A/N: thanks for the reviews. Hopefully at least some of your questions will be answered during the course of the story.



She shed her jacket as soon as the door closed behind her. The pain was excruciating, but she only let it hit her once she was safely inside. Earlier, back on patrol, she had managed to keep back the agony that fighting took out of her. The doctors had told her, as they always did, that she was not to engage in any strenuous activity for the next five to seven days. They didn’t know that that wasn’t possible in her line of work. Take that many days off and someone, most likely a lot of someone’s, end up dead.

Buffy groaned at the sensation running up and down her back. It hurt like hell. She slowly started up the stairs, each step bringing throbbing pains to her back. As she ascended, the Slayer unbuttoned her shirt. By the time she reached the landing above she had it all the way undone. Trudging towards the bathroom she gingerly began to pull the shirt from her shoulders. The twinges were sharp, her skin felt hot and suffocated.

Biting down on her lip and keeping the groans to a minimum she finally managed to get the shirt off. Buffy held it up in front of her. The back of it was soaked in dark crimson blood. She tossed it carelessly to the floor.

Walking over to the tub, Buffy turned the shower on. Cold water, of course. She then started on unwinding the bandages that her mother had helped her with earlier. As she did this Buffy looked in the mirror over the sink. Her face was slightly flushed, hot. She wondered briefly how it had come to this. One minor patrol and she was ready to curl up in a ball and die. Her back felt so hot yet, at the same time, she could feel the blood trickling down.

When she finally had the bandages completely unwrapped, Buffy threw them to the floor as well. She slowly and carefully shed the rest of her clothes. Several treacherous whimpers escaped her lips, though she tried to quell them. Finally, fully disrobed she stepped gingerly into the tub. The water from the showerhead hit her in a cold spray. She gasped at the sensation. Her back seized with the sudden sensation, causing her to emit a small yell.

Once the initial shock of it was over, her body gradually relaxed and the cold water began to soothe her wounded back. Buffy wanted to reach up and touch the ruins of her once smooth skin but she knew it would only hurt her too much. In more ways than one. She closed her eyes and leant her head against the cold tile, the water beating down on her back. This was just too damn much. She couldn’t keep doing this. It was killing her.

But she had to.

One girl in all the world.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about leaving before. She had, many times. Over the course of the last year Buffy had packed her bags numerous times. Never went through with it, though. Too much of a coward. Couldn’t just up and leave. Her mother would miss her. Giles would miss her, Xander, Willow; all of them cared about her. It pained her that she didn’t return that feeling any more. She didn’t stay because she would miss her friends. She stayed simply because she had no where else to go. Buffy knew it was terrible to think like that but that’s the way it was.

Sighing, the Slayer turned the water off. Staying in the shower for eternity was not a luxury she could afford. She lifted her leg over the bath and to the tile below then started with the other leg. Unfortunately, she wasn’t careful enough. The floor was slippery and Buffy couldn’t stop herself – she fell. Arms flailing for anything to grab, but finding nothing, she tumbled to the floor. Her back hit the edge of the bath producing fresh torment. She screamed.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Buffy hissed through gritted teeth.

The Slayer squeezed her eyes shut and took deep breaths waiting for it to pass. She gripped the edge of the bath and the sink and used them to pull herself up, shakily. Several incoherent sounds and curses tumbled from her lips during this process. How was it possible for it to hurt this much? She was the Slayer, for god’s sake!

"Stop being such a wimp!" Buffy scolded herself.

She lifted her head, chin up, defiant glare in her eyes. This was nothing. Grabbing her towel she wrapped it around herself. The fibres on the towel were rough and invasive against her tender back. No matter. She was stronger than this.

Padding out to her room, stooped like a little old lady, the Slayer was glad that her mother wasn’t home. Buffy could just imagine the embarrassment of Joyce dashing in to rescue her invalid daughter. Finding Buffy sprawled on the floor like some useless little girl. Her jaw tightened just thinking about it.

She made her way over to the set of drawers. Pulling out some fresh pyjamas, Buffy laid them on the bed. Dropping the towel she turned around to grab her hairbrush. It was a mistake. She caught herself in the full-length mirror. Buffy hated that mirror. She had wanted to get rid of it but Joyce had insisted that she keep it. So she could see her beautiful face, her mother had said. Buffy had scowled. It wasn’t her face that made her want to retch.

Now here she stood, naked, vulnerable, in front of it. Her first instinct was to look away but some kind of perverse curiosity made her look back. She tried as much as possible to never see herself completely nude. When circumstances made it necessary, such as showering, she paid the least attention to it as possible.

Gazing at her body, Buffy was surprised. Front-on she still looked normal. She had lost weight, eating not really being a primary concern of hers. Her collarbone protruded slightly, as did her ribs beneath her small breasts. Her stomach was almost non-existent and her thighs were not exactly womanly. Buffy knew she would probably be considered waif-like; all skinny and pale-skinned, but at least she wasn’t hideous. Not from this side, at least.

Turning back around, the Slayer took in a deep breath before she glanced back over her shoulder. Buffy’s throat contracted at what she saw. It was worse than she had imagined. The usually coarse, mottled, and raised scars were now open, seeping wounds. Bits of her flesh looked pink and raw, others the deep red of scabs. They covered her whole back, starting at the very tops of her shoulders and trailing down over the top of her left buttock. She turned away, quickly.

It was enough to make her sick. The image now imprinted on her mind. Quickly she pulled on her pyjamas, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pains that protested. She had to cover them up. She had to cover herself up. She was frantic with the need to hide. It was so ugly. She was so ugly.

Buffy grabbed the pills she kept by her bed and popped a few, probably too many. Not that she really cared. The Slayer climbed into bed. Lying on her front she pulled the covers all the way up. No part of her exposed except her head, and the hands clutching at the sheet. It was a hot night but still she trembled and shook.

Buffy Summers closed her eyes tightly. That way she wouldn’t have to see. That was a lie, of course. In her mind’s eyes she still saw. Saw them as clearly as before.

The scars. Her scars.