As I inhale slowly, just enjoying the smell, a weight lifts. And the pain goes with it. It’s such a cool feeling. The smell’s her shampoo. My damaged brain even forms a picture and for a moment, I see B. A light breeze tousles her hair like in a commercial. She looks amazing.

The upshot is: I didn’t go anywhere. I’m still in bed. I can almost feel her in my arms. Safe bet I’ll be fine unless Sparky here gets out a Ginsu glove.

I should be so lucky. He gets preachy instead, “It might pay you to reconsider my offer.” Oh, please, the voice too? Idiot sounds like he’s auditioning to do ads for the Whole Truth. “I can’t see you believing that your life’s worth…”

He’s too late. I’ve had enough of his bullshit. My legs are back. I tune him out and stand, but he doesn’t move an inch and neither do I. I leave myself behind. It’s like David Lynch has taken up directing my dreams as a hobby. I just wish I’d gotten the dancing midget instead of this douchebag. Little guy looked like he knew how to party. We could’ve had a time.

Backing slowly away is probably the thing to do, but seeing even part of what the me on the floor sees is just too trippy. Sparky’s mask elongates as he rants, but his voice is too hollow and muffled. I can’t make out a single word he says now.

I should probably count my blessings. Wonder if he gets that the jackboots and trenchcoat make him look like a deranged perv.

Or a Gestapo hitman. He’s truly scary, but fanatics always are.

Yeah, I’ve heard enough.

I look like hell. Fat lot of good those fake-leather pants did me. It looks like he hung me waist-deep in cage full of badgers. A wide scratch on my stomach peeks out from a rip in my sweater. There’s a deep gash along my cheekbone. And I’m not even going to start counting bruises. I’d be here all night.

There’s no way any of that would’ve been healed by the next day. I was pretty bad off, but I don’t remember being this bad.

I’d probably be cool if that was it, but it’s not. There’s a lot here that doesn’t make sense. Starting with: why am I so lucid? Dreams are all about going with the flow. Accepting what happens at face value. And if it’s something really crappy…

Even slayer dreams just are what they are. Your average nightmare on crack. Getting my head chopped off was fun. But there wasn’t any bouncing. And I didn’t end up staring at the inside of a basket or my decapitated corpse.

So why didn’t I wake up this time?

Asking ‘what if I can’t?’ would just be masochistic. I’ll pass. But it sure makes that Freddy Krueger joke seem a whole lot less amusing.

My best guess is that this is more of what Alicia did to me. But without her here to explain, I’m stuck fishing. For all I know, someone slipped me a mickey. That’d fit with not being able to wake up. But B.’s the only one who would’ve had a chance and I can’t accept that she’d do that. There’s just no way.

So, if this is a memory, how does Kako fit in? Did Sparky come back to finish me? Or did he feed me to her? That wouldn’t make any sense, what with the big rescue.

But neither thing makes sense. And where the hell’s B.?

For that matter, who’s doing the forcing? My tour guide’s M.I.A. and I could seriously use her help.

Even seeing myself like this doesn’t exactly scream ‘memory.’ If that is what this is, then I’m coloring way outside the lines. This is like one of those stupid—

Shit.

I blink, but nothing changes. This completely takes the cake.

Is this just the most wickedly real, blatantly formula, half-assed, contrived, poorly concocted dream ever?

The blood streaming down the wall behind the other me’s head would seem to say ‘yes.’ At least I think it’s blood. That’d track what with—

I look up. Black shit dribbles out along the crack where the grubby brick wall meets whatever that other black shit is they used for the ceiling. Maybe the ceiling’s bloody too? It’s tough to tell without much light. But whatever—

I’m done. My brain’s definitely been dropped too many times. I turn away.

If this just has to happen, I’m onboard for a rewind. A little realism sounds nice, tossed in with some deeply smutty, erotic fantasy. No repercussions. No recriminations. Not even a funny aftertaste. Sign me up. Now how do I get back there?

The floor’s collapsed in the middle of the room. As I head over to give it a look, a friendly male voice calls out, “You should’ve listened. The man had a point,” hard to believe, but I don’t recognize him until he calls me, “Firecracker.”

Great! This is just great! So, instead of Punky Brewster, this time around I get life coaching from Roy Stoner?

Man, I watch too much TV.

I look from one blood-streaked wall to the next as he rattles off some crap about ‘my elders’ and having ‘taught me better.’ Make that a disembodied Mayor Stoner. What’s he supposed to be? The Ghost of Villains Past or some shit?

