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Sour Girl Authors Note: Set in the summer post Gift. Obviously not related to any of my other post Gift stories. This is a fairly dark look at Dawn. Title and lyrics from “Sour Girl” by The Stone Temple Pilots Rating: Hard R for language and disturbing imagery. WARNING: This fic deals with the subject of cutting. If this worries/bothers you, please don’t read. ~~~~~~ The rollercoaster ride’s a lonely one I pay the ransom note to stop it from screaming Hey, what are you looking at? She was a teenage girl when she met me ~~~~~~ She stares at the cigarette burning down to nothing in her hand. The ash flies from the tip, and a song her mother used to sing drifts through her brain. All we are is dust in the wind… Dust and carbon and shadows and ashes. Dreams and plans, family and friends. All the things that made her real, and all of them flowing away from her. You think you make the smart decisions. You think that every step you take is another step to growing up and growing away. Being a big girl. Cutting class because you could, because you didn’t care. Cute boys under the bleachers, with roaming hands and sloppy kisses. Stealing lipstick from the drugstore. A sharp razor when nothing feels real any more. You’re an idiot for thinking it, but eventually you can’t go back. Eventually it’s your life, and it’s all you have left, even if it’s not really living. Because slitting your wrists isn’t an option and you’re too young to drink yourself into oblivion. Late nights on the back porch, long days when you sit and stare at the windows, and hate the sun for shining. “Dawn?” Willow murmurs as she opens the door. “It’s time to come in now.” Dawn throws the burnt out butt on the grass, next to the giant pile Spike always seems to leave behind. One day she’ll actually smoke one. Right now she’s too busy contemplating the uselessness of everything. ~~~~~~ “Hey Dawn,” Tara says as she made breakfast. “How’d you sleep?” Dreams of dragons flying from portals, and men she trusted dragging her back to bad places or slashing knives across her stomach. Black and red, Spike falling from the tower, Buffy jumping into the portal. Silk dresses she doesn't want to wear, ugly little men in brown robes. “Great,” she says. “Like a baby.” And they don’t talk about the bad dreams and the demons, the scary places and the scars on her stomach. She’s heard that’s called coping. Getting past it all, pretending nothing happened. She calls it a giant fucking lie. And some day soon she’ll scream that at the top of her lungs, maybe the next time one of them glances at her and looks away really quick, like they’re afraid if they catch her eye she’ll fall apart at their feet, and they won’t know what to do. Or maybe they’re afraid if they look too hard, she’ll be gone and a giant ball of energy will be in her place. She can’t blame them; she thinks that same thing. It’s why she avoids all the mirrors. If she looks in them too long, or from the corner of her eye, she’s afraid she’ll see herself shattering. Just because it’s true, doesn’t mean she wants the proof. ~~~~~~ Spike’s the only one who isn’t lying his way through the summer. Spike’s been half a step from walking into the sunlight since the day Buffy jumped. He doesn’t though; she knows it’s because he has to take care of her. A promise he made. She tries not to be too mad about that. Tries not to think that if he hadn’t been asked, he’d leave her forever. She knows that in the end, it’s always going to be about Buffy. There’s still something familiar in her life. He’s always got this flask with him, and sometimes, when he’s had enough, he’ll let her have a sip, and chuckle when she makes a face at the taste. And after that sip, he’ll drape an arm around her shoulder and they’ll sit quietly. Maybe she’ll say something, maybe he’ll respond, but mostly they just sit there and think about Buffy. Think about her and never say her name. Spike doesn’t try to make her talk. He doesn’t fake conversation and pretend everything’s okay, because just like her, he knows that the world’s ended. It might still be spinning on its axis but there’s nothing left. ~~~~~~ Summer school. And English class. Funny, she’d always been so good at English, all the best compositions; the teachers said she had the greatest imagination. Scads of writing, journals kept since she could print, pages of looseleaf scattered around her room, all burned the night she found out she wasn’t real. Ashes and carbon; the things