TITLE         : A Time To Cry
CHAPTER       : Prologue
AUTHOR        : Black Widow
EMAIL         : bw@l...
SUMMARY       : When death is only the beginning of the pain and        
                suffering
SPOILERS      : Season 5
RATING        : PG
PAIRING       : Gen Fic
DISCLAIMER    : The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
                Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, and Greenwolf Productions, 20th
                Century Fox, the WB Network, and whoever else may have a
                hold on them. The situation is wholly mine, and I do
                not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
ARCHIVE/DIST  : Whatever.  An email if you use it would be nice
NOTES         : The prologue, interlude and epilogue tell the story, as
                it was related by the Slayer's mother, so that it could
                be remembered. 
                The other chapters (should they ever be told) will tell
                the story of her death in full, of how she lived and
                loved and lost, of the guilt and the pain, and her
                dream for an end to the suffering.

*

Dying was something I rarely thought about until the last few months.
And the fact that I lived in Sunnydale, on top of a Hellmouth, didn't
even cross my mind. If I had known then what I know now... I would have
driven through every stop light in my rush to get out of that place. As
far away as possible, as fast as possible. Or I would have driven the
car over a cliff, praying that it would explode in a great ball of
fire, reducing every last ounce of my flesh to ash. Anything to avoid
the distress and grief my death caused. That I caused.

The last thing I expected was to wake up dead.

And allow me to set the record straight. There is no bright light,
there are no Pearly Gates and no Saint Peter to welcome you to heaven.
And if you think me somewhat conceited, there is no infernal hell
either. No Satan, no eternal damnation. At least, not for me. My fate
was much worse than that.

What I am is my punishment.

There is no manual for being dead, for what I am. Rupert Giles didn't
have one. Willow Rosenberg wouldn't be able to find one on any computer
on Earth. And if there was ever to be one, it would have to be better
than the parenting books, or the handbook that Rupert Giles discarded
when instructing his Slayer. No manual could ever prepare me.

But I'm getting ahead of myself and I have so little time.

It is somewhat disconcerting to see yourself dead. After the initial
shock - why me? why now? - I was flooded with an enormous sense of
relief, as if a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders, yet I
couldn't comprehend why. But as I looked down on my lifeless body, glad
it was finally over, I couldn't escape the grief, the overwhelming
sense of loss.

I loved my daughters.

I thought of my girls. Dawn was far too young to understand. Even
though she wasn't my daughter, I still cried for her. I dreaded seeing
her when my body was discovered. Would she know that she'd killed me?

I'd been her mother for fourteen years. The truth of it was clear to me
then, but the memories were still there. I could separate reality from
fiction but she wouldn't be able to. So I cried for her, remembering
all the happy times we never shared, all the birthdays and Christmases
she never had, all the pain of not growing up the youngest - not being
picked on, not being teased. Not being as alone and as scared as I was
when her sister ran away. All this was real to her, so I cried.

Which made it so much worse for Buffy when she found me. She'd become
so accustomed to death; it was all around her, in every waking moment.
Her friends at school - even before we came to Sunnydale - had died
before her eyes. She'd loved one who was dead, and others had died -
killed themselves - because of what she was.

But I was her mother and I should never had died on the Hellmouth. The
tears I had cried for Dawn were real and fresh on my face as Buffy
discovered my lifeless form, as realization came to her.

And I saw the pain and horror of my death, for the sight of me dead
before her, my body still warm and with tears on my cheeks and new in
my eyes, would haunt her and she would blame herself and I feared she
would carry the imagined guilt to her early grave.

As she held me and kissed me and wept tears of her own, the anguish in
me was just as great. As she cradled my head in her hands and looked
upon my face, I knew that I couldn't shed a tear for her, my one true
daughter.

Buffy wiped away my tears. Now that I was dead, all I could do was
watch and keep my grief for them to myself. I felt so numb as Buffy
wept and clung on to me. And I could see the rage within her build as
she thought of me dying sad and alone and crying.

How could I reassure her? How could I tell her that the tears in my
eyes were tears of love for her sister? And that if I could, I would
have cried so many more for her?

How I could I tell her that I was still with her and that I wanted
always to be with her? How could I tell her that I loved her and
cherished her? That I still do, more than anything else.

Her rage was so great I tried to touch her mind, to comfort her. But I
was repelled with such violence and so much force it was almost
impossible to contain the pain. Yet Buffy must have felt it for she
screamed long and loud, and when the tears subsided I knew that her
heart was easier.

She looked around in surprise at the sudden peace within her, and
looked at me and I think she felt my love for her as she hugged me one
last time. But I was barred from her mind. In life I was never able to
be as close to my daughter as I wanted and now, in death, being so
close to her, I couldn't have been further away.

Confused and lost and hurt, I wondered then at the purpose of it all.
Was it always to be this way? Every hope, every dream, all my love for
her had become a constant nightmare, a constant fear for her life - not
mine. And even in death, as naive as I was then, the fear was no less.

I watched Buffy busy herself and I found myself being pushed away. I
looked at her face, hard and impassive, choking back more tears, and I
was afraid that she was rejecting me. The pain and fear grew worse as I
was forced from my own house, unable to comfort her, unable to be with
her.

Then I saw Dawn returning from school and realized that it was she who
was driving me away. The closer she got to our home the further I was
pushed away. The cruelty of it made me want to wretch. Even though she
wasn't mine, I loved her. I still love her. I knew that she was just an
innocent child and needed protecting.

Driven back, I turned away and let my spirit wander. Whatever it was
that made her, whatever she was, kept me away from her and I couldn't
bear the thought of her own distress - or Buffy's when faced by her
mother's killer.

*

Sunnydale is a cold and lonely place. 

