Title: Sticky
Author: Bree
Rating: PG
Feedback: lovely. petdrusilla@aol.com
Distribution: Sure, just ask.
Disclaimer: Tara, Willow, and Dawn aren’t mine. I trust Joss with them explicitly.
Spoilers: Tabula Rasa, Once More with Feeling, Tough Love
Summary: Tara’s thoughts following Tabula Rasa.
I didn’t mean to get so attached.
My father always used to tell me, “Don’t get attached to the ones out there, Girl. They’re different from us. They’ll steal what’s decent in you and make it their own. They’ll twist your brain around ‘till you don’t know what to think, and ‘till you’re so heartsick you can’t hardly go on livin’. Stick to your own kind, that’s what’s best.”
Willow did that to me. She made me heartsick. As much as I hate to admit it, and to admit that my father was right, she and I were probably destined to end this way. But there is a love, a pure, unfiltered love, that sticks like honey to my insides and won’t go away. Whatever coldness fills this house now, that sweetness still remains buried somewhere deep. I can smell it on my clothes and in our bed. Bitter sweetness. Because it isn’t our bed anymore.
I’m starting to think the coldness comes only from me, and that thought scares the hell out of me. It’s not my way to be cold, unfeeling, or cruel. I carry my last box to the car, and I pass Dawn downstairs, who is glaring at me with eyes that could melt glass. She knows why I’m going, she understands perfectly well, and yet anger contorts her delicate, childlike features. I reach to hug her, but she pulls away and bolts upstairs. Once, my instinct would have been to follow her, to beg forgiveness from our poor Dawnie, who is always being abandoned. But I won’t do that anymore. Part of me would like to grab her by the shoulders and shake her ’till her teeth rattled, screaming, “You don’t understand what it’s like! Can’t you look past yourself?” But the kid has only been human for a couple of years. You can sense it in the way she speaks, the things she says. She’s fifteen, but just a baby in so many ways. I don’t know where these horrible thoughts come from.
Alex, a guy from my poetry class, has come to give me a ride back to the dorms. The sun stings my eyes when I walk out the front door of the Summers’ house, and as I turn back, I have to shield them from the glint of the upstairs window. I know Willow is up there, alone, frightened and sobbing. It tears my heart out to think of it, but I have to learn to steel myself. That’s another thing Dad always said, “Steel yourself, Girl.” I was never any good at it. I’d rather rush back up there, press her body to mine, kiss her gently and whisper fragile condolences.
I remember my mother on her deathbed, how empty she had looked. Her eyes, black with magic, had dulled like lumps of coal in her damp white face. How restlessly she flailed around in the soaked sheets, and in the end, she had not even known my name. She cried out spells, but none of them worked anymore. My wonderful mother, who taught me the names of goddesses and how to burn rose incense to attract my true love. When I was little, I used to think that she was Glinda the Good Witch, protecting me from the harsh wilderness of the world. But she turned into someone quite different. For every Glinda, there are a hundred wicked witches, and if Willow wants to become one, I won’t be around to see it. The magic will leave her like it left my mother. Eventually it refuses to satiate an endless thirst.
I have to turn away from this house. Alex asks me if I am okay, and through the ringing in my ears, I barely hear him. I can only climb in the worn, dirty old Dodge, climb the stairs to my room, climb into my second bed. Alone and cold. Miss Kitty Fantastico, whom I will retain sole custody of ‘till her last breath, curls up against my hip. Her warmth speaks to me of Willow.
I wish it could stay like it was when we were all singing. I wish that day could live on eternally, like an old forties musical you rewind and watch again and again and again. We were beautiful that day, me and Will, our arms reaching for each other, spinning around on the grass. The desire that claimed me was unlike anything I had ever felt, or allowed myself to feel. In my mind, I’m left clinging to the phantom ghosts of her soft hands, long fingers, exploring mouth. Her teeth grating against my thigh, her swollen red tongue sticking to my insides. Like honey. Like our broken love.
Maybe I sang too much that day. Maybe I let her know that she meant a little too much to me. So she thought it would be all right, to erase my memories, to dig inside my mind like Glory did. To erase all of our memories and leave us helpless and lost. She thought I would still love her, even if she got caught. And I still do.
But I’m learning to steel myself.
She’s not my kind. She’s not my kind at all.
end.