And why’s he so ticked? I’m not even sure I said anything. Is he in my head like the kid was? I hope not, ’cause that’d just suck.

Whatever. He can run his mouth all he wants. He skipped the ‘little’ this time, but that other thing—the first thing he said—

Mom was screwed. It’s easy to overlook that things were good once or twice. Him calling me that always brings back…

I stare blankly at the floor remembering the good times. It’s not much more than a few impressions. My memory isn’t the best. But there were a couple of evenings when she cooked for me and things seemed almost normal.

I’m not sure how to feel. Anything besides resentment or blind indifference gets confusing.

She trashed my life, but I loved her. That’s as good as it gets.

He trashed my life too, but there’s just something about the old guy that’s—

Why do evil things have to be so goddamned charming?

Thankfully, most of Mayor Wilkins’ charm goes out the window when he opens his mouth this time, “You know you were wrong.”

Do I?

I drop the debate and head for the hole. This is fun and—

Dammit.

I blink out of pure habit, but I don’t expect the view to improve. It hasn’t so far and it doesn’t now. The upper half of the wall’s streaked in black and red. The highest points in the center shimmer in the faint light that shines in through the hole behind me.

See what I get for thinking about David Lynch? My twisted brain snapped up the idea and mangled it. The blood’s not pooling on the floor. And where it’s run together, it’s gathered up like fabric. The bleeding velvet drapes pretty much wreck any allegory.

But who needs symbolism, really? I like the direct approach. Cross this line and you’ll end bloody.

The one major up is this looks cool as hell. I’m tempted to hang out and watch. I don’t. I’ve got better things…

The bottom half or so of the drapes are still ragged. Blood trickles from the ends. It looks sticky, like some kind of candy. Taffy maybe?

No, not taffy. It’s stringy like that, but—

I dunno. Fake blood usually has Karo syrup in it, so the candy angle isn’t bad. It’s just…

Umm…

I know what this is like. It’s like when you sneeze. You cover your mouth and sometimes—well, it’s just gross…the way the snot webs between your fingers. This isn’t clear like that, but that’s how it looks.

As I take the half dozen or so steps it takes me to reach the hole, two tattered edges meet and cling, like sticky shit does. A few more dribbles and presto a thin new fold of velvet puckers out, glistening as it catches the light.

And this is happening all around. Hollywood’s got nothing on me.

The hole’s a bust. There’s nothing here. Just a few broken floorboards folded down between two steel support beams. The boards hang into darkness so deep it’s fuzzy. This is like staring into the mouth of a cave.

I should watch the walls. They’re cooler. But I have to look. I just know that any second now a light’s gonna come on and something will happen. And that something will make all of this crap make sense.

It doesn’t. Sparky’s the thing that starts making sense. “Just look at yourself, Faith. Eventually, she’ll tire of you.” Or at least he stops sounding like he’s in the next room talking through a fan with his mouth full of peanut butter. The ‘sense’ part’s debatable. It’s more like he’s jerking my chain. Spewing the obvious. Preying on my doubts.

Yeah, I’ve got some. What of it?

The Horrible Mayor Wilkins has to get his shot in too, “He’s right, y’know? As sure as the sun will set, your little chickadee is going to fly the coop.”

Yeah, yeah…keep going. So, of course, he does, “There’s no sense in lying to yourself about something that’s as clear as day.” He’s right next to me now.

I’m actually more concerned by the little bit of this dress I can see than anything they say. I’d been ignoring it up to now, but morbid curiosity takes its toll.

Besides, it beats granting His Honor an audience. Anything’s better.

Still half-focused on the hole, I look at the antique floral print that covers my chest. And I do mean covers. This is the sort of thing a ten-year-old might wear to church. I hold the skirt out like chicks do in the movies when they curtsey and grumble, “Look, if you clowns really want to set me off, start in on this rag.”

“And when she does, I’ll be there,” Sparky rasps, pretty much drowning me out.

Yeah, I’ll make note that Team Evil thinks I’m screwed too. But fact is, I couldn’t give a shit less what this fuckwit does or where he’ll be. If this thing with B. goes the usual way—straight to hell—he’ll be the least of my problems.

The mayor’s hand closes around my upper arm. He poses half behind me. I still don’t bother. It’s pointless. He speaks over my shoulder into my ear, mentoring me like the father I always craved, “I have good feeling about this young man. He has potential. He shows initiative. I believe he’s really going places.”