she’s made of. Nothing real. Nothing permanent. It’s all a lie, and isn’t she the budding Solomon? Why she knows who Solomon is remains beyond her scope. Falsification. Prevarication. Dissembling. Evasion. God, she used to love words. Now she’s barely able to force them out of her mouth, or onto paper. And the assignment, it’s so easy. Write a descriptive essay comparing someone’s story to something else, all that imagery crap she use to love, used to dig into like ice cream sundaes. But now the words won’t come; her imagination’s been burned away since the day someone cut into her skin to open a doorway to another world. She can’t see the correlation between a stupid play and the crucifixion. All she can see is the ground hundreds of feet away and her older sister who doesn’t really belong to her falling through the light and leaving her. Go towards the light Buffy… you selfish - something chokes inside her, and she stifles a hiss. She raises her hand to go to the bathroom. The teacher excuses her, and she snags her purse. Another razor, another scar like a hundred others and why the fuck doesn’t anyone see it? Why can’t anyone see she’s peeling herself apart? They probably do, and they don’t care. Why should they? She doesn’t care much either. She’ll give the assignment to Spike; he’ll scribble out something in his prissy old-fashioned hand, something elegant and beautiful, some pretty pack of bullshit she can recopy and hand in tomorrow. ~~~~~~ In the bathroom, in her special stall. Not the handicap stall, because anyone can look through that giant space and see what she’s doing. No, she likes the stall in the furthest corner, by the radiator, which always makes noise, even when it’s not actually supposed to be working, and covers up the little whimpers she can’t help when she cuts in the first time. She’s wearing a skirt; she wears a lot of skirts lately. Willow and Tara smile and coo and say she’s becoming such a little lady. Anya discusses colors with her and Xander tries not to drool when she walks by him, long legs showing. None of them get it. None of them get that the skirts let her spread her legs to make the cuts, or let some boy’s hand between her thighs. None of them realize that the skirts are just another way to hide while not hiding. Spike might, but she never wears skirts around Spike. She’s gotten used to being a hypocrite. Just because she wants to hide and not hide, doesn’t mean she wants him to figure it out. He probably knows anyway; Spike knows a lot more than he lets on. But Spike gets it, gets that the bloodletting is the only way to make it okay. Spike understands that she has to bleed, because bleeding makes her real. Blood only comes from people who exist. He has his own rituals of dealing; every night he comes by looking a little battered and worn, and Dawn knows he’s been beating the crap out of everything that crosses his path, and if nothing got in his way he’d just hit the walls. He needs to bleed too. He doesn’t mention the fresh cuts on her inner thighs or her forearms, and she doesn’t mention the bloody knuckles and black eyes. That’s real coping. She slides the razor against her leg, slowly at first. The first step is always the hardest. Pushing it in is tough, and she should probably use something sharper, but half the reason is the pain, because the pain reminds her of who she is. Whatever the hell that might mean. She inhales sharply, angles the razor and slices in. A gasp, a moan, and then the blood’s dripping in the toilet and pinkening the water. Still red, and it still hurts. She’s still here. ~~~~~~ She gets back to class before the bell. The teacher raises his eyebrows because she’s been gone so long and she mumbles something about girl problems. That always shuts him up, and he seems to conveniently forget she’s been on her period every day all summer. “Remember kids,” he says as they all file out. “No classes tomorrow. It’s Independence Day. Although I’m sure no one forgot a day off school.” A polite chuckle from the class; summer school kids are always polite, like they know they’re not the only ones getting screwed out of vacation. She hadn’t remembered; the days all bleed together into unsmoked cigarettes and reopened cuts and boys whose names she usually forgets, and the only way she knows she doesn’t have classes is Tara not waking her up in the morning. “Hey Dawn,” one of the guys asks her as they leave. Cory. Right, Cory. She remembers Cory. Cory from Janice’s party. Or something. And from the