The smoke from the jettisoned cigarette butt rises upwards in a tall, curling plume. I stamp the glowing embers out underneath my heel and light up another, expertly sheltering the lighter flame from the gentle breeze that blows in the night air. I hate my habit. It’s disgusting. My clothes and hair and apartment, all smell of smoke, I can’t really afford it and I don’t even enjoy the taste of the cigarettes - but I need them.
It’s not just the nicotine I’m addicted to either. If that were the case then I never would have started in the first place. It’s the actual action that I cannot live without. The process of occupying my hand and thoughts with lighting and inhaling is what I depend on. I am a whirlpool of nervous energy. I fidget constantly and my smoking is just a manifestation of that.
I think it’s because I’m the Slayer – I have all this suppressed power and strength that needs an outlet. So, now that I am not channelling it into anything, it is pent up inside me, like a coiled spring. So, I smoke. It calms me down. It keeps my hands active. It gives me something to focus on. It is just one of the coping strategies I have adopted. Another is moving around. I am always travelling on, never staying in one place for any length of time. Never getting attached or involved.
I am in New York now. Sometimes to think that scares me. I panic like the young girl I still should have been now. I am so far away from home. Thousands of miles of open country separate me from the safe and familiar places of my youth, from the friends and family I left behind. Then I remember that I have no home or loved ones. And that’s how I like it. I am a shadow, leaving and arriving under the cover of darkness. Existing on the periphery of other people’s lives.
I don’t even bother to create an identity for myself nowadays. I would rather be nobody. I change my name with every new place I visit. At the moment I am Grace. No particular reason for the choice. I just liked the sound of the name. Sometimes the name I chose is the subject of a private joke. Like in one small town in Florida, I was Dorothy, after the ice skater I used to admire so much. In another place I was Jenny, just because I wanted to see what the name felt like. I didn’t stay there long.
It has been nearly a year since I left Sunnydale now. If I’d stayed in high school I would graduating just about now. But then if I’d stayed in high school, I’d probably be dead by now, so I still think I got the better end of the deal. Though sometimes I do wonder.
I’ve spent the last twelve months working my way across the country. I caught the first bus out of Sunnydale as far as my money could take me. I ended up in a small town on the state line, where I worked in a diner for a few weeks, until I’d made enough cash for my next bus ticket. And that’s been my life since then. Moving from town to town, from job to job, only staying as long as I need to in any one place.
This way of life does have its advantages. I’ve seen more of America and its people than I ever would have had the chance to otherwise. Unfortunately most of it isn’t worth seeing. And I’ve never allowed myself to get close to any of the people I’ve met. It’s better that way, because they’d never understand who I am or what I’ve been through. There’s a part of me that even I don’t understand – the Slayer inside me who plunged that sword though Angel’s stomach.
It still makes me sick to think I was capable of that. But I know I was and I still am, and that’s only the beginning. There is a primal urge inside me that calls me to hunt, to kill. I’ve tried denying it, but it keeps me awake at night, worse even the nightmares that used to plague me ever did. And I toss and turn, until eventually I have to get up and go for a smoke or, if I can, track down a vampire to kill.
Most towns are lucky enough to be free from creatures of the night (at least the inhuman ones, anyway). But the big cities always attract their fair share of vampires and demons, there to prey on the large populations of unsuspecting people. Where there are a lot of the homeless or rootless, vamps can pick off their victims without anyone even noticing. So, whenever I stopped in a large conurbation I would target the local demon population, basically embarking on a killing streak that would appease the Slayer inside me for a short while. Then I would move on and my hands would start to itch for a stake again.
Thrusting my weapon through the heart of a vampire and watching it explode into dust, produces an adrenaline rush that it just indescribable. The force of the kill sings in my blood and brings me an inner peace that is otherwise severely lacking in my life. But, ironically, that peace also brings me turmoil, because the human in me, the young, frightened girl, hates the fact that I enjoy killing. Surely it makes me no better than the demons I hunt down? The basic, instinctive drive is the same – attack, kill, death. It is just the motivation that differs. They operate on the side of evil, I operate on the side of good. But these are just labels, invented to make me feel better about myself. I’m not sure anymore that there is actually a difference.
That’s why I can’t get close to anyone. I’m afraid that they’ll see that darkness inside of me, or that I’ll reach the point where I won’t be able to control it any longer. After all, if I can murder the person I love most in the whole world then what else am I capable of? It is this fear of my own primal instincts and of hurting others that I love, which keeps me running now. The dreams stopped shortly after I left LA and I mourned them for a long time. Though the nightmares were horrific and threatened to take over my whole life, they represented a link to Angel that I was reluctant to relinquish. Their cessation meant that our bond was weakening and that hurt me more than any visions of Hell could. I couldn’t stand the though of moving on from him, the possibility that my memories of Angel may fade and the love I hold for him in my heart wither and die. I wanted to cherish that love forever, even though he is not actually physically here to share in it.
