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Underneath They forget I’m down here in the dark, among the unneeded items. Self-stored away with broken appliances. Among games once-fun, which now pack too many memories of laughter, bundles of clothing belonging to women now dead, and a dart board with only two darts. I don’t sleep in the basement every day, mind you. Just those days when the witches come home with the sunrise. They creep back in smelling of beer and the Bronze, or sex, or magic. Sometimes a heady mixture of all three. The first time the witch sought me out, I was mad. She had begged me to stay with Dawn while they went out. Seems every damn one of them had something better to do. I knew none of them could stand to be in that house haunted by two dead women any more. Because I’d promised her, I came. Before that night, I’d not seen Dawn except from afar for over a month. No one knew, but I‘d been shadowing her, evenings. She was tricky and got past the lot of them. She always went to same place. The place I couldn’t bear to go myself yet wouldn’t let her go alone. A remote grave, made invisible by magic. “She saved the world a lot.” Oh, how I hate that phrase. I know the churn and cycles of the washer and dryer. Sometimes one of them will come down when I’m here and not even glance to where I lay in the shadows. It amuses me to occasionally complete the domestic chore when the washer’s been stopped for too long. I’ve watched and know what temperatures things get dried on, and what gets hung up to dry. Hell, I’ve had to wash my own clothes, and Drusilla’s for many more years than I care to think about. Angelus’ too for that matter. Of course, back then it was a tub and lye soap. Angelus liked me to flunky for him. I like to watch when the laundress remembers her chore and descends the stair ready to work only to find a basket of neatly folded clothes. Who ever it was, they all reacted the same the first time. The witch, her girl, or the brat. A start, a glance in my direction, a quiet thanks. I don’t do it every time, mind you. Just often enough to keep them off guard. One time they sent the Buffybot down with the laundry. I think they were being funny. It took all my control to not smash the vile thing to bits. Seems the bot put in two straight cups of bleach with their darks. I never saw it in the basement again. The first few times I wound up down here, I just lay on boxes. The third or fourth time, I went digging and found a bright pink sleeping bag tied up in a black plastic leaf bag. As if that ever protected anything. It smelled like Buffy, and that first day I cried quietly into it after everyone went out to wherever they go. A week later I came down to find a cot. The bag had been recognized and put away, I’d guess. The cot’s not the most posh thing in the world, but the warn, clean sheets on it make it welcome. Silly cartoon animals smirk from the cotton. When I didn’t mention it the next time I came over, Dawn lasted two hours before asking with a pout how I liked it. I told her it was keen and thanked her. She told me both she and Buffy slept on those sheets when they were little and I recognized it for the gift it was. I don’t let her know, though. It’s a bit of a game we play. I suspect Dawn cried with the sleeping bag, too, but I’ll not ask. I think Dawn is the only one of the lot of them who even thinks about me. I’ll come downstairs and see the cot with the clean sheets, the heavier curtains on the little window, or the boom box with the broken antenna, which have appeared in the damp basement, and I know the little bit left them. And, she’s the only one who’ll touch me. Oh, she doesn’t hug me, or sit in my lap. But if our hands brush when reaching for pizza, I’ve got lint on my shirt, or she’s got a hair out of place, it’s no big for us to touch. She doesn’t flinch like the others. Also, she talks to me. We’ve had conversations when the rest left us alone. I’ve answered her questions and taught her things. Told her stories. She used to like my dark stories of murder and mayhem. Now she wants to hear about far away places and people I’ve met. The others, they don’t know she steals things. Hey, it takes a thief to know a thief. Even with all that, even with the bond we have, I’ve killed Dawn in my mind. Many ways. It’s not difficult at all for me to imagine. After all the things I’ve done to little girls her age… and younger. If she were dead, I could leave. If I hadn’t loved, I could leave. If only I’d not made a promise, I could leave. Probably I just think these things to distract myself from my mind’s own favorite game. Every time I lay down to sleep it starts again like the one rerun of a sitcom you catch over and over. You know it’s always the same episode you’ve seen before, yet you watch it once more. I play “save Buffy.” You know the one. The vampire was too slow. The vampire didn’t have a weapon. The vampire didn’t take the little girl and leave town the week before. The vampire sodding cared. So I creep down here. It’s been 141 days she’s been gone. A good number of days were spent down here. I admit it wasn’t always necessary, but, hell, a bloke can get lonely, can’t he? I know all the secrets in all the forgotten boxes down here. All but this one. It’s another Dawn gift, I know. It’s a shoebox with carefully cutout magazine-picture decoupage on it. Actually, I recognize it’s a loan, not a gift. I wash my hands and sit down on the cot to look it over with my back against the cold stone wall. It’s a box of photos. Buffy, Dawn, Joyce, and their run-away dad. Hank, I think his name is. Pictures of happy times. There are pictures of the gang, too. Happy shots of Willow, Oz, Cordelia and Xander. Anya. Joyce. Giles, Tara, and Buffy. Dawn and Buffy, tumbled on the grass in the sun. All typical domestic shots. I smile when I realize all shots of Angel and Riley are missing. I know they had to have been there. Near the bottom I find a picture of a party. A familiar crowd is smiling and laughing in the Summer’s living room. My eyes go first to Buffy. She has a soft smile and is looking at a man I don’t know. He’s laughing with his mouth open and his head thrown back a bit. The profile is sharp. Dawn sits across from him, sharing the laugh and her hand on the man’s knee. With a shock I recognize myself. Alien and rarely seen. Once in a while, I’ll have a passport photo taken, or sit in one of those photo booths just to remind myself what I look like. But my profile. Who sees his profile? And smiling. On the back in Dawn’s sloppy hand reads “My 14th birthday.” All at once I remember and I look around the picture for clues. Yes, there’s Riley. His back is turned, talking to Xander, or I know he’d be glaring at me. There is Willow, smiling. Joyce is eating a cookie. I remember. Damn those monks. The history they created along with Dawn herself is relentless. I remember. She insisted I be invited. Said it was what she wanted for her birthday. I’d not had this chip long, the Scoobies had destroyed Adam, and the Initiative had vanished. Not one of them really liked me. Only Dawn. Now, looking at this picture, I wonder if Buffy did. I damn the monks and bless them. I want to keep the picture. I want to destroy it, too. I settle for smashing a toaster with no cord, which mocks me by not reflecting me, and I feel much better after that. I keep to myself for the next week. Then it’s the boy’s turn to come ask me to sit. I made a promise. I can’t say no. But I swear, I’m never spending another day in that bleeding basement. |
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