by Tiki


You know, I spent my whole life dreaming of being you. Well, not you, really, because I'm sure you've had your share of problems, what with loosing your mum and having to take care of everything and all. I wanted to be the Slayer.

I wished I was the Chosen One even before I knew that there was such a thing. To be the one and only, to be brave, to fight evil, to save the worldÉ it all sounded terribly romantic to me.

But I knew I could never do those things, even before I came to the Hellmouth and saw firsthand just how bloody awful being the Slayer could be. I always knew it. I knew I couldn't fight like you. I couldn't be witty or improvise weapons or adapt the way they told me you could. I wasn't brave like you, or even like Kennedy; I never stood up for myself or spoke out of turn. I did what I was told. I was meek.

I wasn't a warrior like you, Buffy; I was a runner. I'd been one for as long as I could remember.

When I was 5 and Jamie Miller and his horrid little friends tried to pull my hair, I ran. I sprinted across the playground and into the loo and I cried for a whole hour. They kept trying harder every day for two weeks, but I never yelled at them or told anyone what they were doing. I just ran and ran until one day they just got tired of chasing me.

And I was safe.

Every time I had a bad day in school, or got a bad mark, or got so mad that I wanted to punch someone, I'd just run. When Mum and Dad got in one of their spats and shouted so loud that my head throbbed just listening to them, I'd leave the house and sprint until my lungs burned and my legs felt heavy and numb.

And I felt better.

On my thirteenth birthday, a short old man in a tweed suit came to our house and told my parents and I stories about Slayers and vampires and monsters. He told us that it was my destiny to train to be a Slayer, that he'd found me a bit later than his organization found most of the other potentials, but not too late. He told my father that he needed me to come with him immediately so I could begin my training; my father told him that he was full of shit and that he needed to leave the house.

But Mum and Dad never looked at me quite the same after his visit. They grew distant. They stopped talking to me.

So, I did what I always did: I ran. I left home and lived wherever I could and took care of myself.

Things were ok.

When Mr. Giles found me and told me that the man that had visited my house was dead now and that he and I would be too if we didn't leave soon, I went with him. Why not? We were doing what I did best: we were running.

Things in Sunnydale were worse than I thought they were going to be. I knew from what Mr. Giles had told us on the plane that there was a massive evil brewing, but I also knew about you, Buffy, so I wasn't too afraid. You were like a legend to me. The Slayer. You were going to be big and tough and brave and ready and everything I could never be.

But I got to the Hellmouth and met you, and it became sparklingly clear that you weren't ready at all. You didn't have any answers. You were small and sad and scared, so I got scared too. I saw it all in a flash that this thing, this evil, was coming for all of us.

It was coming for me, and no one was going to protect me. I panicked; I didn't want to die.

So I ran.

I ran faster than I ever had before. I had to get out. Everything ached, but I just kept running and running. It was like one of those nightmares everybody has where they're being chased by something they can't pin down.

But this time, I thought I was going to be safe. I thought I was going to make it.

I was so close to making it.

But, at the last second, I realized where I'd gone wrong. I'm writing this now because you need to realize it, too. I ran as fast and I could, Buffy, but that doesn't matter.

You can't run from this thing. It's already here.



Silverlake: Authors / Mediums / Titles / Links / List / About / Plain Style / Fancy Style