It doesn’t play. Even his breath on my cheek and the faint smell of peppermint—he always smelled like peppermint—none of it works. If he’d say something worth hearing, his act would be perfect. But what he’s pushing is complete bullshit.

“Most people don’t get a second chance at greatness. Only a—”

Oh, no. He’s not getting to call me a fool. Not for this. I give him a scathing over-the-shoulder glance and cut him off, “Yeah, he looks like a real winner.” I’ve been a fool. I’ve even been a fool in recent memory. But not over this.

I try to pull away, but he holds tight, scolding me like a spoiled child, “Now, Faith, I’ll admit his fashion sense is a bit misguided, but the clothes don’t make the man.”

That tears it. I snap, “A bit? This jerk is afraid to—”

He talks right over me, “Mark my words, you’ll regret this. I thought you were smarter than—”

Screw this! I yank my arm free as I turn on him and shout, “If he’s all that, then why the mask? What’s he hiding?”

“Does it matter?” he asks, gesturing to something behind me. I just glare. “You threw away a golden opportunity. And for what?” He’s the picture of patience. Even tone, subtle smile…in short, he plays the politician. Imagine that.

And I end up feeling like a horse’s ass. Not about Sparky. I’m right about him. I’ve just got such a soft spot for Mayor Wilkins.

He keeps glancing over my shoulder. Finally, I crack. I should know what’s back there. We’re standing right next to the red velvet drapes. My back’s practically pressed against them. They’re not nasty anymore. Actually, they look perfectly normal.

Well, alright. Go me! I made imaginary drapes.

Hey, maybe I can whip up an imaginary door while I’m at it. And get my imaginary ass out of this dive.

I turn and look past him. The act of turning moves me. Or maybe it moved me when I looked at the drapes. Whichever, whatever…I didn’t go anywhere, but now we’re on the other side of the hole. And on the far side of that, Sparky’s leaned over me. My shirt’s ripped open. His hand glows against my chest.

See? I knew he was a perv.

The mayor blocks my way when I try to go look. “You don’t need to see that,” he says.

Yeah, I do. I need to know what that fucker’s doing to me. But before I can even get clear, Sparky picks me up and chucks me into the hole in the floor like I’m nothing.

And I guess he’s right. I am nothing. I’m a limp, lifeless, beat up thing that just drops from view like so much trash.

After pitching me, Sparky bails. There’s nothing left to see. As I turn to follow the mayor’s lead, I hear an echo, “I’m doing you a favor.”

God, I remember that. That’s what the bastard said right before I passed out. I have no clue what he did to me or what happened next, but that much…I remember.

Stepping through the drapes doesn’t quite live up to the metaphor this time. I just go from one dimly lit room to another. But the light here’s bluer…less ‘city light,’ more ‘starry night.’

What first catches my eye is a round, stained glass window, like the one in B.’s room. The vibrant purples and greens are deepened in the starlight. The darkest shades are almost black. It’s beautiful.

But that isn’t what I should be looking at. The mayor clues me in by grumbling, “Would you look at yourself? This is just disgusting.”

B. groans my name as I direct my attention toward the floor. I’ve come full circle. Well, not really. I’d have to figure out how to put myself back together for that. But I stand at the edge of the mattress, overlooking us.

What I see doesn’t disgust me at all. It’s pretty creepy, but only because someone who could’ve been my dad is right next to me bitching. That’d creep anyone out. He sure has a lot to say. Awful stuff, like how we’re ‘rutting around’ and ‘behaving like animals.’ Predictable stuff. Stuff that’s not worth my time. I tune him out.

So, this is how we look together?

I guess, short of taking pictures, this is as close to knowing as I’m gonna get. And that really does creep me out. I don’t get why people do that.

I hold B. cradled across my lap. Her hand slips between us as I nibble her neck. I vaguely recall that, but it was over so quick. She found an opening and used it to stroke my nipple with the edge of her thumb.

But I guess I missed quite a bit. Like how she’s caressing the small of my back with her other hand. I got so wrapped up I glossed over it.

And no wonder. Sometimes she takes my breath away. I can’t believe she’s mine. That she’s with me of all people. I end up feeling like I’m thirteen again with the worst crush ever. All butterflies and giggles. It’s truly pathetic…I snicker…in a really, really wonderful way.