leer, he’s heard of her. “Can I walk you home?” “Sure,” she says with a shrug, knowing he’s not going to make it to her walkway. He’s not going to make it past the bleachers, because boys don’t ever walk her home. She won’t let them. She’s not going to give them the chance to walk away from her, so she just walks away first. She isn’t going to be Buffy. Her life isn’t going to be ruined by some guy. It’s already been ruined by someone else. They cross the football field, and she’s grateful he’s not one of the ones who always want to hold hands and pretend this is something other than what it is. They make it to the bleachers. Cory looks around nervously then ducks underneath, drags her along with him. And they’re the perfect high school cliché, two teens under the bleachers in the football field. Something almost normal, except one of them isn’t even real, and one day soon, some vampire will get a bite of Cory and he won’t be real any more either. But for now he’s kissing her frantically, and she’s got her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and they’re just like anyone else. For now she can be human, be fifteen and silly and pretend she’s in love, or at least in like, with some boy who can’t conjugate verbs. His hand slips between her legs and she grabs it quickly, afraid he’ll disturb the brand new scab. “Not today,” she whispers, and she moves his hand up to her breast. Lets him touch her, lets him kiss her and she pretends he’s Spike, and in love with her, not her dead sister. She pushes him away after a few minutes, grabs her books, stands up and straightens her skirt. “See you at school” she says as she walks away, even though she knows the next time Cory sees her, he won’t really see her. But that’s okay, because no one else does either. ~~~~~~ She’s not ready to go home yet, so she heads downtown. The day before Independence Day is so quiet. Everyone’s getting ready for the big celebration. There’s banners in the windows and flags flying from the streetlights. Everyone’s in the spirit. She heads for the drug store; she’s bored and wants to test her skills. She makes sure the flap of her purse is flipped back so she can slip things in easily. Check. She glances in a store window that hasn’t been painted; is her super innocent expression plastered on just right? Yep. Good. She strolls the aisles. Let’s see… they need toothpaste, definitely. Soap, shampoo, cream rinse, her favourite, slipped into the bag and out of sight. Hair gel for Spike, some of that incense Tara and Willow like, and none of them seem to notice that they never run out of anything. But it’s better they don’t know. She heads to the jewelry counter. Time for the real test. Glancing around furtively, she slips a godawful bracelet in the giant bag. Not like she plans to wear it, or anything. It’s just for the thrill, the knowledge she can pull it off. The clerk at the counter looks at her, puzzled, as she walks out without buying anything. She slips outside quickly, and stands near an alleyway, to see if this time she got caught. One minute… three… five. Safe and sound; she’s done it again. Sometimes people are blind and idiotic. Stupid world. Maybe she should have destroyed it. ~~~~~~ It’s the Fourth of July. Hooray for America, and maybe she should feel more patriotic, but it isn’t like she’s actually American. She’s pretty sure giant balls of dimensional energy don’t have countries of origin. They’re older than the concept of nationalism. More crap she knows and doesn’t know why. She stares out the window. Everyone’s ready to go see the fireworks, and celebrate Anya’s fake birthday, but she begged off, with a headache. Spike’s supposed to be here soon to watch her. She’s ready for him; a baggy pair of tearaways over her gym shorts, a long-sleeved sweater over the cuts on her arms. She hopes he gets here really soon, because they’re all sort of glaring at her out of the corner of their eye. Like they want to tell her to stop being a whiny brat, but they’re afraid it’ll break her or something. And she half wishes they would yell at her, tell her to snap out of it. She half wishes they’d stop treating her like some kind of fragile thing, and she knows it’s bad, because not even Anya mentions her awful behavior. But she’s also really glad they just leave her alone. “I’m here,” Spike’s voice announces from the back porch. “You can all be off, then.” Quick hugs and pats on the head, like she’s some kind of puppy dog, and gee, they’re all in an awful hurry to get away from