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` Caught in the vice of self-pity. That's where she had been. Her mother had known about Dawn. Her mother had known that this might happen. And why hadn't anyone told her that there were worse things than evil incarnate. Things that hurt...worse. The shelter that was Mom, now cold and stiff. No more. Screw the job, and to hell with destiny. Because really this was Everything Will Never Be The Same. And at that moment she knew that if she had the Kool Aid, and everything else needed for the right kind of screwy, even for Slayer flesh-- she'd feed her sis the punch and drink up, too. But she'd been asked, and it was a promise. Blink. Thought gone, wouldn't ever be remembered, probably. Alert now. (Why wasn't she alert enough?) Push: shove: nail that compartment, sit on the suitcase, if you have to. Alert now, for Dawn. She would be shelter, for Dawn. She looked at her thin arms. So strong. Why shake? //arms don't shake stupid, hands shake stupid// ` Stop. Buffy glanced at the counter top. Beeswax candles. Chunky and scented, of assorted shapes and sizes. Honey-colored, to cream, and white champagne. About five or seven. Last purchase. She grabbed a couple, an armful, and headed for her mother's room. Maybe she'd light them tonight. |