Chapter Four: Under Construction



"FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF! JUST GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME AND STAY AWAY!"

Joyce cringed as another object crashed against the door she'd managed to shut just in time and shattered to the ground. Weary tears slid down her face as she bent and slowly began to pick up the shards from the last rounds of glass.

In the background, Xander cleared his throat uncomfortably and she gave him a tight smile before resuming her work. The carpenter sighed silently, and continued to attach the chair lift to the staircase.

Joyce moved passed Xander with a solemn look upon her face, her hands cupped in front of her containing the broken remains of her daughters' favourite childhood figurine. It was an ice skater. She could still remember the day they'd bought; Buffy had been six and so enamoured with the skating world.

She recalled Buffy's fervent pleas and promises of how well she would look after her, that she would call her Dawn and love her for ever and ever and ever!

From the kitchen she could still hear the banging, the crashing, the breaking and splintering of Buffy's room as her only child destroyed it.

With shaking hands, Joyce tipped the shards of glass into the kitchen bin, barely noticing when several nicked her pale skin. She moved silently to the sink, trying to ignore the destruction overhead as she gently ran warm water over her cuts.

She heard her daughters' pained wail, and an answering call welled up inside her, though she clamped it down. The doctor said it would take time...time - something Buffy now had an abundance of.

Joyce swallowed determinedly. She had to be strong. Had to be the protector, the care-giver; the mother.

But she couldn't stop her own tears from falling on to her fingers and she watched as the salty liquid swirled in with her blood.

---

Xander winced as he heard yet another...something shatter from down the hall.

It was all so very wrong.

Buffy was a Slayer.

A warrior.

A protector.

A saviour.

A hero.

His hero.

And with every object the smashed against the plaster, she fell just a little further from her pedestal.

He shut his eyes against the tears that wanted to escape when he heard her cry out - but he dared not to go to her. So instead the returned his hands to the job in front of him.

The despised job that had befallen him - the one he knew he would never forget for the rest of his life.

---

Inside her room, the Slayer screamed, lifting the despised contraption up with shaking arms that betrayed her weakness, and sent it flying into the wardrobe. The wooden doors smashed under the force, sending huge splinters everywhere.

From her position on the bed, she swept an angry arm across the bed-side table, destroying it's surface contents. Lamp, alarm clock, photos streamed to the floor in an unholy mess. With another cry, she wrenched the draw out of its hole and flung it at her dressing table smashing the mirror to smithereens.

"I HATE YOU!!!" She screamed out. It was a general declaration - not meant for one person but for the whole world. They had all condemned her to this pathetic, weak, neutered state.

They had taken her life, her youth, her innocence, her time, her world...and now her legs.

Her mobility - her freedom. As if she had ever had any!

They had stolen it all, snatched it all away in one foul swoop.

Perfume bottles and dainty moisturisers which had been originally placed so lovingly atop the wooden dresser crashed to the ground, staining the carpet.

Buffy reached out to tear down the photographs that were pasted to her wall, and as she did, she slipped: crashing to the ruined floor with a thud. She landed heavily on her front, and the exposed skin of her arms, chest and face caught on the sharp mess she had made.

She tired to push herself up and drag herself back on the bed, but her arms were too weak. Her body slid on the sludge that had fallen there, causing her to loose her position and bang her chin on the wooden bed frame. Stars danced before her eyes as the pain shot throughout her body, at least the parts she could still feel.

She could have called for help. Xander or Joyce could have easily come to her aid. But she stayed silent; refusing to call anyone as her pride betrayed her.

With a wailing sob she slid down fully to the floor, attempting to curl into the foetal position...but she couldn't move her legs.

And she cried.



TBC...