Time has taught me that all these worries of forgetting Angel were groundless. I still love him just as much now as I have ever done. And when I close my eyes I can still smell his cologne and feel his smooth, cool hands holding me tightly in his embrace. If anything my memories of him have become sharper, now that they are no longer clouded with the immediate pain of his loss or of his actions as Angelus. I can recall the good times now, with a much greater clarity, miraculously unsullied by all the events that followed them. I remember what it felt like to kiss him, how he tasted of spices and summer rain. I remember how I always felt safe with him, even knowing what he was and what he had done in the past. I remember that when I was in his arms nothing quite seemed as scary or as bad, how with him by my side the dark always seemed a little lighter. And I miss him.
But the hurt of missing Angel is a good hurt. And I know that doesn’t make very much sense, but it seems perfectly logical in my heart. I work every day to repress the tangle of emotions that I feel. Guilt, loneliness, self-hatred, failure, shame – they all haunt me. My whole world is pain, so naturally I divide it into good pain and bad pain. And missing Angel, although perhaps the most acute of all the emotions I feel (excepting only my guilt over sending him to Hell), is definitely a good type of pain. Because when I miss him I always remember all the love and affection we shared. Missing him reminds me of the flame I carry for him in my heart and how it will never be extinguished.
The vivid, soul-destroying nightmares of Hell have stopped, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t dream of Angel. I do. A lot. My nights are filled with him, as they used to be back in Sunnydale when I was sixteen and we were only just together – when I still believed in hope and a bright future. I dream of us together in the sun and we are smiling and happy. He bends down and kisses me and I forget all the hurt I’ve ever experienced. I dream of the night we shared together – the night that inadvertently brought me here, to this place, this moment. Those mornings I wake up sweating all over, a lingering throb echoing between my legs, my skin still tingling from his touch. I want to regret sleeping with Angel, because of all the events that one act caused to unfold, but however much I try I can’t. How can you regret the most beautiful, exquisite moment of your life? How can you regret perfect happiness?
I dream of Angelus too, but these are just regular nightmares, churned out by the very scary and bizarre place that is my brain. Once I dreamt that Spike, Drusilla, Angelus and I went on a ski trip to Colorado together. I was desperate to learn to snowboard, but I couldn’t because Spike and Angelus kept eating the instructors. And all the time Dru was standing by throwing snowballs at us, whilst I tried to slay on skis. So, I’m generally guessing that these dreams don’t mean anything, they’re just part and parcel of my everyday life and they don’t even bother me that much.
I remember that time in LA now, when I was afraid even to sleep, and I think that back then I was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. I had even started seeing things – Angelus outside the club and Angel in the mansion. It took me a long while to recover from that. Lots of sleepless nights and crying sessions before I began to feel steady on my feet again. But the greater distance I put between myself and Sunnydale, the calmer I began to feel. My demons couldn’t find me anymore, I had escaped them – I had won.
The triumph was a hollow one, however, as the true reality of my situation began to sink in. Whatever had happened in the past I can’t change it with a new identity or a new location. I can’t forget either, neither can I change who I am. I am the Slayer. I have the memories and the accumulated experience of Buffy Summers and those two things are set in stone for the rest of my life. The longer I ran for the more I realised that I was never going to break away from my past. It would chase me wherever I went, because it was a part of me. There was no use trying to deny what had happened to be, I just had to not let it destroy me.
So, now I think about Angel, whereas I used to push all traces of him from my head. I remember Willow, and Giles, and Xander, and Mom. Sometimes I smile at the memories and sometimes I cry because I let them down, because I will never see them again, because I can never go back to who I was. I think it was Shakespeare who once said ‘it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’. And that phrase has been stuck in my head for a while now. Many days it is only the memories of the friendship and the love I have experienced in the past that keep me hanging on, that make me work to the end of my shift in some dead end restaurant instead of walking out into the street and throwing myself under the next passing car.
But then I look at my life now and think of all the things I have lost and it just doubles my suffering. I used to have so much light and colour in my life and now there are only shadows. And half of my guilt comes from knowing the love I once had, I never deserved. It let down my friends and I betrayed my lover and it kills me a million times over every single day. And yet still the knowledge that I was once happy in the past – that joy and fun and affection do exist in this world – gives me a reason to carry on. Because life is not always a long run of bleakness and misery. I do not hold any false illusions. I do not think that I can ever be happy again, not after everything that has happened, but I do hope I can help others find their happiness and that I can stop some from making some of the same mistakes I made.
I don’t think about my own future too much anymore, because I know I don’t really have one. All I can envisage for myself now is more drifting from place to place. More loneliness and guilt, until maybe I make a mistake hunting a vampire or until I just can’t face another empty day or loveless night. It’s easier if I don’t think about it – if I just take each day as it comes and measure my strength from my ability to live through the next minute, the next hour.
At the moment I am content to be in New York. The city appeals to me much more than any of the other places I have been in did. I have worked in many small towns and hated it. They reminded me too much of Sunnydale, all that community spirit and neat suburbia hiding darker undercurrents. In these places newcomers are always noticed. They are embraced or rejected by the towns and I don’t want either of those things. I just want to be left alone. New York, however, is different. Everyone is anonymous here. People don’t even try to meet your eyes when you walk down the street. You can keep all the secrets you want and nobody will care. They don’t want to hear your life story, they just want you to get out of their way, before they miss their subway train.
