Sorry bout that up there^ hehe.
Author: Gabsy (aka Gabbles)
Rating: G
Diclaimer: Taken from the concept of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and Fox and all those people. If they want to sue me they get the whole $3.15 in my bank account.
Feedback: Yes, please!! Would love to know any thoughts on this peice. Any at all. So please?
Summery: Set moments after the end of Season 7. It's form is a little strange but I hope you like it. It's short, but it just kind of came to me and I had to write it.
Blur and Slow
The scenery blurs past for some, and for others it passes achingly slow. Dry desert: crackling branches, red sand, sharp sun. Hurting eyes and making heads ache.
Silence echoes around all, down the aisle and back up. Reverberating against the windows, against the leather of the chairs, stretching against skin. Teenage girls blink, a few with tears leaving salt trails, the rest with blank faces, broken by the past events.
The unassuming looking girls ache with loss and with victory. The latter lasting only minutes, the former causing their hearts to clench and their stomachs to revolt. So many of their own lost, so many damaged from the site. A red-haired teen holds the head of a dark skinned youth in her lap, her hands stoking her hair continuously, giving strength while feeling as if she has none.
All are streaked with blood, whether their own or others, no one knows or wants to know.
A blonde sits at the front, staring out the window, loss mingling with her sense of pride at the accomplishment, her relief at seeing the town that had squashed her childhood swallowed and gone. A smile plays on her lips, while her eyes seem scared, lost.
A lanky brunette sits next to a man with one eye covered. His face is collapsed with his grief, his bare eye seeming lost, his shoulders hunched. He stares at the ground, not seeing anything. A shadow of a blonde woman can almost be seen to sit on his other side. The brunette is scared, unsure, not knowing how to help. So she sits, looking at her old crush, her new brother, searching for someone she knows to rise up from within him and tell her how to help everyone.
A black man lies on the seat along the back, blood shimmering on his chest. A sultry woman, with haunted eyes, sits on the ground, level with his waist, a leg stretched out. He sleeps, and she watches him, while also managing to watch the blonde at the front. She sees both, looking out for each, without either of them being aware. He sleeps, whether unconscious from the blood loss, drying on his shirt, or from exhaustion from too much, one can not know. But she watches, making sure his chest rises, that the rough bandage stays attached. The blonde stays within herself, her strange, small smile still playing on her lips, her eyes brimming with what looks like tears but can't be. And still the woman with such haunted eyes watches over from the back, separated yet always knowing what it is going on.
A red-haired woman sits midway down the aisle. A brunette sits at her side, yet the gap between them is obvious. The brunette has given up on trying to take the redheads hand, and instead watches the other new slayers with a look of near disdain. However, deep down, she hurts. She hurts because her fellow slayers hurt, she hurts from the days losses, and she hurts most of all because her one, flame haired lover can never love her like she had loved the one that came before. Yet she holds the look of disdain, not even aware of her own pain, and undoubtedly never will be; as to feel hurt and pain is to feel weakness.
The redhead sits pressed against the window, eyes staring blankly into nothingness. Her body is numb, the adrenaline from what she had achieved only hours before having seeped out, leaving something hollow. Something that had never been hollow only a year ago. She feels tears within her chest, yet there they stay, locked within herself. She feels the presence of the brunette besides her, but the girl is distant and almost unwelcome. She is not blonde, she is not blue eyed and she is not her. No one ever will be.
The pepper haired man at the front drives on, glasses askew, eyes steady on the road. Removed from the echoes of emotions swirling within such a confined space. He keeps the vehicle moving onwards, he keeps himself awake, he keeps his mind focussed. Yet he has no idea where he's going and what he should do next.
And so the scenery blurs by for some, and moves achingly slow for others. All grieve, all hurt, all feel some kind of relief. All fade into the distance, the setting sun blazing before them.
End.
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