her. Maybe they’re worried she’ll infect them with her unreality virus, and they’ll all end up energy. Like she could actually do that. Like she wouldn’t do it to herself if she could, become nothing but energy and just leave all this crap behind. Like she hasn’t thought about it constantly since the day Buffy died. Like she doesn’t wish she’d just disappear because she doesn’t have the courage to end everything herself. “They all gone?” Spike calls from the kitchen. “No one’s lurking about, making sure I don’t corrupt you?” “They stopped doing that last month,” she says woodenly. “They don’t care.” “Good,” Spikes says shortly. “Come on, Nibblet.” He walks to the couch, holds out his hand, and for a second she thinks she’ll take his hand and he’ll pull her against him and they’ll kiss passionately like those romance novels Buffy used to read before Angel left. The ones she used to steal and read, until Buffy died. But then she looks at him, really looks, and there’s nothing passionate in his eyes. They’re as flat as ever, as flat as they’ve been since her funeral. She puts her hand in his and he hauls her off the couch. “Put on a jacket,” he says. “You’ll catch cold.” She has all these questions, the big one being, ‘what the hell is going on,” but Spike’s expression isn’t leaving a lot of room for argument. So she grabs her coat and follows him out the door. ~~~~~~ “Can I ask where we’re going?” she says finally. A half an hour in the car and Spike hasn’t said a word. Nothing. Nothing since he told her to grab a coat. And while she usually likes the silence, she likes it on the back porch when there’s nothing to say, not in the front seat of Spike’s dilapidated old car while he chain smokes and glares at the road. He’s mad at her and he won’t tell her why, and it’s driving her insane. Which is nice, being driven insane by something so normal. Like before. “The beach,” he replies, flicking his fifth cigarette out the window. “We need to talk.” Oh goody. A talk. She loves talks, loves being told to buck up and put on a happy face, and try to make a go of it. Giles and his pep talks. She’s toyed with telling him about the cutting and the boys, just to see what he had to say. “Another fucking talk,” she mutters. “Great.” “Stop cursing,” Spike said. “It’s unbecoming.” “What?” she yells. “I can swear if I want to!” “You gonna tell me I’m not the boss of you next?” Spike asks, and there’s an edge to his voice that she’s never heard directed to her. It’s cold, and sharp, and it’s almost like the razors, only this one scrapes across her soul and not her skin. “No,” she mumbles as she curls closer to the car door. “I’ll just be quiet like a good little kid.” “Great idea,” he replies, ignoring the sarcasm. “We’re almost there.” A sharp spin of the steering wheel and they’re riding along the sand of the beach. They’ve reached the coastline. ~~~~~~ “Out,” Spike says as he turns off the ignition. “What?” she asks. “Out? Are you just going to leave me here?” Dawn’s not comfortable with the change in Spike. At all. What if he’s given up on her like everyone else? What if he’s tired if her mood swings and snappy behavior? What if he’s just done? She couldn’t take it if he was done. He’s the only thing left. “Why the hell would I do that?” he asks. “Don’t be so melodramatic.” He leans across her and opens the cubbyhole, grabs his flask. And that just pisses her off. “I’m melodramatic? Who ordered me into the car, ignored me for half an hour and told me to get out on a deserted beach?” Spike sighs. “Will you just get out of the car? We’ll sit on the roof.” He opens his door and steps outside. “You remember, Dawn.” And she does. She remembers the summer before last, the Summer of Spike, as she’d secretly called it. Buffy had been wrapped up in Riley, and she’d been home all the time with her mom. She’d hated it, being left out of going to the beach and hanging out with everyone. Stuck with her mom, how uncool was that, but now she’d give anything to have that summer back, to be thirteen-going-on-fourteen with a mom and a sister and a pet vampire named Spike who came by at night to hang out with her and drink her mom’s cocoa. She’d do anything to be that twisted version of normal again, even if she knows it hadn’t happened. A couple nights a week, when Buffy was staying with Riley, Spike would take her and her mom out to the bluffs. They’d sit on the roof of the DeSoto, her mom’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Spike would tell them about the constellations, his