Misery. Agonising and eternal. A dagger in the heart, a tear in the eye. Words could not describe the torture. Pain. Overwhelming and inescapable. Angered questions and wild confusion. “Why did this happen? Why?”
The silence was painful to listen to. No laughter, no shrieks of excitement. Silence. Would she rather hear sobs and screams? Possibly - nothing was more uncomfortable and awkward than the deathly silence.
From the exterior of the house, muffled noises could be heard. The impatient honk of horns on the chaotic roads, the dirty, worn tarmac was completely covered in screeching cars, much like bees huddled in a hive. Footsteps stamping on the pavements could be heard. People hurried to work, school, wherever they were wanted. She did not hurry. There was nowhere she was desired.
Her whole life, everything she was, was trapped in the small, compact bedroom in which she hovered. She did not sit, she seemed to have lost the ability to bend her limbs. Her body was as stiff as a corpse. She would have liked to lie down and never awake, but she could not muster the strength. So instead she stood, and she stared, and she cried.
How long did she cry? Tears cascaded down her face, joining together and splitting apart. Down they trickled to her sharp, defined chin then they dropped, falling through the air and exploding onto her collar. She made no attempt to wipe her soaking eyes or dry her damp clothes. She gulped from air, shallow frequent breaths as she had difficulty breathing. She did not panic, simply let the tears fall and the misery ooze out from her soul.
She had once been a very beautiful woman, adored by many and admired by all. They had called her “Princess,” and she always felt special. Now there was no one holding her and whispering sweet nothings in her ears. No one complimented her anymore, her looks had been washed away by the floods of her uncontrollable tears. Once full of life, she had flaunted her voluptuous figure for all to see, now she kept herself hidden under prim, reserved clothes. Skirts that lapped daintily at her ankles, blouses that were cautious to show no skin. Wrinkles had crept upon her, ugly creases lined her spoiled face. Her hair, unwashed and matted, once a stunning shade of blonde. Now dark, ash blonde roots stained her parting and her hair hung as limp as a drowned kitten. She was a young woman of twenty-one but she looked far older. She did not have the heart to make an effort with herself anymore. What did it matter if she was beautiful or not? Somehow it seemed disrespectful to make herself glamorous and parade her flesh, as if mocking those who were rotted to the bone.
She was all alone. Not just in the bedroom, but in the world. Her only family, her only reason for living….gone. Was there any point of carrying on? She had given all the love her body contained and it still was not even to keep those she loved close to her. Was there any point of loving anyone? Life was far too unpredictable, death so horribly inevitable. She could cry all the tears she could muster but nothing could return her dear one to her. Death, she could not prevent or avoid it. It stalked her through the night, she was its victim, its prey. She was destined to suffer. Her darling little sister, grown into a fine, young woman, snatched away after within minutes. Found lying on the cold, damp pavement, two sharp holes drilled into her neck, deep and dark red blood trickling down her neck. All of her life, her soul, dribbled out of her by a soulless, heartless vampire. How could this have happen? Buffy was always so careful to protect her from the evil, monstrous creatures of the world. Dawn must have been hurrying home, desperate to meet her curfew. If only she could turn back time, Buffy would have made it so it was bleeding to death on the ground.
Buffy glanced around the room, breathing in the atmosphere of dirt, dust and despair. Her eyes were drawn to the wardrobe near her. The door was slightly ajar. Such a wonderful, sturdy, strong wardrobe it was, made from the finest oak for the finest female. The disorder of the open door disgusted her. Everything had to be perfect, she decided, closing the wardrobe door suddenly, a bang echoing through the house. Temptation then got the better of her, her fingers, frail and pale slip into the grasp and with a dramatic gesture, the door was open and clothes were revealed for all to see.
She always took such care of her belongings. Clothes, crisply ironed and neatly placed on hangers. Ordered by colour, a dazzling rainbow. So bright and beautiful. It did not belong. The colours were too pleasant, so loud. So disrespectful. So with another loud bang, she slammed the wardrobe shut and turned from it.
Her eyes travelled to the window, it was winter outside. Children would be waiting excitedly for Christmas, dreaming of snow, Father Christmas and lots of presents. She had no one to deliver gifts to, and no one would treat her with a gift. She could not celebrate the season, never again would she smile about Christmas. Winter was when death had struck and winter would forever be the season of misery and regret. She studied the window carefully. The arms of a broad tree were just visible. Her sister had loved to climb that tree, always sporting a smile she would clamber up the branches without a care in the world. Was she happy where she was? Was she in a place far better than the world we live in where she could climb trees to her heart’s desire, dance and sing and spin and feel purely content. Or was she lonely? Missing Buffy like Buffy missed her? Did she regret not saying goodbye?
Bloodshot from many tears spilled, her eyes were as grey as the winter sky that could be seen from the window. Sullied beige curtains hung limply besides the glass, when was the last time someone had drawn them? The walls had once been a pretty, misty, pale blue but now dust had settled and a filthy, grey fungus hovered over the walls. She had never known dust to settle so quickly - almost as if it knew no one would ever sleep in that room again. The room would be locked indefinitely. Preserving the memory of her darling sister. No one would rest on the comfortable, soft bed with its colourful, shocking pink covering.
No one would brush their hair in front of the polished mirror upon the dressing table. No one would polish their nails with the collection of shades in a book upon a shelf. No one would paint their face with the items upon the dressing tables. Preserving the memory, a photograph of misery and pain. Frozen in time - she had never left them. She was still in her bedroom, playing with her make-up, brushing her glossy hair. She still lay on her bed, twiddling her hair and gossiping to her friends about boys. Laughing hysterically, smiling broadly. She was still there, she had not gone.
If she had not gone, how come the room felt so empty? Belongings everywhere, posters of the latest Hollywood hunk plastered to the walls, photo frames upon shelves, framing smiling teenagers. Again they had no cares in the world. Little did they know the agony they would face in a few short months. There was her Dawn. Beautiful. So beautiful. Her hair had been so silky and straight, it hung over her shoulders like a cape. She took such care to brush out every knot. It had been her pride and joy. They said she could have modelled with that hair. Now what was going to happen to her glorious locks? They would slowly but surely decay, imprisoned in a coffin along with the body of a child.
There was little left to observe. An painfully bright, sharp pink, overflowing rubbish bin, paper crumpled in frustration lay around the bin. What a debate there had been when Dawn decided she wanted to mature and behave as an adult. Her cuddly toys dismissed, her childhood books had been rejected and sent off to jumble sales. All the things that made her a child, still the little girl she had once been, were removed and forgotten. Some things can be removed, but when love still remains, they will never be forgotten.