Title: Asphodel

Author: trixie

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, they don’t belong to me- therefore, we all suffer;)

Rating: PG

Summary: Dawn in the aftermath of “The Gift”

Asphodel

I can’t sleep at night sometimes. So I toss and turn and in the morning, the

sheets look limp and wilted with effort. They’re starting to smell to, but I

won’t wash them, and I won’t let anyone else. No one protests. Giles notices

the purple smudges under my eyes but he doesn’t say anything. He’s probably

afraid he’ll upset me, which is such a laugh, since I don't see how that’s

even possible.

Everyone is scared of me. I can feel their fear. I’m the only Summers’ left,

and it’s funny. I’m not even a real Summers- not even a valid branch on the

family tree. I know everyone wishes for the other one to return… the blonde

one. But she’s gone, and I guess I’ll have to do.

Tara and Willow stayed over last night and we sat around and they talked

about her and I stared into space, wishing for release from this Hell I’ve

stumbled into. Tara’s gentle eyes pried me open and she murmured, “Dawnie,

do you want to go for ice cream?”

I just gazed at her and sort of giggled and then I rubbed my throat and

said, “No, no I don’t.”

Willow looked understanding and furious and sorrowful all at once and it

made me so sick I got up and went to the window. In my mind, I could see the

cemetery with her cold grave and I wanted to go there badly. I could see the

inscription carved forever into granite—… Devoted friend… She saved the

world…

She saved me- that’s the crux of it all. Spike said that to me once, but

after that, we stopped mentioning the day, and it was better.

He and I were sitting still in the crypt the other day, and his hand kept

shaking. It was ruining my concentration. “Would you fucking stop that?” I

snapped. I feel like I swear more now. I’m not sure why.

He answered blankly, “Stop what, Dawn?”

I sighed and curled up, my belly rumbling. “Nothing.”

We talked some more about nothing. It’s all we ever talk about. Never about

her. His lip would tremble if we did, and God, I couldn’t bear that. It’d be

like watching Giles weep. Which I had to. Willow told me that when she told

Angel, he fell to his knees and just stared at the floor. Just stared.

Willow’s eyes were hollow when she said that. He called the other day and I

was glad- somewhat- he always made me feel better in the past- and he

offered to come down, but I said no- and he never once said her name. I

think it hurt him too much. That’s fine, it hurts me to. Sometimes I want to

say it so badly I can taste it- and Angel probably feels the same way. My

tongue almost forms the Buhhh sound and then I feel vomit in my throat and

stop. It’s funny that two syllables can paralyze me. I would laugh about

it, but I don’t want to. I love her too much to laugh about anything to do

with her- even a simple thing like her name.

I still love her and miss her. I thought that would be too generic after the

way she died. But it turns it out, it isn’t. My chest stings from missing

her sometimes. I just want to see her. Her face. I guess I never knew, you

know. How much she really was my sister, how much I relied on her for. How

much I yearn to hear her voice. My lips are chapped and cracked cause I bite

them all the time to keep from screaming. If I actually let myself howl out

this grief- I’d drown. I can feel that I would- so I stay silent.

I’m looking at the sun right now. It’s bright against my eyes but I don’t

turn away. My head starts to hurt, but I keep staring. Moving my fingers

down my belly, then up to my ribs, I feel them poking into my palms and try

and remember the last time I ate. It can’t have been that long ago. When Mom

died, my sister didn’t eat for days. Her face got so pale that I got scared

and hugged her. I just wanted to make sure she didn’t disappear. She kept

her arms around me for a long time and whispered, “Dawnie, you’re not going

to lose anyone else. Not me, not ever.”

I could rage at her for filling me up with fairy tales and false promises,

and I do- sometimes. I get mad and yesterday I threw this little angel

statue she had in her room. I watched it shatter, but a shard cut into my

leg. Some of the blood seeped onto her carpet and I slumped down and thought

about crying. The eye of the angel stared up at me and I could tell it was

mad. How could you have broken me? it was saying, and I just shrugged. I

didn’t know how I could. If my sister was still around she would have done

that cold voice she did so well and picked up the pieces with her strong

fingers- and as I sat there, I waited, hoping she would walk in the door.

But she didn’t and I thought about crying again. Instead I cleaned the mess

up myself, cause there was no sister there to do it.

There never is anymore.

End

as·pho·del - In Greek poetry and mythology, the flowers of Hades and the

dead, sacred to Persephone.

From Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s "Sonnets from the Portuguese"-

As one who stands in dewless asphodel

Looks backward on the tedious time he had

In the upper life- so I, with bosom swell,

Make witness here, between the good and bad

That love, as strong as death, retrieves as well

Feedback is so damn welcome;) trixiefirecra16@hotmail.com