I like New York, I like the hustle and the bustle. I like the fact that it’s never dark – there’s always lights shining brightly somewhere. I laugh at the tourists wondering down its streets in awe of it all. I love the pace of life – the city that never sleeps, always moving, traffic jams at midnight. I can lose myself in all this chaos and no one will realise. I am just one of a thousand other skinny blondes, walking down the thronging sidewalks. I am just another waitress in a long line of them. It is the perfect place to hide – from searching family, from friends both past and possible, from destiny. From myself.
I think I might stay here.
* * * * *
I extinguish my cigarette and head back inside the bar. This waitressing job is a nightmare – one of the worst I’ve ever had. But it pays the best. It’s in one of those sports bars, the kind where guys come to be guys and womenfolk beware. Football and hockey games play at full volume on giant screens, their ecstatic commentaries drowned out only by the enthusiastic yelling of the bar’s patrons. Beer is served in huge pitchers that are quickly drained by large parties of college guys or twenty-something bachelors. And the waitresses’ main function is as sex objects. The uniform is a tight tee shirt and tiny skirt and being ogled at or felt up by drunken customers is part of the job description. But the tips are phenomenal. I can earn more there in an evening than I could do in a whole week of hard toil in an ordinary café or diner.
The feminist, headstrong, ‘give-me-any-more-of-that-crap-and-I’ll-punch-your-lights-out’ part of me objects loudly to this blatant sexism. I don’t get paid to serve beer or clear tables, I get paid to look hot and smile at the customers. And the shorter my skirt, the fuller my cleavage, the more I flirt back, the more money I get. Of course I’m morally opposed to it – it’s degrading, it objectifies women – but I’m also morally opposed to murder and violence, and look how far those ethical concerns have gotten me. And it’s amazing the things you’ll be prepared to do when nobody knows you.
When you know that you’re not going to stay long in a place or that the people you meet aren’t your friends, then you don’t care what they think. You can be rude, or introverted, or slutty and it doesn’t matter. I don’t mind parading about in a sexy outfit, because it’s not me doing it. It’s Grace. Grace tips her head back and laughs with the customers, she flicks her hair seductively and stuffs dollar bills down her bra. But every night she wipes the smile off her face and goes home to be Buffy.
I’ve accepted that much now. That it’s only in front of other people that I can keep up the pretence of being someone else. Alone I’ll always be Buffy. I’ll always be the girl who killed her lover. And that breaks my heart, but I can’t just erase who I am, however much I may want to. So, I go home and I change out of my skimpy uniform into a baggy jumper and jeans (always black, nowadays – it helps me blend into the background) and I head out to find some vamps to slay. The slaying makes me feel better for a while, like I’ve worked off all my pent up anxieties. But they soon creep back. The guilt and the memories cloud my mind, as I absently watch late night television. Then I sleep fitfully, dreaming of Angel and the life I can never have.
I dump a pitcher of beer on a table already crowded with glasses. The already very inebriated guys I am serving wolf-whistle and catcall, and I sense nine pairs of eyes all fixed to my breasts. Perhaps that’s another twisted reason I like this job – people here are too busy looking at my body to notice my face. I hate myself so much that I would rather be objectified than seen for the person I actually am. The thought depresses me, so I simply don’t think it, instead focusing all my energy on not socking the guy who just pinched my butt right in the nose.
I am assaulted by a sudden mental image of my fist hitting the college guy square in the face, and rivulets of bright red blood streaming from his nose, down his chin. I picture the hurt, confused look in his eyes (chocolate brown, betrayed eyes – Angel) and I suddenly feel dizzy. This happens occasionally, I have flashbacks of memory, or fantasy, or I don’t know what, but they shock me like this. They bring me crashing down to earth, just when I think I’m doing better. Just when I think I’m beginning to recover some semblance of mental stability.
The noise of the bar suddenly seems to fade further away. It is like I am separate to the room and not a part of the events inside it. I feel like I’m viewing things from a long way away, like through a telescope or on a television screen. It all feels somewhat unreal, as if I’m trapped in a dream. Sound becomes distorted, slowed, static-laced and stars dance before my eyes. I sway slightly on my feet, then manage to stagger the short distance into the back room, where I collapse on a bench. One of the other waitresses approaches me.
“Are you alright, Grace?” She asks, concern in her voice.
I wait for the waves of dizziness to pass, before nodding. “I’m fine, thanks.” I answer. “I just haven’t had very much to eat today. I must be hypoglycaemic or something.”
The other girl (I can’t remember her name – this anonymity thing works both ways) kindly brings me a glass of sugary cordial from the bar and after I drink it down, I do feel better. Maybe my quickly thought out lie was closer to the truth than I realised. I have hardly eaten anything recently. It just doesn’t cross my mind to. I don’t feel hungry, so I don’t remember to eat. This blatant disregard for my own welfare bothers me more than a lot of the other stresses I’ve faced ever have. Sometime during the past twelve months I just stopped caring and now I have forgotten how to anymore.
