Postcards From The EdgeWillow Hollowing
Oz, you're lying to me.
Willow wanted to say it to his face, but his face was averted. Stuck, as a matter of fact, on the stage of the Bronze. The band Shy was playing. Willow had heard Oz talk about them... a lot. In fact that was all he ever talked about: jamming, rehearsal, tunes and bass and music stuff; Shy is amazing, Shy is great, Shy is this and Shy is that. It was too much.
Oz, look at me. I dressed kind of sexy tonight. Look, no fuzzy teddy bears or quirky birthday cakes covering my chest. Simple black, low neck. Oh, and clingy tight. I'm accesible.
"Who's that?" Willow asked. She ran a painted fingernail over the rim of her cola glass.
Oz moved his head toward her. With some effort, he tore his eyes away from the performing band. "Hmm, oh that's Shy," he said. "I told you about them."
Willow sighed. "Feeling better?"
"Singer's name is Veruca," Oz continued, as though he hadn't heard her question.
Veruca, Veruca, my stomach-a-puke-a!
"No, I mean, you weren't in class today," Willow said loudly, trying to be heard above the sultry voice of the singer and the seductive tone of the band.
"What?" Oz finally looked at her, caught her eyes briefly. "I'm fine, I just had some things to do. Band stuff."
Why can't you tell me specifics, Oz? What can't you tell me? It's her, Veruca, isn't it? Are you... are you cheating on me?
Willow regarded the short blond performer. Veruca's woeful eyes weren't directed toward the crowd of the Bronze. Instead her gaze was fixed on one person. Her liquid voice sang to a special someone. That someone was Oz.
Oz look at me, please. Can't you talk to me? You're so distant. The rift is unbearable. If I tell you a secret, would you tell me yours? I won't get mad, promise!
A panic bubbled up inside Willow. She looked to Oz, saw that he was mesmerized and ensnared. Nothing seemed to get his attention. Her mind reeled with the possibilities that Oz had lost all interest in her. What if Veruca took her snuggle wolf away from her? The thought of it made her feel... it made her feel desperate.
Willow reached into her handbag. It was unlike her to carry one. She tended to just carry a backpack around, but it didn't seem to go with her classy outfit. She pulled out a postcard. She blinked at the front.
A group of four men sat, each wearing boulder hats adorned with gold starburst medallions and green and red feathers. Each man wore a long black scarf marked with wide spaced narrow strips of red, white and blue. Each man wore a cassock. Two held acoustic guitars in their laps, a third held a mandolin upright, and the fourth wore a set of wooden windpipes on a string around his neck. According to the postcard description, the men were a traditional Andean band.
"Spike sent me some postcards," Willow said to Oz, hoping the suggestion of danger would peek his interest, return his attention toward her.
He moved his head slightly, but could not bear to break his gaze from Veruca. "You should tell Buffy," he suggested.
In the turn of a second, Willow stood. She stood as a hollow reed in a wind storm, making a hollow noise like ghost wailing, but it was held deep inside. No one heard her. But she was sure that if someone blew on her, that wailing would rise from her.
"I'm going," she said.
Oz glanced at her. "It's early."
Willow swallowed the rise of anger that flooded the void within her. "Want to get a jump start on my psych paper."
If you can lie, I can lie too.
Oz nodded, but said nothing else. He returned to his unblinking gaze, returned to Veruca and her voice and what other silent promises she offered, and Willow swore she saw him sigh.
What is going on with you Oz? Am I losing you? Why do I feel like all of sudden there's nothing to me. Suddenly, I'm not worthy of your attention. Did I do something wrong?
Willow left quickly. She tried not to be too hasty in her departure, tried keep her tears held back, shoved her disappointment in her purse as she emerged into the cool night air. She saw a taxi parked at the curb and quickly entered the back seat. She didn't look back. Instead she looked at the postcard that she clutched. She looked at the Andean band, but all she saw was Shy. All she saw was their singer Veruca swallowing Oz whole, like a Boa Constrictor that had mesmerized her prey.
In front of her parents, the taxi stopped. Willow paid the driver and jumped out, anxious to get inside the house should any demons be lurking nearby. Not a single light was on. Her parents were still away on business trips.
She slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open. In the darkness, she closed the door, sealed herself inside and realized that, although she was safe, she was sealed inside another chamber of emptiness--the house.
Willow collapsed on the couch, her purse sliding from her lap onto the floor. She stared at the postcard again. The four men, with their dark complexion and hooked noses, the curl of their lips and the narrowness of their eyes, she realized they must be brothers. They looked cozy and comfortable. A family. The house around her was not cozy. It shed no warmth. She envied the men on the postcard.
She flipped the card over, regarded the postmark and her own pencil mark: "Rec'd wkend Nov 12". Then she read again the handwritten scrawl on Spike's latest correspondence.
Willow Rosenburg, 1213 Elm Street, Sunnydale CA
postmarked October 31 1999 - Caracas, VenezuelaNothing's on the inside. I swear there isn't! When Dru was around, she filled me. If I ever see her, I'll twist her head off, I will. There's a knocking around inside my chest. Sometimes it feels like it'll collapse. But when I was at a local festival, the music filled me. It helped me stomach the hollowness, you know, but then... I don't expect you'd understand. But when I come, I'll show you. I'll tear into you, pry you wide, and all you'll feel on the inside is me, slipping into every space.--S
Willow angrily wiped tears from her eyes, silently chiding herself for feeling so hurt over Oz's behaviour, for taking it so personally. But... but what if Oz was feeling empty? What if that's why he had been so absorbed by Shy's music? Wouldn't that mean that somehow she no longer satisfied his needs and wants, his desires. It would seem Oz had used her up somehow.
If Oz had used her up, than that meant she had nothing left to give. She too was empty. But she didn't want to listen to music. She didn't want to hear her thoughts anymore. She listened quietly to the distant wailing inside, as it turned inside her, twisting tighter and tighter.
She lay down on the couch, tucking the postcard between her arms and her chest, as she hugged herself. She closed her eyes and heard herself speak.
"I do understand, Spike. I'm not quite empty yet, but I'm hollowing."