Her hand—the one that was between us—playing with my nipple, returns to where it was behind my neck. She laces her fingers through my hair. It looks almost like she’s guiding me. She’s not. We just both want the same thing.

As my head moves down, she turns hers and kisses my neck. I gave her just enough room and she took advantage. It’s sad. I don’t remember that either. It was really sweet.

When reach her breast, her head falls back and she groans. The gravely edge to her voice sends chills down my spine. Even here. Even now with…

I don’t want to think about him. He pisses me off.

Disgusting?

You want to see disgusting? Check your tie.

Or that suit. I can’t believe I ever looked up to someone who’d wear such cheap-ass, bargain basement, thrift store—

My hand moves down her stomach. I swing my leg out of the way, folding it beneath me.

She rests her hand over mine. I can’t see what’s happening, but I know. I’m sliding my fingers up and down.

I bite my lip. Echoes of something like sense memory affect me. My eyes drift shut. I almost feel—

There’s a knot in my gut. Stupid butterflies flutter around it. What if I hurt her?

That doesn’t hurt me, but I’m not her. She’s—

I have to be sure.

But what if I do something else wrong? What if this doesn’t feel good?

And y’know, I never worried about any of that before. The last thing that mattered was them. I knew they were getting off. That was cool and all, but I didn’t give a crap.

With her, even the small stuff throws me. Like…I don’t know…that time—the first time we…she gasped. It was one of those. A sharp sound, like she’d jabbed her finger with a needle or something. I couldn’t see how I’d hurt her, but it sounded…

I thought for sure I’d screwed up. I hadn’t. Her expression was priceless. I felt like an idiot.

That’s the problem. I don’t always know with her. And I can’t take any chances. I might nick her with my nail or something and…

It’s—

I love her.

When I open my eyes, all I see is that. None of the other stuff shows.

No. He’s wrong. There’s nothing disgusting here.

Except for that suit.

“What would you know about this?” I ask, turning to face him. I want him gone. The idea that he’s watching us makes me—

I’d like to slap that sour look off his face. I can’t. Part of me still—

He replies, “Not one single thing. This is—” His face twists like he just tasted something nasty. “But about love, commitment, the sanctity of marriage? I know more than you can imagine. I was with my Edna May—”

Oh, yeah…I remember this spiel. The big evil guy has a heart. Heading for the door, I stop him cold by snapping, “Then why are you asking?” There’s no reason for me to stick around. If he doesn’t get that I love her…if he can’t figure out that B. means the same to me as Edna May did to him, screw him. I’m gone.

He calls after me, “Well, excuse me for my concern. But rest assured, little missy, this thing’s bound to blow up in your face. You’re backing…”  The door clicks shut, muffling his voice. “…the losing filly.”

It’s bright out here.

I turn around. The door’s gone.

I’m standing in the middle of a rolling lawn.

The door’s gone.

Shit.

I shade my eyes with my hand.

There’s no sign of the mayor…or anyone else, for that matter.

He might’ve had a point about some of that. There’s no way of knowing. But that last part…

“She kicked your ass,” I mumble and take off across the lawn. I don’t even know where I’m headed. Just away works for me.  But after a few steps, it occurs to me. That’s not quite all. For the record, I add, “And mine too.”

So that’s it? After all that…

Nice.

Oh, man.

Shit. I got back there and I left like a moron.

See? I knew my priorities were whacked. I should’ve sent him packin’ and…

Yeah. So much for my gratuitous fantasy. I’m stuck here now, wherever here is.

The grayish, overcast sky and hot, dry air positively scream Southern California in the summertime, so I’ll go with that. Not that it matters. I’m in the middle of a big ass yard. The nearest tree is—I swing around—just on the other side of that hill. Looks like as good a direction as any.

Figures the bastard put me in heels. They drag in the grass as I walk. I’m tempted to take the stupid things off. My skirt flows around my legs. That part actually feels nice, even if it does look like something from a sixties sitcom. But the heels just suck. I make it about ten feet before my foot lands cockeyed, my ankle turns and I damned near stumble.

Me. I haven’t stumbled in…

I have no idea.

I end up looking at the ground just because. I’m standing half on a headstone. At least I get where I am now: a cemetery, but not one of those things like they had in Sunnydale. I don’t even know what happened there. This is a regular cemetery with headstones that sit level with the ground. No clue which one. They kind of all look the same. There are usually more trees, but—

That’s it. I’m done. I stoop down and unbuckle the straps. Kicking the stiff, annoying, useless, pointless, awkward, goddamned shoes off is best thing that’s happened so far except…

I can’t believe I left!