I struggle through the rest of my shift, not even finding the energy to affect smiles for the customers. My tips suffer for it, but by this point I just want the evening to be over and if I could walk out here and now without any pay at all then I would. But I stick at it – I need this job to come back to tomorrow. And finally I am done. All the tables are wiped and the patrons expelled. I head to an all night snack bar downtown and force myself to eat something. I have to keep on going, keep on trying, if only to live long enough to earn redemption for the hurts I have caused. I can’t just give up; there is some stubborn streak inside me that won’t let me. So, I pick reluctantly at a chicken BLT sandwich and fries, finally clearing the plate even though every mouthful tastes like ashes and catches in my throat when I try to swallow.
The food heavy in my stomach, I go out on patrol. It is three a.m. and one of the most active periods for vampires. I quickly hunt and despatch three of them, thrusting my stakes swiftly into their hearts without fanfare. Whereas I once would have traded quips with the vampires or celebrated their destruction, now I just got on with the job silently and efficiently. In some ways it makes me feel worse about myself, less human and more like the killing machine I am supposed to be. On the other hand, it makes the whole process more honest. I am not pretending to be anything other than what I am. There is no superhero preamble, I cut straight to the chase. Me Slayer, you dust.
I like the fact that they turn to dust. It is neat, clean. There is no blood spilled. There is no evidence of my brutality, just a small pile of dust that will blow away in the wind. When I die, I want to be cremated. I want to be ashes that float away on the wind – finally free. I don’t want there to be a body remaining as a reminder of my tragic life or brutal end. I want there to be this. Nothingness. Stillness. Oblivion. Peace.
* * * * *
I finally return home, just as the sun is rising. That is another new thing about me now – I am a creature of the night. I live my life under the cover of darkness and, like the monsters I hunt, I hide away from the cruel, revealing light of the sun. It is ironic that Angel always wanted to be able to take me out in the sunshine. We longed for lunchtime picnics under bright blue skies, or trips out to the beach. But only know that he is gone do I realise that I belong in the night. I long no more for grassy, sunlit meadows; my heart resides in a cemetery, under the full moon, stars scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds, Angel by my side. We make our own light and Angel was mine. Without him I’m just another shadow in the dark.
I am still too wired to sleep. There were not enough vampires tonight; there are never enough to use up all my energy anymore. I kill a few and yet still my instincts scream for more. I cannot find the peace and relaxation I so desperately crave. My fingers itch for a cigarette and I appease them, quickly lighting up with shaking hands. The first inhalation of nicotine I take soothes me slightly. I settle back on the sofa, my knees tucked underneath me, and switch on the television.
I flip absentmindedly through the channels, immediately disregarding the multiple reruns of sitcoms I find. The canned laughter just irritates me now, I find the jokes stupid and the situations contrived. They don’t make me smile, they make me feel cheated, like all their false gaiety glosses over the truth of exactly how miserable life can be. I settle instead for an old movie, some black and white epic picture, and I let the action wash over me as I chain smoke. Gradually my frayed nerves begin to calm and I feel sleep start to overtake me as the final credits of the film roll.
I extinguish my cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray and climb off the sofa, heading into the bathroom to get changed for bed. I leave the TV on and half listen to the commercials as I clean my teeth, replacing the foul taste of smoke in my mouth with that of minty toothpaste. I am just splashing water on my face when I overhear the beginning of the breakfast news headlines. The words ‘unconfirmed reports’, ‘tragedy’ and ‘Sunnydale, California’ catch my attention and I immediately drop my towel and rush back into the living room.
The pictures on the screen cause my heart to leap into my throat and my stomach to turn over. There is shaky camera work of huge, blazing fires, labelled as amateur video. The images shake, tip over onto their side and then are lost. New shots of emergency service vehicles appear – fire trucks unravelling their hoses, injured people being loaded into ambulances. Shrouded bodies litter the pavement and I recognise the scene as outside the high school. A girl I remember from one of my classes holds bandages to a bloody wound on her head and sobs in front of the camera. I have to remind myself to breathe.
The footage ends abruptly and the face of the anchorwoman fills the whole screen. “Officials continue mystified by tragic events in Sunnydale, California – a small town about two hours north of Los Angeles.” She addresses the viewers in a serious voice. “The exact cause of the disaster is not yet known, neither are the numbers of fatalities. Eyewitness reports speak of at least one hundred dead, and twice that many injured, in fires that appear to be consuming the whole town. Terrorist activity is suspected, but no one militia group has taken responsibility for the acts and any possible motivation has yet to become clear. Rescue workers have been called in, but initial information suggests that they are having problems gaining access to the town, in order to provide aid. So far, the local TV station has managed to beam some pictures of the devastation out to us, but no other news crews have been able to reach the scene. We’ll have more on that crisis as it develops, now on to other news…”
I stand in the middle of the living room, absolutely frozen to the spot, dressed only in my bra and panties, water still dripping down my face. I can’t believe this is actually happening – perhaps it’s just some really sick joke. I quickly change channels, to find another broadcast, and the same shaky footage from outside the high school assaults me. I listen closely to the commentary, but it tells me nothing new. This station is speculating there was some kind of gas leak, causing the multiple explosions across the town, it is obvious that nobody knows anything, apart from the fact that the situation is dire.
