The Letter

Some people devote their whole lives struggling to understand the complexities of the human mind. I am beginning to sympathize with them.

I suppose there are two sides to it, though. There is the side where comprehension of the mind’s innermost workings allows one to analyze others, and there is the side that allows one to analyze oneself. I would definitely fall into the category of the latter.

For three days I’ve been losing my touch, losing my connection. It feels like I’m constantly... floating halfway outside of reality. I’ve forgotten about Sunnydale and my life there, so much that when Willow or Dawn mentions it to me, I think they must be telling me scenes from a film. I vaguely remember having watched that film, and now it’s escaping me just who stood where and which line was said.

Of course I know enough that I’m not really going insane, at least so far as I know. Knowing... that’s the key, isn’t it. I’m the slayer, Dawn’s my sister, Sunnydale is a giant pit in the ground, and I haven’t seen Faith in one solid year. I know those things, they are permanently engraved into my subconscious and won’t abandon any form of collection I make, cerebrally. The feelings that should be associated with these connections? Entirely absent. It’s not at all like when I came back from heaven, and I felt as though I were ripped away from the eternal arms of God. It’s like one morning, three days ago, I woke up and felt like a character in a video game. A vampire slaying video game.

Ugh, vampires. Spike and Angel, those dumb pricks. I knew that they came to Rome to follow me around and most likely kill the Immortal, at least that’s what I heard from Andrew who is conveniently story-free eighty-four percent of the time. Of course, none of it matters now that Dawnie and I moved, and with some odd half a million slayers out working over the planet it has gotten nearly impossible to track down just one. I should know, I tried to find Faith for six months after she disappeared. Finally I gave in and admitted to myself she was either hiding really well, or dead. Maybe I didn’t admit that part to myself, but I can now. It isn’t quite as mind-numbingly painful as it should be.

I catch myself thinking about her again and shake it off. There isn’t much time for that when I’ve got duties and responsibilities to fulfill. Enter: the most obnoxious job in the world. I thought killing vampires was getting tiresome, but it is nothing compared to the chronic poison of being a mindless robot for government-funded social aid. Besides, at least with slaying I get to kill the bottom-feeding scum at the end of the day. Now that I have the pleasant privilege of filing legal documents for the finest citizens of Tucson, I wonder if humans truly are more evil than demons. Ninety percent of the cases I file are related to domestic violence and sexual abuse crimes. That’s what happens when you say “Sure, they have a high crime rate, that must mean plenty of brewing hellish and supernatural activity.” without realizing that vampires and demons don’t typically commit grand theft auto and larceny.

I take a drink of something hard. It tastes like rum, but it tastes like brandy. Maybe it’s rum and brandy? Alarming that I can’t even remember what drink I made myself, and it’s the first drink I’ve had all day.

If Willow, Giles, or Xander were here, they would probably scold me or lecture or plan and “intervention” or some other various device to get me up to their standards. As it is, Dawn and I are too busy to interact and there’s something surreal about that. More specifically, there is something surreal about having her tell me every few weeks; “we haven’t talked in days” and I think she must be right because she seems so serious, but I can’t figure this shit out. I remember nothing.

I think I’m the oldest a slayer has ever gotten... maybe. If I have, maybe I am finding out some sort of sick irony. If you live too long as a slayer, you lose your mind and kill yourself, or your brain degenerates and turns you into a vegetable (whichever comes first). It might be possible.

For drink #3, I’ve settled on champagne. Six months ago, I couldn’t drink it straight, so I made mimosas. Then this guy from work, Cliff, told me to mix beer and champagne with orange juice to make... I don’t remember what he called it. Now I’ll drink beer and champagne, or either one of them straight up. I am a slayer after all, I shouldn’t have any kind of weaknesses, including alcohol intolerance.

For drink #4, Dawn comes home. She is taking college courses, slowly but surely each time we come up with the tuition money. I assume that’s probably where she’s been, but it’s hard to say for sure.

“Hey Dawn, did you go to school today?”

She gives me a look like I’m crazy. I hate that look.

“No. BUFFY. I just took out the trash. How long did you think I was gone for?”

Whatever. Like I should know how long she’s gone for, that’s not my job. Maybe to protect her is one thing, but to get a stopwatch for every time she walks out the door and in again? Sounds like a job for a trained monkey. Which would also be a significant waste of cash just to hire and train the monkey for something so idiotic.

Apparently my non-answer inspires her to continue. “Do you even know what time it is?” Dawn shouts. For no reason.

“Yeah, it’s about seven... eight, maybe. I’ll go patrolling in a couple hours, it’s just getting dark.”

She stands there with her arms crossed and glares at me. Glaring, glaring, pounding her foot impatiently on the floor. I know by that attitude that I must have forgotten to take her somewhere, maybe give her a ride. Or maybe it’s time for Desperate Housewives? Who knows what kind of ridiculous shit that Dawn blows out of proportion just to get upset about these days?

She’s not budging though, and I’m tired of waiting. “So, what’s the problem?” I flippantly shoot back.

This sets her off. She paces around furiously for a brief second before getting in my face. “The PROBLEM, Buffy. Is that it is not seven or eight, and it’s not almost dark!” Dawn reaches behind her and grabs the curtains, ripping them back to reveal a rather surprisingly light looking hour. I wouldn’t have guess it, but those curtains are deceptively thick, and there’s no clock in the living room.

“Ok so it’s earlier than I thought. Big fuckin deal, Dawnie.”

“Yeah. It IS a big, fucking, deal.” She grabs my bottle of champagne off the coffee table and swings it around her like it’s in lunar orbit. “It’s ten thirty, Buffy. You are already hammered, and it’s not even noon. You think you’re a slayer? Like you’re so fucking tough all of the time? You’ve got a lot to deal with and you can’t handle it? Get over it.”

In a move I would later realize was ridiculous, I jump up rapidly to take her down and show her exactly what a slayer is capable of. But my ankle somehow catches on the coffee table, and I never even get within 2 feet of her, as I faceplant into the carpet.

While I’m laying there, somewhat fazed and unable to recover quite as rapidly as I may have liked, she drops the champagne bottle onto the ground next to my head.

“I’ve told you 100 times to fix this shit. It’s pathetic. You’re supposed to be the chosen one? I liked it better when you didn’t talk to me because you were too self-righteous. Now you’re... I don’t know what you are.” Dawn leans down and whispers right into my ear as I struggle in vain to push myself up. “You don’t want to listen to your little sister? Fine. I know you’ll listen to Faith.”

Two things occur to me before I black out. The first is that I probably had more than 4 drinks after all. The second is that if Dawn knew where Faith was all along, I will seriously break her legs.