“Buffy,” he breathes and our eyes lock.

“What?” I inquire lightly and pull free, his fingers dragging along my arms as I do. It hurts and I bite my lips until I feel a bead of blood swell from the torn flesh. Moonlight washes over me from the window and I think I must look like a wraith from the streets. I guess that's what I am now. Someone from the proverbial gutter. I remember once when Johnny and I had a big fight and he threw me out on the streets after hitting me a few times in the face with his huge fist. There I was, in a torn dress with blood streaming from my nose, sitting on the curb of a dirty street. I didn't cry, just kept wiping my face and trying to keep from getting hit by the taxis whizzing by. No one looked at me. I was just another battered girlfriend with broken teeth and a skinny body.

Angel stares at me. I can tell he's wondering what to say. I can still read his moods, his thoughts, his actions. That thought makes my chest squeeze down on my ribs and I falter a little, sitting on the edge of a worn leather chair. It's big in here, and I know he must be doing well. Apartments in New York like this would go for five grand a month.

“You're doing drugs,” he finally says flatly and almost collapses onto the couch. His hands are trembling as he runs them through his spiky hair.

“Yes,” I respond with equal blankness, my eyes surveying the room again. “And I really should get going. I left the club without his permission. I gotta get back.”

He almost laughs and then his eyes narrow. “You think I'm letting you out of here? Back to whoever got you hooked on these drugs? No way, Buffy.”

No one's called me that in a long time. Johnny calls me Lizzie. He has a lot of other charming names for me when he's high and furious, but they're not worth repeating. Buffy…who is that? Standing up, I make for the door. “I really have to go, thanks anyway.”

He grabs onto my arm and I wonder why it doesn't snap, he yanks so hard. My bones are little and have gotten thin over the years. Gentling for a moment, he looks down at me, “Buffy, you're not going. I'm cleaning you up.”

“Oh great,” I snarl. “What is this? Intervention? Really, I don't need this.”

He fixes me with a look. “You saved me more times than I can count. I'm not letting you go back there.”

No, no, this is making me want to scream. Doesn't he realize if I don't go back, Johnny will find me and kill me? He'll slice me up with one of his many knives that he's so proud of and leave me in an ally somewhere. I'll become just another statistic, lying in a pool of blood and dirt. The doctors will label me “Jane Doe” and I'll be buried in an unmarked grave. I have to go back…damnit, why won't he let me go? He did all those years ago, and he should now…I pull with all my strength, but his muscles are bigger and he picks me up, carrying me into the bathroom.

It's white and gleaming. He must have someone clean it. “Please…” I whimper and a tremor goes through me.

He shakes his head and for a moment I see despair in his eyes. But there's something else there that chills me to the bone. Resolve. Steely resolve. He's not letting me go. He turns on the shower and a cold sweat breaks out over my skin. I'm trying to struggle but its not working. His hands take off my black cotton dress and slide my underwear down my legs. He doesn't look at my body, I know its ugly and that my hipbones protrude, and I feel like a shell of my former self. With firm but careful hands he puts me under the pounding jet of hot water.

It streams in a gush over my face and back, running in rivulets over my skin. I'm shivering, and I can tell what's coming. “Why are you doing this?” I moan, and he looks at me, his eyes dark and ancient, even though I know he's human now.

“Because its you,” he answers quietly.

No, its not me. I'm not her anymore, he has to realize that. Towelling me off, he wraps me up and lifts me in his arms like I weigh nothing. An ache in my breastbone alerts me to the fact that I want something. I need something. Its been hours since I last shot up, and I know that Angel's not going to run down to the corner to get me some. People might think I like being a 'so-called' addict. That heroin brings me pleasure. They have no idea.

The skin inside my elbows starts to burn for the prick of the needle. Angel is drying me off with tender fingers. I can feel the sweat beneath my pores. I've been through withdrawal once before. I tried to quit once without telling Johnny. I only lasted a day before the pain sent me to his pusher for a hit. Hating myself even as I did it, I still pushed the needle into my flesh and waited for the peace.