A wave of guilt hits me. This is obviously Hellmouth related – it would just be too much of a coincidence to be anything else. So, perhaps if I, the Slayer, had been there, then none of this would have happened. The reports said that 100 people have died already, could I have prevented those deaths. I feel sick, dizzy and I know this time it has nothing to do with my blood sugar levels. The initial shock I was feeling turns quickly to worry. Mom, Giles, Willow, Xander, all my other friends and neighbours. What if they were caught in the disaster? What if they’re already dead? God, I couldn’t stand that – it would just destroy what little vestiges of my personality are left.
If this were supernatural in origin then Giles and the rest of the Scooby gang would have been right in the thick of it trying to stop the worst from happening. But obviously they failed. And chances are they were the first to die. Tears run down my cheeks as I reach for a cigarette. I stare down at my shaking hands and realise what I’m doing. I’m trying to find comfort for my guilt, my grief, in a quick smoke. How could I imagine that’s even possible? I drop the cigarette and fling the ashtray across the room. Discarded cigarette butts and loose ash fly everywhere, as the glass dish hits the wall and smashes into a thousand tiny pieces. I know immediately that I will never smoke again.
But what do I do now? I can’t just carry on here pretending nothing’s happened, as equally as I couldn’t continue with my life in Sunnydale after sending Angel to Hell. This changes everything. I have spent the last year shirking my sacred duty, indulging my own self-pity. Now the consequences of my actions have come to light. I am responsible for all the current carnage in Sunnydale – as if my burden of guilt was not enough already, now I have to add the deaths of my friends and family to the list of crimes committed. I thought they would be safer without me, that I could only bring them hurt and suffering. But now it turns out that I was wrong. My judgement was fatally flawed yet again. Why does everything I touch always turn to Hell?
A phone number appears on the screen, a helpline for those concerned about loved ones caught up in the tragedy. On the spur of the moment I grab the phone and quickly dial the number. I have to know, I have to find out what happened and if the people I love are all right. I couldn’t bear to live out the rest of my life unsure of their fate, ignorant as to whether my former friends are rotting slowly away in unvisited graves or whether they managed to survive and regain some measure of a normal life. Then I realise this is what they must feel about me. They don’t know whether I’m dead or alive. They don’t know if I’ve managed to find myself some kind of happiness or stability or if I’m laid out in a morgue somewhere, just another unidentified body.
Another stab of guilt hits me, at putting the people I care about through this, but I quickly suppress the feeling. Guilt is such a self-centred emotion. It’s all about how bad you feel about the terrible things you’ve done. I should be worrying about the effects of what I’ve done on other people, instead of wallowing in my own guilt. I’ve spent too much time being self-absorbed already, now I have to give something back. I know I can’t apologise to the people I’ve hurt (especially not Angel, who bore perhaps my greatest betrayal), but maybe I can go back to fulfilling my destiny and at least do something right with my life for once.
A recorded message responds to my call, telling me that there is not yet any detailed information on the situation in Sunnydale. However, if I leave my personal details and the names of the people I am concerned about then someone will get back to me as soon as possible. The voice is just telling me that in the interim I should contact my local police department, who will do their best to keep me informed, when I hang up. I have already made my decision. I am going back to Sunnydale. There may be nobody waiting for me when I get there but I have to find out for sure. And it is my duty as the Slayer to go and help with the clean up after whatever happened. I have done enough damage in my short lifetime already – now it is time to rectify some.
* * * * *
I blow the last of my savings on a plane ticket to LA, quickly clearing out my apartment and settling my affairs in New York. I will not be coming back. It is shame, I actually rather liked the city, but I don’t belong there. Yesterday I would have told you that I don’t belong anywhere, that I don’t even exist. But the shock of seeing my hometown on the news like that, reawakened a part of me that I thought had died – my heart.
For so long now, I have been feeling dead inside. My mind was simply a swirling mist of guilt and pain and I lost myself in its fog. I was disjointed, confused – everything I loved had been snatched away from me and the foundations of my most firmly held beliefs had crumbled away underneath me. I had been drifting through life, no purpose, no attachments, no sense of self. I was lost. I couldn’t even recognise who I’d become – a stranger in a strange land. But now I’m going home. I’m finding myself again.
It’s scary. You get used to being nobody for so long it gets to be frightening to have to face becoming somebody again. My hands shake and I long for a cigarette to occupy them, but I resist the urge and instead fold them tightly in my lap. A thin film of sweat breaks over my forehead and my head swirls with thousands of unspoken fears and worries. God, I don’t want to be doing this. I want to pretend that nothing’s happened, that they’re all living happily in Sunnydale, that everyone is still sleeping safe in their beds. But I can’t. I spent a whole year pretending and now I’ve finally reached the point where I won’t believe any more of the lies I tell myself.
I don’t know how much good I’ll be able to do in Sunnydale, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back to being Buffy again, after denying her existence for so long. But I know I have to try, or I may as well be in Hell with Angel. I wish he were here now, to listen to me ramble on, to gently tip up my chin with my finger and gaze into my eyes and communicate silently all the love and reassurance I need. I wish he was holding my hand as I walk through the crowded airport terminal, giving me the courage to hold my head up high as I thread my way through the throngs of people, instead of studying the ground and trying to blend in with their number. I wish wishes came true.