Dammit!

That I ended up in another godforsaken, lame-ass graveyard just figures. I stomp off toward the tree, paying more attention to my feet. I have to walk at an angle through the graves. Stepping on the corner of one would suck more than those stupid shoes, so…

I’d like to know who came up with skinny heels. Who started that? And what moron thought it’d be great to wear them?

Someone had to actually wear them. And other people had to actually jump on board. How’d that become a thing?

Strapping boards to your feet would be more comfortable. And unless you’re walking on a smooth surface, they’re a nightmare! Even for me! And I’m no klutz.

I’ll leave—

Dammit! I can’t believe I left! I’m stuck here in some fuckin’…

I left!

I’m the moron.

Whatever. B. can have being a girly girl. She’s just so much better at it than me.

The ground levels out. There’s an old black guy sitting on a park bench beneath the tree about twenty feet away. When I look up, he smiles and waves like he knows me. His face is familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him. The nape of my neck prickles, branching out to my scalp and shoulders. I tense. He could be a vamp for all I know. Broad daylight, but—

He makes me just that edgy.

I don’t get how B. did it. Even the big guy sets me off sometimes. And I love him. I owe him my life. But I can’t see—

What does she see in me?

Some day—probably soon—she’ll remember all of the terrible things I’ve done. She’ll see all of the stupid mistakes I’ve made and all of the horrible things I can potentially do. She’ll see all of that and what a liability I am will hit her.

“They’re right. She’s going to leave me.” Hearing myself mumble throws me off completely. I didn’t mean to say anything. It’s just—

“You’re selling her awfully short, aren’t you?”

Getting an answer’s even worse. I spin to face the speaker ready to—

It’s just Willow. She’s sitting on a park bench next to a grove of trees that by my count shouldn’t be there.

What else is new?

I seriously need to lighten up. She didn’t even get to complete her thought before I was all about killing her. That’s pretty much the epitome of rude. I chill out as she goes on, “Buffy may be a lot of things, but fickle isn’t one of them. She doesn’t give up on the people she cares for.”

Nice sentiment, but she lost me somewhere between her pink shirt and pastel violet skorts.

They still make skorts? And tights? She’s seriously wearing fuzzy white tights like some little girl?

But what really tears it is the white cartoon kitten on her tee-shirt. I vowed to never take anyone in a Hello Kitty shirt seriously.

It’s rude as hell, but I have to look away. I just can’t. Considering…busting up laughing really would be worse. I just can’t get past the…

She looks like a great big wad of cotton candy. I’ll lose it if I…

I really can’t.

And true to form…

We’re next to a lake. The eye roll just happens. Shit changing every time I turn around is getting pretty tired.

Doesn’t matter that it’s pretty. Or that the temperature dropped at least ten degrees when I turned. The air’s a little crisp, but not quite chilly. And it’s not that thick shit. Breathing actually feels good now.

There’s this grassy stuff growing along the shore. A breeze stirs it and creates ripples on the surface of water that’s as clear as the air. Sunlight catches the ripples making them sparkle. Little white flowers dot the opposite shoreline.

It’s all that and more set against a backdrop of forest and mountains. There are even ducks. This is some serious picture-postcard shit.

It doesn’t seem right that I’m alone. A place like this should be crawling with tourists. At the very least there should be a sailboat on the water.

There isn’t jack. Bob Ross should be here with his easel, but it’s just me and the ducks. Willow even left. Either that or she clammed up. I’d look, but I’m not up for a change of scenery just yet. It’s nice here. And ‘alone’ means there’s no one to hit me or call me a ‘filthy, disgusting animal.’

I could use the slack.

As I enjoy a moment’s peace, clouds cover the sun. Or I guess that’s it. The sun’s somewhere behind me and I—

I really deserve some slack.

Anyway, the shade I’m standing in grows. Even the snowy mountaintops in the distance get duller.

Weird how it feels cooler when this happens.

I wish she’d say something. That is if she’s back there. I can’t feel her, but that doesn’t mean much. She’s always been kind of strange. There were days when it was hard to even be around her. She’d totally set me off. My skin would prickle just like it did with that old guy—I’m glad he’s gone—and other days we’d be in the same room together and I wouldn’t even notice her.