As I wandered I noticed how bright and fresh it looked. The sun shone
down on clean tree-lined avenues, on expensive cars parked in front of
beautiful houses. It should be such a happy place, yet all the people
whose path I crossed seemed so empty.

It was as if their souls were trapped in their bodies, as if they were
incapable of escaping the thrall of living on top of the Hellmouth. As
if all the life and hope had been sucked out of them.

I began to wonder if there was one happy person left in Sunnydale. It
wasn't Buffy's fault that my social circle was so limited, but I
realized I knew so few people, and those few really only pretended to
be happy. One evening of happiness was all I was allowed. Darkness and
gloom was never far away no matter how much we tried to deny it. Even
on this bright sunny day everyone walked with their eyes downcast,
acknowledging no one, strangers all.

It wasn't often that I did anything other than worry about the safety
of my daughters, yet seeing all these people, afraid but not knowing
why, made me marvel at their fortitude and that of their friends and
the love for each other that bonded them.

Drifting aimlessly, suddenly aware of the blackness in everybody and
letting it pervade my own spirit, I could so easily have given up. And
this was before I discovered what I was. Which is why you have to
understand the risk I take in telling you. I'd even began to wonder
what would stop me when I heard a stifled gasp and the crash of glass
shattering.

My own reverie broken, I looked up into the most soulful eyes staring
at me as if I was standing there in the flesh. So I wondered, were we
all just pawns in some cosmic game? Had I made my own way to the magic
shop or had I been pushed there one square at a time?

"No!"

How cruel this world is. Silently she mouthed her denial as Giles and
Willow came running, concern showing on their faces at the look of
shock on hers. For the first time since I'd died, someone was able to
see me, and it gave me hope.

But I had to think quickly to stop her from giving away my presence.
They couldn't have known I was dead and obviously they couldn't see me.
"Close your mouth, dear, and try not to stare," I told her. When she
did so I relaxed a little. "And remember to breathe," I smiled warmly
at her, "we don't want two corpses to deal with." Which was perhaps the
wrong thing to say as the color drained from her face.

Thankfully Giles and Willow were more concerned for Tara than for
whatever thing she'd dropped. As they sat her down I knew one of them
would make a joke and I had to forestall that. "It's important you
don't give me away. Be strong, dear," I told her, "and ask Willow to
fetch you a glass of water."

Nodding imperceptibly, she stammered out the words and Willow, bless
her, rushed off.

"Now tell Giles that you've had a vision and he should go to Buffy at
home but she's not in danger."

Again she barely nodded. After a few deep breaths she managed to speak
the words more clearly. I had to smile as Rupert looked confused, as he
took his glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. Such a sweet,
endearing habit. Luckily, Tara smiled as well and Rupert took that as a
sign that Buffy wasn't in danger.

I could sense Willow returning. "Now," I prompted, looking back. Tara
followed my gaze and told Rupert. He took the hint and dashed off
leaving a confused Willow staring at the half-open door.

How much suffering was left, I asked myself. Rupert would cope better
than most, but Willow? Fortunately the shop was empty. "Ask Willow to
put up the closed sign and lock the door," I asked Tara. "I think you
should break the news to her. She loves you, it would be easier for
her."

Willow was still wondering which question to ask first as Rupert's car
roared away, and did as Tara asked without thinking.

"Come, s-sit." Tara looked at Willow and pulled a chair around for her.
The apprehension on Willow's face was clear as she sat next to her, as
her girlfriend took her hands.

"There is no easy way," I told Tara, "you just have to say it."

Tara nodded and gently squeezed Willow's hands. I could see the sorrow
etched on her face as she told her that I was dead. Poor Willow, poor
Tara. Over the last few weeks everyones emotions had been played with
in one way or another, so I knew Willow would be upset for Buffy, they
were so close, and neither would it be easy for Tara.

Willow sat stunned not wanting to believe before collapsing in Tara's
arms, her tiny frame shaking as she wept uncontrollably. She loved
Buffy so much I felt so desolate as she cried.

"She," Willow started between sobs as Tara held her close. "She was
more like a mother to me than my own." The words came out in a rush and
she started crying even more. For a moment I was stunned, I couldn't
believe she was crying for me. Then I thought of Sheila and my heart
went out to poor Willow. I'd never realized before how much Willow
cared... how much I cared for her. In shock I rushed to her, needing to
comfort her, remembering how I comforted her when the teacher died.

Tara saw me move. "Stop!" she cried out. "Don't!"

Surprised, I turned to avoid Willow and before I knew where I was going
I ran straight into Tara. Straight into Tara and not out the other
side. Not out anywhere. I was stuck.

I felt Willow pull away at Tara's sudden outburst, shocked and
confused. And so was I. "Tara?" She looked so hurt, here eyes red and
swollen, her voice no more than a whisper as she fought for
self-control.

"Her spirit ghost," Tara said quickly without thinking. "It..." she
stopped at Willow's look. She was about to tell her what had happened
and realized that she couldn't. "It was here, it told me," she said.
The whole truth, we knew, would have been too much for her. It was too
much for Tara, I could feel the turmoil in her mind. Or was the turmoil
mine?

"She was here?" Willow muttered, looking around the shop. "She's not
here now?"

Tara shook her head. "Her ghost isn't here now," she said, which was
true enough. "She... she loved you too." That too was true, only I had
never told her. Sheila was a most difficult person to like; and I had
seen more of Willow over the past few years than she had. Willow
deserved a better mother.

"Truly she did," Tara said pulling her close, holding her in her arms
and stroking her hair. As she cradled Willow, rocking her gently, tears
welled in her eyes and crept slowly down her face, and I wondered if
they were her tears or mine. And would I be able to cry for everyone
except my own daughter?