At the bus station I find that all their services to Sunnydale have been cancelled. It does not come as much of a surprise, but it is a problem. I have only thirty dollars left in my checking account and I withdraw it all, flagging down the first taxi I see and asking him to take me as far north as my money will allow. He drops me at a gas station on the freeway and I extract a quarter from my purse, heading straight to the payphone and dialling my Mom’s home phone number (my phone number), there is no answer, only a recorded message informing me that the number I am dialling is not currently in operation. I call Giles, then Willow, then Xander, then Oz, then even Cordelia, all to the same result. I wasn’t really expecting an answer from any of them, but still to be faced with the reality of it is painful.
I realise I am still holding out the hope that it isn’t as bad as it seems, that I will reach Sunnydale and it will all be OK, just some little explosion blown right out of proportion by the media. That I will find Mom, and Giles, and Will, and Xander all waiting for me and they’ll hug me and I’ll apologise, then finally this nightmare will end. But the closer I get to the town, the more the reality of the situation begins to hit me. It’s bad – very bad – worse than all the horrible things I’ve seen as the Slayer. My hope begins to gradually wane and die and my heart feels like it’s being slowly crushed in a vice.
I begin to walk down the freeway, which is deathly quiet – no one is heading towards Sunnydale. My desperation is so great that I will walk the remaining fifty miles to my destination if I must, but the next car I see I intend to flag down. All the lessons ingrained in me about never accepting rides of strangers, all go out the window. After all what do they matter now? I’m the Slayer, I can do more damage to anyone than they could ever possibly do to me.
I walk for an hour in the sweltering heat, the sun burning my face, sweat pouring down my back, my shoulder aching from carrying my bags, before a single car passes. I literally throw myself in front of it, causing the driver to swerve violently and come to a skidding halt, but by this point I don’t care. The driver leaps out of the car, a string of expletives issuing from his lips.
“You stupid girl!” He finishes. “You could have been killed…” He trails off, however, when he sees my blank expression and haunted eyes.
“I need a ride.” I tell him, steely determination that I didn’t know I still possessed adding a hard edge to my voice.
“You must be kidding -” he starts but I interrupt him.
“I have to get to Sunnydale.” I say. “All my friends and family are there.”
He looks me over appraisingly, my bedraggled appearance and obvious desperation finally swaying his opinion. “Alright.” He accedes. “Get in the car.”
He takes my bags off me and dumps them in the trunk, while I climb in the passenger seat, muttering my thanks. I sigh in relief as the car sets off, its odometer climbing to in excess of 90 miles per hour as we speed towards our destination.
* * * * *
“So, what’s your name, kid?” The driver asks about ten minutes into our journey.
I glance swiftly over at him, then turn my eyes back to stare at the road, ignoring his question.
“I’m Bruce.” He tries again. “Bruce Innes. I’m a freelance journalist – thought there might a story behind what’s happening in your hometown right about now.”
“Because tragedy sells papers, right?” I ask caustically, never once removing my gaze from the long stretch of asphalt in front of us.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about your family and that.” Bruce says gruffly. “It’s a tough break. Someone your age shouldn’t have to cope on their own.”
“No, they shouldn’t.” My voice softens slightly at his comment, as I remember the last twelve months. I should have been there.
“So, come on, then.” He prompts. “What’s your name?”
“Is this meant to be your in depth interview technique?” I snap back, anger coursing through my veins. The guy just wants a story, he wants to hear the heartache of a poor little girl left all alone in the world. Well, I won’t be giving him the satisfaction. The anger feels good and I let is blossom – it is such a relief to feel this animated again, after a whole year of dull, throbbing, abstract pain. I have a focus again, a goal – get to Sunnydale, deal with the crisis, help with the clean-up. Get my revenge on whatever spawn of Hell it was that caused this disaster.
Bruce is still speaking. “I’m doing you a favour here,” he continues. “Most people would have just left you on the side of the road, especially after the stunt you pulled. The least you can do is show me a little respect.”
I twist round in my seat to look at him. He is in his late thirties or thereabouts and wears faded jeans and a scruffy plaid shirt. His hair is light brown and sticks up in all directions, a result of him repeatedly running his hands through it. He is unshaven and his face is rough, weather-beaten. His eyes are sharp and bright blue, but I sense an underlying concern in them.”
“I’m -” I begin then break off. This is harder for me than I ever imagined. I had thought that my decision was taken, my mind made up – after all I was headed back towards Sunnydale, wasn’t I? But actually saying the words out loud, admitting them to a stranger, when all my instincts for self-preservation are telling me not to – to lie, to sink deeper into my seat, to escape this judgement, this scrutiny – that is a different matter altogether. I take a deep breath. “My name’s Buffy.” I say. “Buffy Summers.”
Bruce doesn’t look impressed. “What kind of a name is Buffy?”
A sense of relief floods over me, and I feel a fool for ever worrying about the proclamation. What did I think was going to happen? That he’d say ‘Oh, I’ve heard of Buffy Summers. Aren’t you the girl that killed her lover then abandoned her friends, family and sacred duty?’. It is sad that I’ve become so messed up that I don’t even expect to be able to admit to who or what I am without criticism or condemnation. But now that I’ve done it, now that I’ve said those little words and they are of no consequence to my companion, I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It’s okay to be me again. Nobody’s going to hate me for it.