Like any of that means anything here. I should just forget what I think I know. None of it applies.

What she did say was nice. I think she was trying to help. But I’m not willing to call her an authority on the subject. She and B. have always been tight. That hasn’t really changed. And it’s not going to. Willow isn’t like me.

The sun hasn’t come back out yet. If anything, it’s getting darker. I feel dizzy, but not bad. It’s a little like I’m drunk. I want to sit down, but—

Seeing movement out of corner of my eye is…

I want it to stop. I know that nothing’s there. Colors streak for no reason. It’s similar to that thing that makes you feel like the room’s spinning, but both sides move the same way. I resist the urge to turn my head. That really does make it worse.

It’s actually more like being in a car, without the car.

Or running.

It’s about that fast, but I’m not moving. There’s no bouncing. I haven’t gone anywhere. I look down. The water’s edge is still about three or four feet from my toes. The sandy soil around them isn’t moving either, but the angle of the blur changes when I tilt my head. It’s weird as hell.

The ducks forage in the grassy stuff right along the shore for whatever ducks eat. They’re not more than ten feet from me. It’s like I’m not even here. There’s a big one and four little ones. The babies look almost like miniature versions of their mom, but they’re still fuzzy…and kind of cute.

They’re solid distraction. And I sure need one. Everything around me’s moving. But it’s all the stuff I can’t see. I cling to what I can. I can’t help it. This place is peaceful. I don’t want to leave. I don’t even blink for fear it might change. But the blur is…

It’s getting worse. Where I am is like some distant point on the horizon. Even if I am standing right here, the world speeds by. My eyes do as much as they can to keep up, but the blur is…

It’s nauseating, disorienting and a couple dozen other things, all of them fucked up.

My eyes tell me that my hair should be whipping around. My cheeks should be flapping or plastered against the bones of my face. I should feel something. Wind should be roaring in my ears. But I’m stuck here.

It’s not just that. It’s everything. While I watch the ducks, the sun sets and my little oasis is momentarily lit orangey-red. I don’t even get that that’s what’s happening until it’s over. The moon’s already up when it hits me. Its silver sliver travels like a satellite. Actual satellites move so fast that they look like shooting stars.

Or maybe that was a plane. It was gone too quick. I couldn’t tell. This is like watching one of those time-lapse videos, reflected on the surface of the water.

But the ducks still swim like they should. Leaves rustle in the same light breeze that tickles the little hairs on my arms. Crickets chirp. My little picture postcard world goes on largely unaffected.

“You missed something.”

Willow’s still here. I see her reflection when she stands, but I can’t see her face, just the dark shape of her silhouette.

“Don’t I always?” slips out before I really understand. She didn’t say a word. Not really. She’s here with me. Really here. And she’s ashamed.

Most people don’t get that when a nine millimeter bullet impacts the human body, it’s travelling at roughly twelve-hundred feet-per-second. To put that in a way that’s easier to visualize: unhindered by gravity and friction that same bullet would travel a mile in about four and a half seconds.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Other than—

Now, that’s not really realistic because gravity and friction do play a part, but at close range the effect is…

I blink and the lake’s gone. There’s this big dorky looking guy in front of me, trussed up with vines between two trees. And Willow—

But saying that is still sort of meaningless. It sounds really impressive, but it doesn’t lead to a clear picture. Typically, all we have to tell us how that’d be are movies and television. But the pictures they paint are inaccurate. They’re glamorized. The hero never gets hurt as badly as he should and the villain…

This villain had exactly that to go on when he pulled the trigger. Not that he cared.

I feel like I know him, but I don’t. Not really. He’s just familiar.

And I really wish he wasn’t.

I hate him.

That’s another thing we trivialize. It’s hard to appreciate what hate actually means until you’ve felt the deep burning rage.

I’m not nervous anymore. This feels so familiar. It’s almost comfortable. I lived like this for years.

I lived on it. It made me feel powerful and alive.

I hate guns too.

And not just average hatred. Not that banal term we use frivolously. Meaningless bullshit.

I despise them.

Now I’m all for convenience, don’t get me wrong, but taking a life should never be easy. Killing should be personal. Guns make the act mindless. A little pressure on one piece of metal—just a twitch—and another tiny piece of metal does all of your dirty work for you. No muss, no fuss.

This villain won’t do that again. I hold a piece of metal. It’s an insignificant thing. A scrap that I pulled from the chest of someone I love.

