It's funny, actually. All I do is sit here bleeding all the time. I've become nocturnal, like the vampires now. Like anything that's evil. It's hard for me to keep track of the days, so each night when I wake up, I carve another line into my arm. Twenty straight, even little slashes running from the end of my wrist almost to my elbow. I keep waiting for monks to come and scoop up all the blood; to pour it into the hole by the bucketful and close off the other dimensions. Or maybe the knights will come, and smear my blood on their swords, as a trophy. Or Glory, laughing and bathing in a tub of it, licking it off her fingertips like sticky candy...

No. No one cares. It's not worth anything anymore. Once upon a time, there was a girl whose veins flowed with gold, and everybody wanted to have her all to themselves... But it turned out it was only fool's gold, and then nobody loved her anymore.

Summer is here and the velvet is like a fur coat. I wonder if you can die from overheating? Probably. There are a lot of ways to die without involving blood. But those all seem like such a waste. It has to be about blood. It always is.

They hate me. All of them. I can see it in their eyes. They come in and look at me, and touch my hair and offer me food. All except Giles. He sits in the livingroom and drinks a lot. He can't look at me. He blames me. I'm the one that shouldn't have existed in the first place. I wasn't human, a hero, a martyr to the very end. I was expendable. It should have been me. I know that.

Today is twenty-one. I lift my arm and press my nail into the flesh, dragging it across as hard as I can. Back to the beginning and across again. Deeper and deeper until blood reaches the surface. Priceless blood. Worthless blood. Borrowed blood.

Because none of this was really mine to begin with, anyway. It was all Buffy's. Buffy's house, her life, and her blood. She gave it all to me. I thought she was taking care of me when she jumped. The only reason I didn't barrel right past her was because I thought it meant something to her. To protect me, her sister, with everything she had.

I know now that's not true. She wasn't protecting anybody. She was taking the easy way out.

You have to be strong. Dawn, the hardest thing in this world... is to live in it. Be brave. Live. For me.

Yeah. It is hard to live in this world. So she chose not to. She didn't save the world, she committed suicide. And she didn't protect me, she banished me to a life that isn't my own and the company of people who don't want me.

The dress smells strongly of sweat and ash. I can't stand it anymore. I stand up and pull the dress off, then look in the mirror. My body looks emaciated, the way Buffy's did in the last days before Glory got me. Wasting away to a thin shell. My hair is stringy and dirty, the ends still stiff with blood. That long hair that Buffy used to comb her fingers through, that used to be so soft. It was always a hiding place, a curtain to protect me when things got tough.

Suddenly, I hate my hair. I look around, my heart pounding. I feel crazy. Lost. I can't see myself anymore with all this stuff in the way. Scissors, I'm holding scissors and cutting it off. I cut all the way around my head, long brown locks falling to the floor, forgotten before they even reach it. Now I'm standing in a pile of my hair, what's left of it on my head reaching halfway down my ears. It's gone. That makes things easier. I'm calm again. I lay back down on Buffy's bed, curling my body around the dress and clutching it tightly.

Anya comes in this time, lingering in the doorway in hopes that I will tell her to just go away, so she can do so guilt-free. I say nothing, and so she steps inside, shutting the door behind her. She approaches slowly and sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me.

"Do you want me to wash your dress?" she asks quietly. "I can clean it and give it back to you." I clutch it tighter. No. You can't have it, it's mine, it's the only thing that was ever really mine in this whole world. Mine.

"I know you don't like me very much... Or at all. But, um... For what it's worth, I don't think it's your fault. Humans are delicate creatures, and when bad things happen to them, a lot of times they give up." I look up at her, into her eyes. She's living a borrowed life too. She should have died over a thousand years ago. "But Xander, Giles, Willow-they need her to be their hero. Everyone has to look up to someone, and for them, that's Buffy. If she's not a hero, then everything they know is wrong. That's why Giles drinks all the time, and Willow can't stop crying, and Xander won't talk anymore. They didn't just lose a friend-they lost their idol."

I sit up and look at her. "They blame me."

"Who else is there? They can't blame Buffy. They don't understand." She stands again. "Being human is a lot harder than it looks," she says quietly. She looks at me for another minute, then leaves, closing the door behind her.

I glance down at the dress and run my hands over the torn, stained velvet. I stand and pick up a framed photo of Buffy and I off her nightstand. Was it real? Was it fake? I can't remember. It could have been taken after the monks made me. But even then, I don't think it would be real. Because I'm still not. Is it even real blood?

I clutch the photo tighter, fighting back the tears in my eyes. My hands go weak suddenly and the frame falls to the floor by my feet. I leave it and glance in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot. I haven't slept in I don't know how long. Even before that, I never slept a full night after I found out the truth. Too many thoughts going around inside my head for me to get any rest.

I can count my ribs easily. I can't remember the last time I ate something. I should put clothes on. I look at Buffy's dresser for a moment, then take the dress and slide it back over my head. I wouldn't feel comfortable in anything else. Nothing else belongs to me.

Nothing.

Not even this life. What right does Buffy have to demand from me what she couldn't accomplish herself? None. None, god dammit.

I shriek and slam my fist into the mirror with all my strength. Any second now, they'll come in and Xander will hold me down again, pin my arms underneath me so I can't hurt myself, the way he did before. He threatened to tie me up if I didn't stop. I lock the door.

It has to be around here somewhere. I flip the mattress off the bed, then look underneath the bed itself. Spotless. Damn. Not in the closet, the nightstand, or the dresser.

The trunk.

I run to the closet, pull the door open again, and lug out the trunk Buffy always kept her slaying stuff in. The one with the fake bottom. I pull it out. Score.

The knife is fancy, I think Buffy called it an 'insane hunting tool'. There are still bloodstains on it. Faith's blood. It's always about blood.

My blood, her blood, Buffy's blood, what's the difference? It's fitting, even in my hazy state of mind I can see that. Something got screwed up along the way, though. Faith bled, but she didn't die. Buffy died, but she never bled.

And here I am now, bleeding and dying. The blood staining the carpet crimson, soaking through the velvet of my dress. My dress. Buffy's blood. Faith's knife.

Xander's banging on the door. Calling my name. His voice sounds so far away. I hope they all remember, when they think about that vortex and her sacrifice and how it's all my fault... I hope they remember...

Buffy never bled.