Nobody still alive, anyway.
I quickly silence the voice in the back of my head and smile slightly at my reluctant chauffeur. “It’s better than Bruce.” I quip back at him and he chuckles.
We chat easily for a while, both avoiding the subject of Sunnydale and why Bruce is breaking all known traffic laws in order to get there as quickly as possible. After a while he switches on the radio and we listen to some country music station. I’ve never liked country so I zone out, retreating back inside my own head and suddenly realising how exhausted I am. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours and there is no hope of any rest to come soon.
Presently we come to a police roadblock and my heart sinks. I should have been expecting this, I should have known that they were going to let just anybody into a disaster zone.
“Shit.” Bruce exclaims ineloquently, as he begins to slow the car. I see a turret of smoke rising in the far distance, undoubtedly coming from the funeral pyre that was once my hometown. My sense of urgency increases tenfold. I have to get there – now!
“Drive straight through it.” I tell Bruce in a low voice.
“I can’t do that.” He replies incredulously. “I’ll get arrested.”
“Not if you drive fast enough.”
“Forget it.” He says with finality. “I know you wanted to get to Sunnydale, but if the police won’t let us past then we’re going to have to turn back. We don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” I mutter under my breath as he stops at the roadblock. It is just two police officers and a patrol car, nothing fancy. Obviously they weren’t expecting many people to try and head towards a scene of mass carnage.
As Bruce rolls down his window to talk to one of the cops, I open the passenger door and sneak out of the car. The remaining patrolman looks up from his copy of Sports Illustrated and steps towards me questioningly.
“Excuse me, Miss -” He starts, but I interrupt him.
“Just stretching my legs.” I say before bringing my foot up in a swift kick that impacts just underneath his jaw. He goes sprawling backwards onto the tarmac road surface, banging his head with a soft thump. His partner turns round, alarmed by the sound, but before he can even draw his weapon I am upon him, issuing several swift blows to the head, before he falls over unconscious. I check both men over, making sure I haven’t seriously hurt either of them. They both appear to be fine and breathing steadily. I smash their radio, crushing it underneath my foot then I climb back in the car.
“Drive.” I issue the order to Bruce.
He gapes at me, a look of horror on his face. “What did you do?”
“You wanted to get to Sunnydale, didn’t you?” I ask him irritably. “Don’t worry, they’ll be all right. Now, go!” I finish in a dangerous tone and Bruce complies, gunning the engine viciously as he speeds off down the road.
There is no chatter now as we drive, and the radio is silent. There is just a rapidly increasing feeling of apprehension in the pit of my stomach and a lump in my throat making it difficult to swallow. God, what did I do? Was that really necessary? I glance up to where I can just about make out Sunnydale in the far distance. A blackened shell stands where the town used to be, wisps of dark grey smoke still rising from is smouldering embers in the fading light of the late afternoon. I think that maybe it was necessary. I have to get there, whatever it takes.
Needs must when the devil drives…
* * * * *
The sun has already slipped beneath the horizon as we drive into Sunnydale. It is fitting that I should return to the town as I left it – a shadow in the night. I am gripped with a sense of stunning unreality as I survey the so familiar and yet totally alien surroundings. Even on the very edge of town the devastation is complete. Not a single building remains untouched. Some have been completely razed to the ground and lie as piles of rubble; others simply bear broken windows and smoke stained walls. There is not a single soul to be seen.
The car slows as driving conditions become more difficult. Debris scatters the road and the asphalt is pockmarked with gaping cracks and crevices, like the ground was opening up beneath it. There is a sickening thump as the car’s left front wheel skids into one of these crevasses. Bruce hits the accelerator hard, gunning the engine, but has no palpable effect. The vehicle remains stuck firmly in place. I leap out of the passenger door, in order to continue the rest of the way on foot. Heading round to the back of the car I yank the trunk open and begin rifling in my bag. Weapons, I will definitely be needing weapons.
Bruce follows me and watches in astonishment as I pull out several stakes, a gleaming silver dagger and a small battle axe from my holdall. I would have liked a crossbow as well, but unfortunately they don’t make them in a handy travel size. I discard the rest of the contents of my bag, dumping it by the wayside. There is nothing of importance in it that I will want now. Except for possibly one thing. The crucifix that Angel gave me on the first night we met. It is secreted in a side pocket, still in its velvet box. I have carried it around with me everywhere that I have travelled and would sometimes even gaze at it for hours, reverently touching its cool smoothness. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to wear it – too many memories perhaps, or too much of a betrayal to display brazenly such a precious token of the love I myself was responsible for destroying – until now.
Now I fasten the crucifix around my neck with expert fingers. Its weight feels familiar and reassuring and I tuck the cross down my shirt so that it rests above my heart – the chain has always been the exact length for me to do that, almost as if the pendant were designed specifically for me. Tonight I need to feel Angel close to me. He gave me the cross so it would protect me when he could not be there to do so, and now more than ever I need that protection. I don’t have the right to my lover’s strength, but I must take it anyway, because without it I am nothing.
I turn back to Bruce who is gaping at me open mouthed. “First the police officers and now this.” He remarks incredulously. “Who are you?”
