I was alone, Falling free,
Trying my best not to forget
What happened to us,
What happened to me,
What happened as I let it slip.
I was confused by the powers that be,
Forgetting names and places.
Passersby were looking at me
As if they could erase it
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
I was alone,
Staring over the ledge,
Trying my best not to forget
All manner of joy
All manner of glee
And our one heroic pledge
How it mattered to us,
How it mattered to me,
And the consequences
I was confused,
By the birds and the bees
Forgetting if I meant it
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
And the Sex and the drugs and the complications
And the Sex and the drugs and the complications
And the Sex and the drugs and the complications
And the Sex and the drugs and the complications
Baby did you forget to take your meds?
I was alone,
Falling free,
Trying my best not to forget
-Placebo “Meds”
***
Silence is only broken by a few things, none of which are truly peaceful. Ordinary objects cause noise. A jangling of keys, the humming of a patient as they rock in their cell… they all force you to awaken, jar you from your sleep. As methods of disturbance they are inconsequential, but what they cause is the real problem. For some it compels them to counteract that clamor, try to restore their own peace if you can call it that. I hunger for those sounds of life but half the time I am sadly disappointed. What is the thud of footsteps walking down a corridor when compared to the purring of a vampire or the hiss of another demon? They become fake and empty.
My only comfort are their voices.
Willow crosses between a bright eyed teenager and the woman who channeled the goddess. Her voice is infectious, whispering of things we did, how she floated a pencil finally and so many others.
Xander talks to me of Anya. He mourns her in the way that I carry Spike’s loss around. It is ever present, a thick, heavy weight the size of a tombstone and inscribed with everything he ever said.
Giles never says his own name. Often it is just council, telling me how I should act, what to say as though he is my father. I’ve begged him to get me out of here so many times. Hazy details of him reveal a rogue like man with glasses that are constantly polished. I’m told not to believe those images. The doctors say that they aren’t real.
Dawn never says anything. She only cries.
Pain seems to be the only way I can escape hearing her. It makes me think I’m weak for considering my psychiatrist. They all badger me not to give up, but then they aren’t faced with three walls and a pane of clear glass which cannot be broken no matter how hard I try. My fist smashing into the wall only causes a dull thump which really isn’t all that satisfying. It blocks them out but other than that it is useless. I know they are still there, waiting and reminding me. Not even knocking myself out fully halts their monologues. I’ve tried it a few times just to make sure and can certify that ‘practice doesn’t make perfect’.
It just drives you insane.
Though technically that would be considered only more insane for me.
They clothe us in sky blue as though it creates a calming effect. Straitjackets are white, though have been stained with blood and the odd spurt of drugs onto its clean fabric. It is almost sickening the way the yellow sedative dribbles down the front, but it’s always better than when it’s clear. When you can’t tell how much they’ve injected it becomes utterly frightening.
The straitjackets ironically always feel incredibly soft, comforting even. I like to imagine that they become arms which wrap around me. It facilitates a nice daydream in a place which does not allow interaction except for those who are made up. And yet for all their smiles I hate them far more than I ever did the Master, or Glory or Adam. They knew what they were doing was evil and delighted in it. There was a purpose to their maniacal laughs and love of the ‘apocalypse now’ theme. These people have a hidden agenda. Somehow the nurses, orderlies and ‘doctors’ who tend to me have risen above that kind of demonic code, thinking that their evil is a more perfected form. If there was one thing I could never stand it was being held against my will. Air and not being locked in long corridors of grey seems just another part of my ‘hallucinations’. The sky above would be a sight indescribable.
The orderlies say that the colour blue brings out the contrast of my hazel eyes. I just roll them back in irritation. Talking back would cause them to mark me down as confrontational.
If they only knew.
I want to grab hold of them, tell them that they are wrong. Maybe shake some sense into glassy eyes which reflect back my pale face.
“I saw Spike burn to ash. I lived on the hellmouth for seven years. They are real!”
It’s all ignored.
I can feel the itch to scream those words traveling up my throat and running down along my arms whenever they are near. I used to beg them to call Xander, Willow or Giles, hoping that they would. The doctor humored me and pulled out a phone book. They weren’t listed.
I’m starting to believe that it really is all some fantasy that I made up.
In a way that’s kind of easier to deal with. Sad crazed Buffy seems on the whole to be a lot less whiny than the Chosen Buffy that I have recollections of. I wonder whether anyone else thinks that…
The only regret I have is that if everything I have lived is not real then Spike is fiction: a character. The irony that I never noticed him after my stint in heaven except as someone to abuse has never been worse. What’s even more horrible is that despite the idea that I made him up, I still love him.
And he never believed me.