He dresses me in a pair of his sweatpants which look ridiculous because they are way too big and a T-shirt that hangs over me like a tent. My hair flows down my hollowed back, silky and clean. He's looking at me. “You look so young,” he says softly, and cocks his head to the side.

“I'm twenty seven,” I remind him and stand up, ignoring the tremors that are wracking me just underneath the surface.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asks, and the thought makes me want to throw up.

“No,” I shake my head and walk past him. “It must be quite a shock for you,” I begin, and he follows, his hands on my shoulders. They burn and my whole being wants to shrug him off. “You know, me , addicted to drugs…no longer your Golden Girl, huh? What would people say?”

He remains quiet for a moment, sitting across from me. “It's not going to work,” he finally replies almost conversationally. “You're not going to piss me off to the point where I throw you out, Buffy.”

Would he stop calling me that? I hate him so much at this second and wish I could scratch his eyes out. “I wonder what everyone would say,” I remark. “Willow and Dawn…Faith.”

It's been so long since I even let myself think those names, let alone say them aloud. I see Angel's pain, but it makes me feel better. So, someone else remembers them to, feels guilt over them. Someone else misses them. “They would be shocked.”

“Willow most of all,” he answers with a wealth of tenderness in his voice for my dead friend.

“Yeah,” I swallow against the bile welling in my sore throat. Willow. God, I miss her. I would give anything to see her red hair and hear her voice right now. My Willow, my best friend…no, the tears are burning in my eyes and they feel like red hot lava. I have no right to cry over her. I should have saved her. Should have done something. She would have been twenty seven now to. Probably married, maybe to Tara. Tara…I don't even know where she is now. She disappeared after the funeral. I don't want these thoughts…

“What happened to Riley?” he asks and I shrug, laughing without any humour whatsoever.

“How should I know? After divorced, he went to Iowa again. I would imagine he's married to some farm girl who won't talk back.”

“Why did you marry him Buffy?” he inquires lightly, and it makes me feel a little like getting up, walking over to him and slapping him across his blank face. That face. It hasn't been in my dreams for a long time, just like I wanted.

“Because I was stupid. Because I was mourning. Because I was lonely. Take your pick,” I pause and then snap, “Why did you marry….what's her name?”

I know perfectly well what her name is. It's been emblazoned in my brain ever since I heard the news. His hands trace a pattern on the material of the couch. “I married Katherine because I thought I had to move on,” he answers, his voice low. “Because I didn't want to spend my days as a human, alone.”

“Okay,” I murmur. “Now, tell me why you really did.”

He looks startled and then mutters, “Because she didn't know you. She didn't know my past and she didn't look like you, or talk like you, or resemble you in any way. I wanted to forget.”

I bite down on my lip and feel the blood again. My teeth are sharp, I had forgotten that. My whole body is soaked with cold sweat, the liquid coming from my pores, hungry and unforgiving. My skin is tingling and it aches. God, I want a needle. I want the powder, I want the feeling as it goes in and infects my blood stream. My bones are anaemic and they're pressing together in my body, uncomfortable, needing nourishment that can't be bought at the store. If only I could get past him some way. If only I could find a way to run. I need to get home. Maybe Johnny was so high that he didn't notice I was gone. Maybe I can get back to the apartment and only receive a slap for this. If I wait too long there isn't going to be anything left of me once he's done.

“I need to go,” I plead with him. “You really don't understand…my boyfriend—“ Where had that come from? I hadn't planned on mentioning Johnny to Angel. His eyes darken and I see his anger.

“You think I care about your boyfriend?” he asks with fury etched in the curves of his face. “Is he the one that gave you those bruises?”

Maybe I shouldn't answer, but I do. “Yes,” I respond quietly.