I hesitate for a moment, the strength and resolve I had previously felt boiling through me, now wavering. Who am I really? Am I Buffy, am I Anne, am I Grace, am I a thousand different people? Tonight at least I am all of them and none. I am who I am and who I’ll ever be. Changing my name or my identity won’t alter that. I am everything I’ve done, I’ve seen, everyone I’ve loved. I am life, death, the beginning, the end, joy, sorrow, destiny. I am the Slayer.
“You don’t want to know.” I tell Bruce, darkness and light flashing simultaneously in my eyes. I spin away from him, stakes hidden away in my pockets, dagger tucked though my belt and axe in hand. And I walk determinedly away from the car, towards the centre of town.
“Where are you going?” He calls after me.
“Where I’m needed.” I reply.
He trots after me, his strides rapid and faltering, his laboured breathing sounding loudly in the quiet night air. Suddenly I notice the complete absence of noise. No traffic sounds, no humming of street lamps or sounds of rowdy teenagers wondering the streets. Just silence and the moonlight casting its eerie glow over the remains of the town. It is unnerving, unnatural, especially coming after the constant buzz of New York life. I feel my heart begin to hammer faster in my chest and I force myself to calm down. It’s the apprehension that’s killing me – the agony of not knowing what might leap out at me from around the next corner.
Five minutes into our journey, we come across the first body. A quick glance at its face reassures me I don’t recognise the dead individual. It has twin puncture wounds in its neck. Vampires. Always opportunistic feeders, I sense they have taken advantage of whatever happened here and are picking off the remaining survivors of the crisis as meals. The body is still warm indicating a recent kill, thus the vampires are close and we are doubly in danger. Bruce turns green at the sight of the corpse and staggers away from it, making as if to heave.
I can protect myself, but not someone as incapable and inexperienced as him. I hand him one of my stakes. “Go back to the car and lock yourself in.” I order. “Don’t let anyone in with you until the sun rises, and if anyone does try to attack you, just shove that through their heart. OK?”
Bruce looks totally mystified, but repeated glances at both my serious expression and the body on the ground soon persuade him to adhere to my advice. He disappears back in the direction we have just come, his footsteps echoing briefly through the darkness, until the silence intrudes once more. I quickly offer up my hopes that he will be all right, but then continue on my way. I have more important things to worry about now.
As I get closer to the centre of town, I see more signs of activity. A few more bodies litter the sidewalks, at first all are obviously recent vampire victims, then others begin to show different signs of injury. Some are burnt, a few dismembered, some have even received initial medical treatment – useless bandages wrapped tightly around limbs that will never bleed again, eyes closed, sheets draped respectfully over corpses.
I wonder where the living are, if any remain. I have seen maybe twenty bodies so far and clearly there are more, but the death count does not seem to be high enough to include every townsperson. And so far I have not come across anyone I yet know, to my great relief. But they must be around somewhere. Mom, Giles, the gang. They can’t have just disappeared, which means I either haven’t discovered them yet or they are hiding out someplace together. I can’t help but hope for the latter, but I know I can’t depend on it being the case. Refusing to let my mind dwell on the matter I carry on through the dark streets, noting the presence of ambulances and fire trucks, now abandoned.
The buildings in the middle of the town still smoulder with smoke. The largest fires are extinguished already, but smaller pyres still burn here and there, making the air thick and acrid. I catch a flash of movement through the mist and my heart soars. Life. But then I see the figure bend over one of the lumps on the sidewalk, lowering its lips to the body’s neck. The lead weight in my stomach returns. Not life – vampire.
“Hey, you!” I call out to the undead female, my voice cracking slightly before easing back into its well-practiced confidence. “Looking for some action?”
The vampire raised her head to glare at me. “Keep out of this mortal,” she hisses. “Unless you want to join your friends.”
I slip easily into battle stance, a stake automatically appearing in my hand. “Not going to happen, I’m afraid.” I announce before advancing on my enemy.
The vampires face falls as her posture becomes defensive. We exchange a few blows, the actions on my part totally instinctive. Kick. Dodge. Hit. Block.
“The Slayer.” My opponent finally recognises me as I take the upper hand in out battle.
“Yep.” I say plunging the stake through her heart. “I’m back.”
I stand stock still as the dust in front of me clears. I realise I am trembling slightly and my stake falls to the ground with a loud clatter. I almost felt like crying, this was not the homecoming I either wanted or expected. I had simply passed from one Hell to another. Too late I realise that I want my friends back. I want my life as it used to be. I want to be the Buffy who parties at the Bronze and doesn’t hand in her homework, and who trades witty quips with vampires before turning them to dust. I don’t want to be a lonely figure in the night anymore.
I bend to retrieve my stake then pause, crouched on the ground, as I feel a familiar tightening across my gut. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and shivers rush up and down my spine. My heart skips beat as I stand up slowly and turn around. In the middle distance a shadowy figure appears out of the smoky air. He is dark enough to blend into the night, but my Slayer’s eyes pick him out immediately and each of my other senses are screaming his presence. I watch, mesmerised, as he walks closer, forgetting even to breathe. Forgetting everything but this moment, this now, this figure gazing down at me with astonished eyes.
Angel.