Message: 4
   Date: Tue, 01 Jan 2002 20:31:22 -0000
   From: "hecate_bluebird" <Hecate81@gmx.net>
Subject: Ficlet "To make things better"

Title: To make things better
Author: Hecate
Pairing:: none
Spoilers:up to "Sanctuary"
Rating: PG 13
Summary: Faith tries to make things better
Note: Faith POV
Warning: Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine
Feedback:Hecate81@gmx.net  

In the beginning I thought slayer strength is a good thing. But I 
learned it isn't. You have all these super powers, but that doesn't 
make you  a superhero. It just makes you strong physically. Nothing 
else. My powers just came to me and then men in suits came, telling 
me I'm the slayer. I'm the Chosen One.

/razor gliding over skin/

And then they left me and sent me a watcher. Someone to take care of 
me, to teach me how to slay. And then my watcher was killed. With my 
stake. Funny thing if you think about it. I don't. 

/blood running/

So I had all this superhuman powers and no watcher. And I searched 
someone to hold on. And found Buffy. Jesus fucking Christ. Buffy of 
all people. The girl with the perfect life. And I thought I could 
find a place there with her. How dumb was that?

/a small pool of red on the ground/

Well, it was my fault, too. I didn't let her help me I guess. That's 
what they tell me. But I'm not listening to them, anyway. They have 
no idea what is going on

/razor gliding back/

Angel tells me it will get better. I guess he really believes that. 
But he also believes he can really help people. Poor fool.

/blood running through fingers/

When I was still out I tried to get drunk. But I couldn't make it. 
Yeah, I got tipsy and all but it was never enough to forget. It all 
just got blurry, but it was still there. Finch, the knife, the 
blood. His death. 

/vicious stab with the razor into tender skin/

Buffy's face of complete horror and disbelief. And us, running. The 
Chosen Two running. Buffy coming to me the next day. Lecturing me, 
me turning her down. It doesn't matter anymore.

/blood stops running/

And in here, there is just one way to help me, to make me feel 
better. But it doesn't really help.. It doesn't make a real 
difference. 

/blood dries/

Because I just can't leave traces on me. On my body. I cut myself 
again and again and then I lean back and close my eyes. I count to 
ten. 

/wounds close/

When I open my eyes again the cuts are healed and there's just dried 
blood on my skin. A rusty red that crackles when I touch it, is the 
only sign of what I've done.

/skin heals/

And I have to start over again.

/razor glides over skin/

I promised Angel that I try to make things better.

End