by Elizabeth M. Barr
A Faith story
NOTE: This is set between "Restless"
and "Buffy vs Dracula". No actual spoilers, but this will make a
lot more sense if you have an idea of what went on in those eps.
There *are* spoilers for Angel's "Sanctuary".
This isn't my first fanfic, but it's
my first set in the Slayerverse.
You are dreaming.
Alone in your small room (a cell,
really, but we'll accept the euphemism), you are stretched out on your
small, narrow bed.
Your face, devoid of makeup, is pale
and young. Once, you wore make-up as if it were warpaint, purple
eyelids, red lips, a beautiful hunting mask. But now, you hunt only
in your dreams.
Your eyelids flickers, your heartbeat
The hunt is on.
You run through a forest, reveling
in the strength that comes to you so easily.
Your prey runs faster, but it is
stupid. You will let it run until it is exhausted, and then move
in for the kill. Until then, you don't waste your strength trying
to outrun the prey. You can still see it. That's enough.
You lick your lips and taste the
slick, blood-red lipstick that signaled your intentions to any man who
saw them. The huntress is out for the night.
Your heart pounds, pushing adrenaline
through your body. The wind raises goosebumps on your exposed skin.
All of your senses are heightened. Like sex. Better.
There is a shift in the atmosphere.
A chill runs down your spine.
Your prey is gone.
Now *you* are hunted.
You continue running, faster, faster.
Adrenaline courses through your veins like fire, but there is no joy anymore.
You remember the trailer park, the boys who never understood 'No'.
It's still like sex, but you're not the one having fun anymore.
You run. A shadow flashes through
the trees, the hunter is getting closer.
You thought that being the Slayer
meant never being the prey. But then, you're the Slayer with her
own custom-made straitjacket. *There's* an item that Buffy never
tried on at the mall, never charged to her mother's account, never—
You trip, fall. A fatal mistake.
You're going to die.
The hunter's footsteps approach.
You look up to meet your death face to face.
Death is wearing *your* face.
No, realise. For the first
time you notice the blond hair hanging in your eyes. *You* would
never wear a floating dress with red cherries on it. That was B's
style, the faux virgin. You remember something you read once, the
Mother, the Virgin and the Harlot. Joyce, Buffy (hardly a virgin
– Angel dealt with that – but almost, with her upstanding church-going
boyfriend and pastel wardrobe.)
You understand, you aren't the prey
It's almost a relief.
You look into your face, its expression
concealed behind clay-like warpaint.
The weapon is raised, but despite
your self-directed anger, you are not afraid. This is the hunt.
Someone must die.
You wake up in your room (cell),
heart pounding, muscles aching. The primal instinct pulses in your
mind. The eternal hunt is on, and you are missing out.
Feedback and chocolate: email@example.com
Copyright © 2000 Elizabeth M.
Buffy ® is the property of Mutant
Enemy (grr, arrgh) and Twentieth Century Fox. No profit is derived
from this fan fiction.