Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, or anyone else on the show.
Author's Notes: Buffy's POV after.you know.< sob > Possibly the Prologue of a "Bring Buffy Back to Life Fic".
Spoilers: "The Gift"

"Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace... Part of you is desperate to know... What's it like? Where does it lead you? That's also a warrior's question. A warrior's curiosity. So you see, that's the secret. Not the punch she didn't throw or the kick she didn't land. She simply wanted it. Every Slayer has a death wish."-Spike, Fool For Love

So this is Death.

It's not what I thought it would be - not what I remember it as. Maybe it's because I was gone for so short a time before. When the Master killed me, it was like.like nothing. Like when you startle awake before you know you're asleep? One minute you close your eyes and then suddenly something makes you jump and you realize forty-five minutes have passed without your knowledge or consent. That's how it was the first time I died. One minute there was pain, and blood and water filling my nose and mouth, choking me, killing me - and then I woke up. Nothing in between. No afterlife. No white light. Nothing at all.

This time there's something anyway. Not a white light exactly-at least, not one at the end of a tunnel. No Heaven. No Hell.

No Mom. I was really, really hoping there would be Mom.

It's not a physical place really - I can't describe it, not in human terms, Earth terms. Flowers and dogs and kleenex, fire and chocolate hearts aren't really things that matter here. Not even blood, or flesh, or tears, or Keys. I don't have a body here, that I can imagine anyway. No hands. No feet. No ten fingers or ten toes. No eyes. No hair. No hips. No breasts. No mouth. No.Buffy. Not as I knew her. Me.

It's simpler without a body, a physical form - and so much more complex at the same time. My body has been my sourth of strength for so long. When my mind is weak, when my heart is failing, my body can always fight on. It goes the other way too, but.but it was a partnership. Now I'm all alone. I can't fight anymore - there's nothing to fight, and that's almost as frightening as the knowledge that I'm unable. I have always fought. It defined me, that ability to keep fighting. But there is nothing else here. Only me, and even I am.am what? A soul without a body? Is this my soul, this sense of consciousness. I think, I feel. I am. I cannot move - there is nowhere *to* move. This is not a place.

There is no time here. I've been here for a moment, for a year, for an eternity. Maybe Dawn is still standing on that platform, crying, reaching out her arms after me. Maybe she's married now, with children and a house. Maybe she's long dead, and her gravestone is covered with moss and crumbling apart and her great-great grandchildren walk by it sometimes, and remember that she was a little girl once. No, she wasn't.

This is Death. This non-place, this quiet. I am dead. I am alone.

In life, I was never alone, not really. I was always alone. I told myself I was the only thing I had; everyone told me that. In a way it was true - for a moment, a blow, a tear - and it helped sometimes to believe that. There was always someone though, behind me, with me. My mother. Giles. Willow and Xander. Anya and Tara and Oz. Angel. Dawn. I didn't realize how much I depended on them - truthfully, on *her* - until she was a gone. I began to know what loneliness was then. I didn't like it much.

I am alone here, but it isn't hard or painful. I have no challenges before me; nothing to fight. I don't need anyone because all I have to do is be, and all I need to be is myself. No artifice here. No lies, to myself or anyone else. No pretending.

I wanted to die. The truth is, I loved life. I loved waking up in the morning with sun on my face. I loved my pajamas and stepping into a hot shower, and washing my hair. I loved fresh OJ and cereal with just the right amount of milk. I loved having somewhere to go in the morning: school or training, or.or anywhere. I loved having a purpose. I loved the first minute of the day in which I saw my friends. I loved sitting down in class and understanding everything the teacher said. I loved new notebooks and sparkly pens. I loved sitting on a grass lawn. I loved sandwiches. I loved watching nighttime soaps and yelling at the characters. I loved candles. I loved the way the moon looked so big when it was just on the horizon. I loved how little kids in the park would dance for no reason at all. I loved Ben and Jerry's ice cream. I loved sparkly hair pins and skin moisturizer. I loved painting my toe nails. I loved cranking up the radio and singing along at the top of my lungs. I loved life. And I wanted to die.

Spike was right, as much as I hate to admit it. I wanted to know what it was like. I wondered.if my mother was okay. If it would be peaceful. I wondered.

I was tired, and I was hurt, and I loved my sister so much it hurt. I gave her the only gift I had left, but it wasn't just for her, it was for me too. It was a gift to myself. A gift of peace, of endings.

This is Death. This is nothing: no light, no dark, no noise, no silence, no heat, no cold. This is everything: me.

Or is it? Hehe, pulling out the cliché line...

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