Start Again
by Lucie
Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns it all.
Author’s Notes: Oh, and this aint beta’d. I’ve only just learnt what that actually means.
Feedback: Motivate me…

Lying on her bed, it did not take her long to melt into her thoughts. It never took long for her now, as her thoughts were really all she had. She had initially tried to change the situation for herself, but the last time she had been with anyone it had been a forced act committed by a desperate and very lonely girl. She hadn’t even expected a rush, but it came, similar to the first time she had ever taken a drag from one of Faith’s cigarettes. A cheap light-headed thrill that lasted no longer than a couple of seconds. It was the last time she had been with anybody, touched anybody, and that was over 5 months ago. However, she didn’t care. She was too lost in the haze of Faith, the sensation and experience that was Faith, the taste. She missed her so much that she had developed an ache, a consistent, very dull ache that resided somewhere around the top of her stomach. She didn’t notice it as an actual infliction anymore, merely a part of who she was. The fact that she had long ago forgotten the reason they had broken up also continued to bite, and she was forever restraining herself from boarding *that* bus, travelling to *that* city. She wished, begged towards the sky that she could meet somebody else, but there was never anyone who interested her enough to result in the simple act of asking for a phone number. She saw herself as a lost cause, a puff of Dunhill smoke that represented her former self. At the beginning (or the end), she supposed, it had been nice for a while. To be single again. She had visited a few odious clubs around the lower-East sides of various cities, mainly with Willow and Tara, although once or twice she had found herself throwing back the shots in the company of the big brooder, who refused to give her information on the whereabouts of her ex. She had, of course, flirted, but not too much, just enough for the guy, or girl (now more of a practice in her life) to reveal a little more of themselves to her. Slowly she developed her own personal revelation that the world of clubs held nothing more than Ken-dolls and sluts, each with their own arrogant conceptions of themselves. Fairly soon she made up excuses not socialise, preferring to stay at home in front of Saturday Night Live, or giving herself some extra slaying homework. Now, staking a vamp was the closest thing she had to an intimate relationship with anyone. And that was just fucking pathetic.

She stood up, the blood draining from her head so quickly that she had to place a hand on her dresser to steady herself. She had to stop this. She had to stop this. She had to stop. Glancing at the mirror her reflection told reinforced the thought – fine lines appearing on her forehead, cheekbones sunken in, hair dry and brittle (God, I love your hair B, the way it smells) seeing through eyes that had dulled, no longer flashing with life. The phone rang and she absent-mindedly picked it up, eyes fixated elsewhere.

‘Hello?’

No answer. Nothing.

‘Hello?’

As whoever was on the other line (it was Faith, IT WAS FAITH) hung up, Buffy realised she had been holding her breath, just for a second. She let it go, cursing herself on the pathetic futility of her hopes. Grabbing her jacket, she walked out of her room, making up her mind, well, half of her mind at least, that tommorow she was going to start again.

...to be continued...