voice slipping into a smoother accent as he explained the myths behind Cassiopeia and Orion. It had been a great summer. A really great, really untrue, really never happened summer. “We never did that,” she says tonelessly as she stepped out of her side of the car. Spike shrugged. “So the memory isn’t true. Far as I’m concerned, it happened.” He stepped onto the trunk, held out his hand to help her up. “Come on. It’s nice and clear tonight.” And she should toss her hair and say something biting and sarcastic and mean, be the grown up she’s become since the last year, but he’s probably not interested in knowing just how foul-mouthed she can get. So she lets him help her up, and they settle next to each other on the roof. He drains the flask and slips it back in his pocket. She’s half a breath from asking him for some, but tonight doesn’t seem like a good night to push his boundaries. “So,” he finally asks. “How’s school?” And she laughs then. “Pardon me?” she asks. He took her all the way out to a beach on the Fourth of July to talk about… “School?” Maybe he really is hitting on her. Why the hell would he bring her out here to talk about school? “Yeah, school,” Spike says roughly. “How are your classes? Will you be held back a grade?” “No,” she says with a toss of her head. “I’ll be able to start tenth grade in the fall.” “Good, good.” Another long silence. Just as she’s toying with the idea of leaning over and kissing him, showing him what she’s learned this summer, he starts talking again. “Dawn. What did Buffy tell you on the tower?” She inhales sharply. So this is still about Buffy. He hadn’t dragged her out here because of her. No, it’s still her dead sister, and maybe she should be ashamed of how mad that makes her but she’s not. She has no shame anymore, it’s all been burned away in cigarette butts and scars. “Nothing about you,” she says cruelly. “She didn’t care about you, Spike.” And maybe there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes before they go blank again, but she can’t really tell. “I know that, Dawn. Your sis knew I could take care of myself.” He lights another cigarette. “She gave you all those orders for everyone else… what did she say for you?” “Nothing,” she says quickly. “She knew I could take care of myself too.” “Bollocks,” Spike says crudely. “What did she tell you Dawn? Eat at Joe’s? Do your homework? Don’t invite strange boys in the house, don’t take candy from strangers? What the hell did she say to you?” And he’s crawled across the roof, he’s right in her face now, cigarette tossed into the sand, he’s screaming at her, and she’s almost afraid of him, more afraid of him that she‘s ever been. “She said I had to live for her, okay!” she finally yells, shoving Spike away from her and trying to stop her voice from breaking as she remembers what Buffy said last, just before she left, like everyone leaves. “She said the hardest thing in this world is living in it and I had to do it for her!” “Really?” Spike snaps, eyes still hard and cold. His hand flashes to her pants, rips the buttons apart, and shoves up the leg of her gym shorts. “This what you call living for her, Dawn?” he roars as he exposes all the cuts, all the scars, all of it. “You call slicing yourself open living? Stealing shit from the store? Messing around with boys? This is your fucked up idea of life?” Her eyes collided with his as he said that. “Wha-” “You think I’m blind, Dawn?” he growls. “Think I don’t smell them on you? Think I haven’t realized that no one ever buys detergent?” He’s infuriated; there’s yellow sparks in his eyes. “Think I can’t smell your blood, Dawn? I’m a fucking vampire, or had you forgotten?” And maybe all the shame hasn’t been burned away, because she feels it now, feels all of it, all the boys and the thefts and the cuts, all of them pressing on her at once. And she can’t take it, she can’t do this, she can’t do any of this, so she scrambles away from him and swings her legs of the side of the car, jumping down. Shaky hands redoing the buttons on her tearaways, she doesn’t know why because there’s nothing to hide anymore, it’s all out and open, and this was what she wanted but it’s not. It just is not. Spike jumps off the car as well, circles it like he’s hunting her. “What the hell is going on with you, Dawn?” “Nothing,” she says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing…” she covers her ears, she won’t listen to him saying these things, nothing’s wrong with her, she’s fine, she’s still got it all