She’s coming. I really wish she’d mind her own damned business. But it isn’t like Buffy not to meddle. She just has to stick her nose in, even where it doesn’t belong. She thinks she’s helping.

I’m not really holding the bullet. I don’t understand how I’m doing it, but it floats, spinning closer and closer to his chest. As near as I can figure, I hold it by sheer will.

My hatred holds the bullet. It seems easy, but I know it isn’t. This feels horrible. Like that night when—

The initial impact—the act of touching—starts a cascade. It’s called hydrostatic shock. But that’s just a fancy way of describing the same thing that happens when you drop a pebble into a pond. It’s the same effect…amplified a thousand fold.

I make that happen. His ribs snap. Not all at once, but gradually. I want him to really feel this.

The fluids in his chest, blood and mucus…and all that gory stuff that should stay on the inside, move with the shockwave, like water sloshing in a tank. Cell membranes burst, tissues rupture and the bullet has barely even broken his skin.

His nerve endings light up like the Sunset Strip at night, sending signals to his brain. His amygdala stimulates his hypothalamus to release a hormone called CRH or corticotropin-releasing hormone. Because sciencey things always have cool acronyms. It makes them easier to remember.

Or forget.

Or confuse with other stuff.

Or whatever…but the CRH in his system causes his pituitary gland to release another hormone, which in turn stimulates his adrenal glands to release yet another hormone.

But not adrenaline. Not yet. First it releases cortisol to help him cope.

That chemical soup swishes around for another microsecond before his eyes well up and his cheeks billow out. But he can’t really beg. I got sick of his whining and sewed his mouth shut. The desperation makes him look like a great big puffer fish. His muscles tighten. He’s in way over his head and he knows it.

And that makes me happy.

Or as happy as I can be with this gaping hole in my chest.

I ache, but I—

I can’t stop to think about that. The quiet…

I tear the stitches from his mouth and he shrieks, “Please!” He takes that simple single syllable word and makes it sound like twelve. I nearly crack a grin. “God! Please. I did wrong…”

Yeah.

Sure you’re sorry.

I concentrate on his chest. The bullet just pierced his sternum. As I twist and mangle and rip, turning his insides into a gooey paste, the cavalry arrives. I nearly sigh when Buffy shouts my name.

Uh, boy, I’m really in for it now. Mommy’s here.

What she thinks doesn’t matter. But stupid me, I glance over my shoulder, see the disbelief in her eyes and I almost feel…

Something.

An unpleasant little twinge. It passes.

And the sad part is, I think she gets it. I truly believe that if anyone can understand this, it’s her.

There’s just one slight problem. She might understand the loss, but she’ll never understand what I’m doing and why.

People are shaped by loss. By tragedy. The good times—all that warm, fuzzy stuff—yeah, it affects us, but not the same way.

It’s how we deal with the pain of loss that really molds us. That’s why we remember those things above all the rest.

That’s just how we are. Trauma leaves a lasting impression. Call it a flaw if you want.

And Buffy’s first major loss—the big one—

Well, to be fair, there were lots. And they were all big. She’s had a rough life. But that first one…

The only one she could blame for that was herself. And because of that, deep down, she hates herself…

…not quite as much as I hate Warren.

He begs, “When you get caught—” stammering because I think he gets that this isn’t the most persuasive argument “—you’ll lose them too. Your friends.”

What if I don’t plan to get caught?

His sweat and his tears…

Should I hemorrhage his brain? That happens sometimes, but it’s pretty rare. That’s a lot of fluid to displace. The impact has to generate closer to one-thousand p.s.i.

“You don’t want that. I know…” When I come to my decision—huge shock—the pathetic, dribbling, inconsequential piece of shit loses his voice. Blood bubbles up in his throat. He practically gurgles his final words, “You’re in pain, but—”

You know nothing.

I say, “Bored now,” for the benefit of my ‘friends.’ The rest happens with a casual thought, just like pulling a trigger.

This is no dream.

I feel the same resentment. That revulsion I used to feel when I looked at B.’s face. Only I’m not feeling it. I can completely relate to what she’s going through. Willow just peeled that guy like a banana.

Giles told me back in Sunnydale that things had been rough, but—major understatement—that’s about all he said. No one else was jumping up and down to share, so…

And no wonder. That’s not something you see every day.

I desperately want to say something to Willow. I need to tell her that I’m sorry. I need for her to know—