Chapter One - The Key
Wanings: Suicide, character deaths (plural) and sex. The pairing is Spike/Dawn - Rae told me she wanted a fic in where everyone died. Like a good girl I obliged her. Chapter One - The Key
Dawn stared at the mirror. Was she real? They said that she was real. They said that she many things: a sister, a daughter, a friend, a girl. Not just a key. Not just a made up memory, or a fragment of an implanted dream.
But who was she? What was she? Why did the monks create her, and why in this form that caused her so much pain? Was she created for the sole purpose of being the Slayer’s sister, of always being dependent, always afraid, and always scared that they made her wrong?
It wasn’t right. She wasn’t right.
Dawn stared at her reflection. Why did everything hurt? What was it about herself that caused everyone pain? All her friends, her so-called family, they didn’t really know what it meant to be the Key. They thought she was created for protection, but if that was true why was she given this weak form?
She knew the secret, her secret: the true meaning of her life, of her death, of her purpose for being in this world. She was the Key; she was created and put in form. Not for protection, but to bring pain, to bring destruction. She would be a force of nature, ripping apart dimensions, or lives that she thought she should hold dear.
She refused to be weak, refused to be constrained by this body that she was given. She hadn’t asked for this pain, she never asked for suffering, she never asked to be put in a form that was weak.
She could feel the pain well up; the suffering, the fake memories taunting her, any real memories lost forever. She was trapped. Trapped in a world that didn’t want her, with people who thought she was a burden, weak, young.
Why did they do this to her? What did she do to deserve this? Pain crashed into her, hounding her, tormenting her.
Was she real? Was anything real? This world, her memories, the life that was given to her… would one day she awaken to find it was a dream. Or worse, awaken to find everything unchanged. That she was still in this world. The Key, created to destroy.
She toyed with the razor blade. One stroke and her blood would flow. If she died, what would the Key be, what would she become? Would her blood open portals? Would she not exist? Would she become nothingness, to find relief in the silence that was the void?
But she was afraid.
Not of dying, but of living. What if the pain never stopped? What if she cut herself, if she watched the blood drip down her wrist, watched her life fade away and then awoke with nothing changed?
What if this was hell? What if she had to live knowing that everything was her fault and everything she touched would wither, die and fade away?
She longed for peace, the silence that nothingness would bring. That was why she hesitated. Not because she was afraid to die, but because of the fear that even in death she might fail.
Moments passed. A lifetime of memories floated around her. It was lies. Always lies. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes. Could she take the chance? Would she?
Dawn stared at the razor blade. It was beautiful, a compact package that promised release. She thought about everything she read, everything she researched and smiled at the irony. Who would have thought that the ones who hurt her the most would have proved most useful? She learned from them the value of research, the need for it and applied it to her own death with precision.
There would be no second chances. There would only be release and a fevered hope that it would be the nothingness she sought. The Key was meant for destruction and pain. It was her purpose, her fate. Who was she to deny her place in the world?
She was mesmerized. The razor beckoned. She couldn’t be rash. She had waited until she would be alone. Everyone was gone. They were off doing adult things, dealing with Buffy’s death, too tired, too angry to comfort a fake memory. She should have the house to herself for at least six hours. It should only take two.
She ran the water. How hot could she stand it? How hot could she make it? She lighted a few candles: vanilla. It would comfort her and see her out of this world. Some music and Jack Daniels to ease the pain, and remind her of Spike. She had researched well. She knew how long it would take and what would help: water, booze, music and the blade.
She wanted the pretty razor. Wanted it for the statement it made, wanted it for its delicacy. It was the one thing she wanted, yet she couldn’t have. It was too small, too delicate, a statement yes, but a cry for help. She needed more.
Sighing she put away the razor. The symbolism was fine, but not if there was a chance it wouldn’t work. She had stolen a blade, a beautiful dagger from the Magic Box. It seemed almost profane to dirty the blade, but it would make an impact as well: beautiful, deadly, and final.
She gasped as she stepped in the tub, so hot. She took the first swig of whiskey and almost gagged, so bitter. The acrid burn at the back of her throat made her wince. She elevated her legs on the rim of the tub and picked up the knife. She cut with as much force as she could put behind the stroke. One long cut up each of her forearms. No wrists, not for her, not for this.
She watched as the blood spurt out of her arms, so shiny and red. No portals opened, no hell-gods watching, no angels weeping. She would pass from this world, alone and unwanted. Leaving behind her a path of destruction, Spike would be so proud, he may have killed two Slayers in fights, but she had killed one purely with her existence.
Dawn sighed as she started to get cold. She wondered if it was the water temperature cooling or the effects of losing so much blood. She giggled as she realized she was kinda disappointed that she didn’t open a portal with all this blood. Was this what being drunk was like? She felt light-headed and rather sleepy.
Her eyes fluttered shut, hopefully it wouldn’t be long now, she would return to nothingness. She wouldn’t be the Key, wouldn’t be Dawn, she would be nothing.
She was so tired.
And internally she began to wail. Why hadn’t they noticed her? Why couldn’t they have accepted her? Not as sister or mystical key but as Dawn. As a human being, as a friend, perhaps one day as someone’s lover; to them she was death, she was destruction and now she would be nothing.
She was fading. Then she was confused. The music was gone. The water was receding. She felt arms, cool against her skin.
She fought, she couldn’t live. She wouldn’t live. She was dead, she had to be. She couldn’t face this world.
She felt the pain of fangs slice into her. She was saved.
Sighing she felt the first drip of blood in her mouth.
Tomorrow she would wake and they would know her pain.