1. There is a deep pink bed, and she is wet in it. She remembers falling through pure clean white. It was like sliding between snows, like the dry linens of home, like the burnt cream on top of her sundaes. It is the arms of Mother, the only one she knows. It is. Second star to the right and straight on till dawn.
Hell is not a vast battlefield, as she’d often nightmared it would be. It isn’t even firepits, whores and hags. There is just no control. She has a body, but she is not of it. Glory is near, shifting from snake to woman and back again. A man with long thin wings is crouched in the corner, reading a newspaper. Buffy smells the hot reek of sweat; always thought Hell would be cold, like frozen breath or deep oceans of ice. But she is hot, too hot, sweating and stuck together with tangled hair and slender knees. Glory has a feral smile and she smiles now, slipping between Buffy’s legs.
Buffy speaks. Her voice is young and high, floating above her. “What is this place?” She knows.
“You don’t remember?” Glory is sulky, jealous with her toys and her time. “Why don’t you remember? What’s wrong with you? God, god, god, why don’t they send me someone decent to play with? What’s with you, Slayer? You think you’re too good to hang with me in Hell? Is that it?”
“Are we in Hell?”
“Might as well be,” Glory says and sticks her fingers inside Buffy.
It hurts and she pants a little, remembering the way Glory flung her against the wall, made the breaking of her body into a song. Remembers how she sweated desire for days, at the mere idea that there was someone who could beat her. Her. She feels herself opening, the hot rush of Glory’s fingers, her fist, that fucking brutal -- and she never knew Glory was a lesbian, never knew she played for Willow’s team, but there are lips on her breasts, a wet dragging tongue on her nipples, pink against her pink, pussy against her mouth. It smells, it smells like Faith and warm buttery nothings and it is sweet and fresh, terrible, rotting and Glory throws her against the headboard, sends little cracks down her spine.
The animal within her. It howls.
2. There are cupboards filled with nothing, then with clean plates, stacked bowls, gleaming cups, glassware, silverware, other wares. Paint clings to the walls, paint smudges her nose. A vacuum sits by the closet. Towels lie on the table, stacked by color and smelling of talcum powder. There are spices on the oven, and little packets filled with seeds by the door. Her gardening gloves are stained with soil, brown around the fingertips. The answering machine has a bloodshot eye and it blinks, blinks.
She sits down, picks up a dictionary.
trap noun, verb, trapped, trap•ping. noun 1.a contrivance used for catching game or other animals, as a mechanical device that springs shut suddenly. verb (used without object) 1. to engage in the business of trapping animals for their furs.
She smells her menstruation and goes in search of a tampon. But there are none in the cupboards and so the blood runs down her legs, from between her legs, pooling over the floor. Sticky mess. She makes patterns with her toes. The kitchen is in order, the bowls are filled with blood.
3. Through the glass of the sliding door, there is an image that Buffy knows cannot be right.
She breaks it into pieces for herself.
One leg, no, two, four. Four legs. Tangled, naughtily tangled.
A thrust or a guttural movement.
One mouth open, keening. Pink lipstick, or maybe beige. Is it the color of plums? Would it taste of soups and potatoes and bread?
A black coat—no, there is no black coat. A long sweeping back. Sweat in the hollows. A bird taking its first beating steps.
The counter is bent. Remains of peanut butter on toast. A cup of grainy tea with a milk skin on top.
Buffy closes her eyes.
The wet cock. His hand clutching the Claddagh. Her Mother’s body, split in two. Wet pump of blood. And her heart throbbing and the feeling before she goes in for the Kill, of envy, envy.
4. When he comes inside of her, the world is thick and bright.
Everything is so still, really, so still and unmoving. The light above isn’t flickering, even though she forgot to change the bulb. The water in the bathtub rises but doesn’t rise, it is a little like bread without yeast. An image rests in the mirror behind the door; pink knees, a red scrape, a rope swinging from a rod. But it isn’t really swinging; there is no breeze, no breath, just an absence, a whip cord of rope. She is imagining the rope. Imagining an end, a slice down the middle of this, an hourglass cracked and bleeding. She isn’t sure if she is breathing until she hears the sound of herself, wheezing. The air is thin. The tile of the floor is cool and unwavering against her back. It doesn’t yield.
She knows she is bleeding because she can smell it. But there is no motion, no atoms or molecules. The grey silk of her bathrobe spreads around her and her body is delicately formed, so delicately formed. Her mouth warms, a little tunnel like a cat’s mouth or a balloon. And still, the blood jet from her vagina does not move, but she smells it, and something builds within her. Something unstoppable.
Tears wet her neck.
Arms hold her down.
Her body, so delicately formed.
The dark valleys of her mind sift and snow like mud flowing from a hillside and she—
She thinks of the word. No. She thinks of other words. Please. Stop. No. Stop. William. Please.
If she turns her head just so, she will vomit. It will be hot, wet, smell of salt and pussy and sperm. But she cannot open her mouth. Nothing is moving. A glassed in bathroom, and she looks up at herself, making love to Spike the night before the world was supposed to end. Sees herself holding him carefully in her arms. Cradling. Hush, baby.
She thinks of the word. No.
There is weight on her, the smell of cigarettes and brine.
And the dark heart of her body sucks in his seed.
5. There is a wolf at her door.
She is waiting patiently.
The End