dealing?

Well, aren't we just a tad self-involved?

No one knows. No one is without feelings. No one sees the same thing when they look at you, or at themselves. Shit. Happens. That's just the way it is, and you were too immature to deal with it.

So what now?

I manage to turn off the lecturing voice and stand, stretching and wiping crumbs off myself and the counter. I have a headache and I feel like going back to sleep. Instead, I sit down at the foot of the bed and watch Faith. Her eyelids are fluttering slightly and I wonder what she's dreaming about.

I used to dream about Angel a lot, right after.. I would see myself over and over again, shoving the sword into him and damning him for all eternity. I used to cry about it. But I don't cry anymore..

My thoughts are interrupted by tiny sounds coming from Faith. She rolls over completely onto her back and moans quietly. I raise an eyebrow, wondering if I should leave her and her subconscious to their own devices for awhile, when her voice stops me. "Buffy.." she mumbles.

I blink and suddenly need another cigarette. I reach into the freezer and take out another pack, pull the plastic off, and light one up. Damn. She's dreaming about me. It makes me want her more than I already did.

I walk over to the bed again and lay my cigarette in the ashtray on the floor next to it. I sit down next to her and watch as she starts to wake up. "Buf-" she says, coming out of sleep. She opens her eyes and looks at me. "-fy?" she turns it into a question.

"Yeah," I say, looking away from her. "It's me. You were dreaming."

She blinks, and looks down at the floor. "Yeah?"

"About me. You said my name."

She was still for a moment, then looked up. "So?" she said, a hint of a sneer on her face.

I shrug. "Just thought I'd tell ya."

"Doesn't mean anything."

"M'kay."

"It doesn't."

I reach down and retrieve my cigarette, then go over tothe window and sit in it again. Whatever, you know? It's not like I could deal with a relationship of any sort right now. Hell, I can't even deal with myself. I quickly decided that I wouldn't pursue her, that it was better to just leave this as a fleeting crush. I'd just decided that I was over her when she suddenly appears next to me.

Without pause, she grabs my cigarette and tosses it out the window, cups my chin and presses her lips to mine. The world begins spinning and I clutch her to me, deepening the kiss and tangling my fingers in her hair. She doesn't break the kiss as she tugs me from my window and pulls me over to the bed, running her hands up the back of the shirt that never belonged to me. She pulls me down onto the bed and begins removing our clothes.

As if things weren't complicated enough, right?

When we finish, we are both very still and quiet. I idly trace circles on her hot, sticky thigh, her taste still on my lips and tongue. She stares at the ceiling as though it holds all the answers while I gaze across her naked breasts, as though they might, too. Her chest rises and falls with each breath she takes, and I wonder how alive she feels right now.

I can feel my heart beating, and though I know that doesn't necessarily make me alive it's a comforting sound. I don't think either one of us knows what to do right now. I mean, people like us aren't used to sticking around afterwards-yet here we are, her refusing to leave and me unable to.

"I want to eat," I say suddenly, startling us both.

Faith looks at me strangely, one eyebrow quirked. "Again?"

I stare at her blankly for a moment, then raise my eyebrows as I realize what she thinks I meant. "No. Food."

"Oh." She reaches down into the pocket of her pants, which are on the floor, and pulls out two Reese's cups. "Unless you wanna get dressed and go out," she says, offering one to me.

I take it. I'm in no state to be among people right now, and besides, I kinda like being here with her like this. Things are tense again for a second, and I look at her. "How do *you* eat a Reese's cup?" I ask, a playful though somewhat fake smile on my face.

She holds up the cup, forces her tongue through the center, and licks all around the inside, pulling little bits of chocolate and peanut butter into her mouth and leaving a nearly perfect hole in the center of it.

I'm in awe. That was kinda hot. And for a few seconds, she actually managed to distract me from my thoughts, but now they all come back to me in a rush and I lay back on the bed with my eyes closed.

And she knows. I mean, we're connected and all, right? She knows what I'm feeling. "Take it day by day, Buff. A lot of shit has happened and it's a lot to deal with, y'know? Just take it one day at a time."

I'm suddenly angry. She sounds like she knows more then me, like she's better then me. "Fuck you."

She's unfazed. "You already did."

I can't even think of a retort, so I get up and go to the window again. I like this window. It's like, I can see the world..

"-and not really be in it," she finishes my thought aloud. I turn to her, a stricken look on my face. "I know what you're thinking. You keep going over to that damn window, you curse me off, you think I don't know about this. Well, newsflash, Miss High And Mighty.. I do know cause I've been there, done that already. And if I were you, I would listen to me."

"Yeah, well, you're not me," I mumble defensively.

"Close enough," comes her soft answer. I have no response for that either, because she's right. She's been right all along.

"So, what? I make a decision to deal and let you take me home, and take it one day at a time? Which, did I ever mention that I frigging hate that phrase?"

She shrugs, unaffected. "So don't take it one day at a time. Sometimes you can't, you know? Sometimes you just gotta take it one hour at a time, or even one minute at a time. Get through this minute before you worry about the next. Red and them, they're giving you a shot at redemption here.."

I clench my teeth and close my eyes, and start to slowly sink into my worries. I want to find Razor, tell him Faith was kidding, and go home with him tonight..

"..and you're just gonna throw it away." She says this in a whisper, shaking her head sadly.

I stand very still until at least a minute has passed, then I carefully unclench my teeth and relax my body. I breathe in and out several times, deeply. One minute.. Get through this minute, Buff, and then worry about the next. I lay my head against the wall, my eyes still shut, and try to turn my thoughts off until it feels like I'm floating away with only little half-thoughts..

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"Stop!" I cry out, slamming back into my body. I hit the floor, full of anger and hopelessness, my mind and body spinning wildly out of control. I'm shaking and sobbing and Faith's arms are around me and I'm lost, so lost..

I cry for hours, I cry like I've never cried before. The tears come in waves, flowing freely down my face, soaking my shirt and hers. I can taste them, warm-salty-wet tears of pain, remorse, and suffering. I think the pain might never go away, it's overwhelming, it's too much..

She says nothing. She just holds me until I can no longer cry-the tears are done, yet she still cradles me in her lap like a baby. She strokes my hair softly, staring at the wall. The night has long since turned into day, and is now turning to night again. How long have we been here? Minutes, hours, days...

"Forever," she says softly. "We've been here forever, and we're always gonna be here. We die a thousand little deaths every day, just to start over again." A pause. "Are you gonna do it?"

I know what she means. "Yeah," I whisper. I am gonna do it. I'm gonna start over.