together, she isn’t shattering, she’s still here. And strong arms wrap around her shoulders, pull her against him and she crumbles. She doesn’t cry; she’s forgotten how to cry, she thinks, but she collapses on him and he carries her to the car, lays her out on the front seat before closing the door gently. ~~~~~~ Back in the car, staring at the beach. “Tell me,” Spike says, softly, no threats this time. And she does, she tells him everything, about the nightmares and the razors, about being scared of the mirror and hating everyone who wouldn’t look at her, about getting him to do the homework and making out under the bleachers. “This has to stop,” Spike says gravely, and she laughs bitterly. “Really? Because here I was thinking I was doing fine.” She leans against the car door, traces her fingers up and down the tiny scratches in black paint on the windows. It’s coming apart too, you see. Everything comes apart. “I see through that, you know,” Spike says casually. “No need to waste your sarcasm on me, pet.” He lights another cigarette. “Can I have one?” she asks. He turns his eyes on her, raises an eyebrow. “All right, no.” She crosses her arms and pouts, looks at him from the corner of her eye but doesn’t say a word. He can’t make her. “Fine, we’ll start at the basics, as you don’t wish to contribute.” He glares at her. “No more boys. Got it? No more of that; I’m tired of smelling them on you.” “Like I care,” Dawn mutters under her breath. “They sucked anyway.” A sharp laugh from Spike. “They’re fifteen. What did you expect? Casanova?” He tosses the cigarette out the window. “As to the stealing… not going to stop you, Dawn.” She looks at him, eyes wide. “It’s things the household needs. I understand that.” So he doesn’t know about the tests, which is really, really good. They drive quietly for a few more minutes. She thinks about turning on the radio, but figures Spike has more to say. Since they haven’t brought up the whole bleeding thing and all that. “Why do you cut yourself, Dawn?” he asks quietly. She stares out the window. Why… isn’t that the big question? Everyone knows the where and the when and the who and the what and the how, but the real question is always - why? Her third grade teacher had taught her that, once. She’d said that every good story is about finding out the why. Dawn wonders for a second if Mrs. Stewart actually exists before turning to the problem at hand. Why do anything? Why wake up in the morning, why go to classes she falls asleep in, why rip off crappy jewelry she won’t even give to her least favourite people, why kiss boys who all bleed together and never even come close to making her stomach tingle like Spike does when he slips an arm over her shoulders? “I don’t know,” she whispers. “Of course you do,” Spike whispers back. “You’re the only one who’ll ever know. You just don’t want to suss it out.” “What, did you take a psych course in your down time?” she snapped. “Or did you just eavesdrop on some counseling session before you ate all the patients?” “Being defensive won’t make me stop,” he says lightly, and she could slap him right now, hard, right across the face. She could hurt him. She really, really could. Just pummel him and break him for pushing at her like this, for trying to crawl inside. But she figures that no matter how hard she hits him, Spike will keep asking, and she’ll finally have to answer just to get him to stop. And if she tries to walk away, he’ll outflank her, and if she tells him to shut up, he just won’t listen, because Spike’s not someone who backs away. All the cold looks and denials in the world won’t get her out of this. “It makes me real,” she mumbles. Spike doesn’t say anything, and she wonders if her even heard what she said. “It makes me real,” she says again, a little louder, a little more clearly. “As long as I can bleed, I’m really here.” “I see,” Spike replies. “You think you aren’t real?” “Oh, no, I’m real,” she says bitterly. “I’m just not Dawn Summers. I’m a real ball of energy that people use to open portals and kill people.” “And as long as you bleed, you’re still Dawn Summers, and you’re human?” Spike continues. “Yeah, something like that,” she says. “Except you don’t think you’re really Dawn Summers anyway.” “Um…” wait… where is this going? “Seems you have something of a problem on your hands,” Spike says coolly. “You don’t think you’re human, but you want to be human.” “No, that’s - ” but it kind of is. It’s exactly that. She wants to be the girl who sat on the roof of Spike’s car