Angel mutters something under his breath and from here I feel his rage. “You're not going back to him. If he touches you again, I'll kill him. Buffy,” he gets down on his knees in front of me and I see the tears in his eyes. Don't cry for me, I want to say, but my vocal cords won't work. “You're safe here.”

Safe? That's a laugh. There's nowhere in all of this godforsaken city that I'm safe. I should know. How many times have I tried to escape now? He finds me every time. He finds me and gives me drugs that I couldn't afford to buy. At least he gives me the heroin.

“You can't fight him,” I choke out, “Angel…” I realize that's the first time I've said his name since I arrived and from his expression, its clear he recognizes it to.

“Did you know the Powers let me keep my strength?” he informs me gently. “It's all right. I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Buffy, you should eat something.”

“I can't,” I moan and my stomach rolls at the mention of food. “You don't understand…no appetite left in me.”

He leaves me and I hear him in the kitchen. The tremors are coming now, faster and they go deeper. My whole body is wracked with them. A deep shooting pain cuts into my bones and makes me feel like I can't breathe. God… I hate this. Are you even out there, God? The ceiling looks so far away. My hands tremble as I wrap them around my body. The bones of my ribs poke out against my palms and I wonder if I could push them back in. I remember a time when my frame was covered with a layer of good, tanned skin that glowed and was healthy. I remember a time when I had a sister and friends, when I didn't fear a crack in the face for making soup the wrong way.

I remember a time when I knew who I was.

Angel comes back with a cup of tea. He brings it to my mouth. Tears press against my eye lids and fall in a salty gush down my cheeks. He forces me to take a sip and I gag against the sugar and milk. Rubbing my stomach soothingly, he lets more and more liquid drip down my throat and I swallow because I don't want to choke. But I don't want tea. I want the peace of a needle filled with powdered high.

“Angel…” I whimper helplessly and he takes my hands.

“We're going to do this,” he tells me firmly, his voice wavering with tears. “Don't expect me to stop, Buffy. I won't let you go this time.”

I know he's referring to my wedding. When he stood by and let me get married to another man. When he gave me away to someone else. “What if I can't do it?” I moan and he forces another sip past my teeth and red lips and the tisane is bitter even with all the things added.

He doesn't reply, instead covers me with a blanket. Chills ripple over my flesh and I shiver, tears still streaming from my watery eyes. Aching pains slice through my belly, like knives stabbing and ripping me apart. It's the ache behind my breastbone that makes me want to scream the most. It's constant, pain, pain, pain, travelling into my chest like a cancer, down to my elbows and making them swell with anger. Where are my drugs? Where is the peace? “Oh God…” I'm whimpering incoherently, shuddering under the blankets. “Please, Angel…get me something…please…”

He shakes his head, his hands stroking my hair, and I writhe against him, trying to get away. But he presses me to the back of the couch and keeps on caressing my forehead and ignoring my pleas, his eyes fixed somewhere across the room. “I'm going to throw up…” I groan and he picks me up, carrying me into the bathroom. With unsteady hands, I fall to the cool tiled floor and everything in my stomach comes up into the toilet. Angel holds my hair back and rubs my belly. I feel the blood between my teeth and my whole body shakes with sobs so great I think they will tear me apart.

The heaves stop after long moments, and I collapse against him. He takes a cool washcloth and wipes down my face and mouth, pressing some toothpaste against my teeth to clean them and remove the bitter acrid taste from my tongue. With weary eyes, I stare at the wall across from us as he rocks me gently on the floor.


I wonder if he's crying. I wonder if I'm crying. “I missed you…” I whisper listlessly, my voice barely recognizable, so small and strained.

His fingers stroke my sore and raw stomach tenderly. “I'll always miss you, Buffy,” he murmurs and I know what he means. I'm still not me, and he doesn't know if I ever will be again.

offered is advice to you, you left but I don't blame you
we're digging up the past to bury it one last time
I know there's pain inside, that truth, you just have to face it

next