Postcards From The EdgeAlabaster & Cherry
Slipping the tarnished key into the front door of 1213 Elm Street, Willow quickly stifled the pang of sadness as she stepped over the threshold of her parent's home. That's the only way she could describe the house now - her parent's home. Somehow it seemed empty to her, as if it was no longer hers - the place in which she grew up. Inhaling a yogic deep breath, she pushed thoughts of Sheila and Ira Rosenberg from her mind and thought about Joan of Arc.
Closing the door softly behind her, Willow made a mental list:
Chain mail. Check!
Helmet. Check!
Leggings... Leggings? Hmmm.She would have to rifle through her old clothes to see what she could find to authenticate her Halloween costume. As she scooped up a bundle of mail, she wondered if bringing a medieval French war banner would be overkill. But her thoughts drifted.
Emptiness washed over her. The hollowness of the Rosenburg residence was particularly strong today. Willow longed for a sense of home, and only saw what she once had. She couldn't stay long. She couldn't bear to. Tossing the mail onto the nearby table, she darted up the stairs to her bedroom. Glancing around, she wondered just how much of her belongings she could drag back to the dorm. Maybe if she called Oz?
Oz. Thoughts of Oz warmed her through. A recent bout of love-making seemed to have rekindled communication between them, as well as a certain passion. Though Oz still spent a lot of time rehearsing with the band, their time together could now officially be called quality time... having love time. Willow smiled at the twinge in her abdomen.
She shook her head and laughed to herself. Her feelings of abandonment by her parents receded. She was being silly. Slowly, she turned from her bedroom and mentally scolded herself for being so childish. Thoughts of Oz consumed her, and it felt as if she floated down the stairs. Thoughts of Oz disassociated her from the dusting of furniture and watering of plants. Not even mundane chores could stop the warmth that flooded through her. Dreamily, she grabbed the mail and began to sort it.
Bill. Bill. Bill. Letter from the American Psychology Association. Another bill. Renewal for Psychology Today yearly subscription. Vote for your congressman flyer. And a postcard.
Willow's heart thumped in her chest as she regarded the picture of two ornately costumed women standing side by side. In cool white frills they gazed expressionless, their faces unseen by masks: one mauve, the other ivory. She'd seen the lifelessness of a mask before. A spray of red paint nearly obscured the visage of one of the women.
Willow closed her eyes, heard only the rush of blood through her veins. It had been close to three weeks since she received his last postcard. With the passing of every weekend and no postcard, she grew more comfortable - relaxed a bit - concluding that the novelty of tormenting her all the way from South America had somehow worn thin in Spike.
She was proud of herself for not running to Buffy after receiving the second one. It made her feel independent, the decision did. She loved Buffy, she always felt so indebted to her best friend for bailing her out of dangerous situations. But the indebtedness hung heavy like a chain around Willow's neck, as she was sure that her physical weakness weighed heavy as a burden on Buffy.
What could Buffy do anyway? The threat was a psychological one, not physical. Buffy would poo-poo the postcards and tell Willow not to worry about it. But she would worry. She always worried about things. Worry was Willow's middle name. And now she worried that she had underestimated Spike. She worried that if she went to Buffy now, her best friend would question her about why she kept quiet about the first two postcards.
Spike was a large thorn in Buffy's side, but that was all. Spike, to her, was something you swat away like an annoying gnat. For Willow, he was broken glass in the face and an epiphany. Actually, more like a lot of epiphanies. Life is short. Live life to its fullest. Celebrate life. Live! Because once your dead, that's it. Yet, when gaping at the serpent-like eyes and gleaming white fangs of Spike when he had abducted her, something tickled at the back of her brain that thought too much. Death wasn't the end! If you were one of the lucky ones who weren't turned, it could be a reprieve from life, but that was all. At least Buffy had a fighting chance against Spike. That would be enough to give Buffy the confidence to deal with his psychological warfare. Willow on the other hand...
On the other hand, held a third postcard. Silencing the panic in her mind, she forced herself to breath deeply. Opening her eyes, she bravely flipped the card over and read the cramped yet familiar scrawl.
Willow Rosenburg, 1213 Elm Street, Sunnydale CA
postmarked October 16 1999 - Cayenne, BrazilA spot of fun the festival's been. Met a girl there, all alabaster & cherry beneath her lace-frilled mask of porcelain. Reminded me of you, she did - doe-eyed & quivery, just like before. I pressed thorny buds into her nakedness, listened to the pop of flesh as the points punctured her smooth belly. Blood dripped everywhere, trickled in lazy rivulets over her taut nipples, pooled in the deep naughty places. The scent was scrumptious. Her screams, a cacophony of agony. The vision of her, a glorious sacrifice. But, when I had done, the blood & roses bled together into a river of crimson. In the end, it was a bloody mess... literally. Suppose I'll have to practice killing you on another. --S
Flipping the card over, Willow regarded the strange Brazilian women in her trembling fingers. Guilt chilled her. A woman had been brutalized and murdered because she bared a resemblance to herself.
Willow's cheeks burned. A tear crept from the corner of her unblinking eyes. Tumbling down, it splashed the postcard with saline dread. The splatter of the tear struck a familiar chord in Willow. She gazed at the postcard, noted the splatter of red paint and realized...
Trembling fingers released their hold. The postcard, along with the mail, fluttered to the soft plush carpet. Breathlessly, she regarded the pale of her fingers and the flecks of red that dotted her smooth fingertips and knew...
With intuitive certainty, Willow saw that literally the blood of the dead woman was on her hands.