last summer, wants to be Mrs. Stewart’s star pupil and Joyce and Hank’s baby girl. She wants the life the monks cobbled together for her, wants it so badly she’s sure it’s never really going to belong to her. She sighs. “Something like that, I guess.” Spike chuckles. “Let me make something clear, Nibblet.” One long finger wraps around her chin, turning her face to his. “You’re who you are.” She pulls her face away from him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she yells. “I’m who I am? So what? Who am I?” And maybe the who is really the question today. Spike shrugs. “You’re Dawn. You’re fifteen and you’re a billion years old. You used to be a ball of energy, but now you’re a teenager who does stupid things because you’re a little twisted up inside.” He gets her chin again, makes her look. “You swear too much. You always cop my fags when you think I‘m not looking. You scream like a deranged chimp. You wear mini skirts that drive everyone insane.” She giggles a little. “You got lost, and I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry for that,” he continues quietly. “Spike…” don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry, it always means the world’s ending… she hasn’t seen Spike cry since they saw Buffy lying on the ground. He clears his throat. “But I am now. I won’t - ” he shakes his head a little. “I won’t let you get lost again, Dawn. We can fix this.” She wants to believe him so badly, wants to believe that she can just redo the last two months and go back to being a happy kid, wants to believe the world really works like that. She wants Spike to be right so much she can almost make it happen, can almost go back in her head and undo all the mistakes. But part of growing up is realizing you can’t go back, you don’t get a chance to fix everything. Ever. All you can do is just keep changing. But thinking things will work out for the best seems to make Spike happy, so she’ll let him have his moment. ~~~~~~ “Where are we going now?” she whispers. They’re back on the highway, heading back to Sunnydale, and she’s half a breath away from asking him to just keep driving, to take her away from everything. Keep going until they’re out of gas, and she’ll tease the convenience store guy into letting them fill up for free. And they’ll never stop, until they hit an ocean. And then they can jump on a ship, or something. Just keep going until they’re dead. “Same place as last year,” he murmurs. “We’re going to watch the fireworks.” “But I don’t - ” but she does. She wants to see the fireworks, make it like when she was little, watch the pretty colors dance across the sky and not be jaded and bitchy for a little while. You can’t go back… but maybe she can pretend for a little while. “You mean right underneath them?” she says, and she doesn’t have to fake the excitement, because that had been something. The scariest half hour of her life, as the fireworks exploded right above their heads and the sparks came thisclose to landing on them. Her mom had shrieked every time they went off, and Dawn had covered her ears and giggled madly. Spike had grinned at them both, cheered loudly when they exploded and been all swagger and pride when it was over. “Told you I know the best spots,” he’d bragged, and they’d nodded and laughed. “Course,” Spike says. “Where else?” and he spins the wheel of the car so they’re riding along the bluffs, much faster than last year, when her mom was in the car, and she’s screaming and laughing, and for a second she can pretend she’s Spike’s girlfriend and he’s trying to impress her, and not just cheer her up. He slams on the brakes, grins at her as she bounces on her seat. “C’mon Dawn. On the roof.” She scrambles up the trunk, settles on the roof and he flings an arm across her shoulders again. She wraps her arms around her knees and cranes her head back. And when the first one explodes, something inside her explodes too, something she’s kept clamped down. She turns in Spike’s arms, and bawls. Bawls for her lost life, and her dead sister and dead mom, and the little girl she killed with a hundred razor cuts and a dozen boys and a few million stolen items. She bawls for girl she killed when she set everything on fire and walked away from who she thought she was. And Spike pulls her close, lets her lay it on him, lets her pour the last two months onto his shirt and wash away the person she’s become. It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for her. Other Standalones Choose a Different Series 22 July 2004