Set after Becoming Pt 2, but written later, this is about what Buffy did while running away.
Morning dawned, and a loud crash rose me from the depths of my dreamless sleep. Cracking one sleep encrusted eye open, I stretch, my mouth stale and my muscles groaning from stiffness. I stared at the flaking yellow paint on the wall beside me, and behind it, another crash follows.
"You stupid whore! How dare you! Bitch!"
Another crash, followed by the faint sounds of whimpering, so quiet only my supernatural hearing would pick it up. I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Please... please, I'm sorry, please, don't. . . I'm sorry."
"You will be bitch." I*heard* him kick her, and even faintly heard the cracking of bones as the whimpers stopped. My hearing was so precise, so sensitive, I could her the woman's breathing through the wall, hear it slow, and slow, and slow. . . .
The crashing continued, as a canopy of lamps, plates and other breakables played orchestra to my morning routine. Ifilled up the old kettle in the kitchette with brown-tinged water from the dripping tap. Careful to avoid the frayed lead I sat at the table, cursing as it slanted alarmingly to one side. Bending over, I replaced the folded up newspaper beneath one table leg, then sat up straight. When the table failed to alarm once more, I breathed a sigh of relief.
I returned to my bed, intending to get dressed. Instead Ifind myself sinking tiredly onto the damp matress. The window was covered in dust and dirt, yet somehow light managed to filter through. It didn't seem right Ithought, light in a place like this. It should be dark and gloomy, a place for clandestine meetings by moonlight. Immoral liasons, and dealings and the like.
The kettle boiled finally, and I grabbed a cracked mug that hadn't washed completely clean in the freezing water. A spoonful of instant coffee granules, some milk and then the water. I stirred it as I sat at the table, counting out the last of my money. Not enough to last much longer. I had to find a job, but then, what could I put on the application. Previous job: Vampire Slayer. Not exactly a shinning recommendation for a job, is it? Maybe for commitment to a mental institution. . .
Two cups of coffee and a change of clothes and several squashed cockroach later. . .
Shoes on feet and wearing some semblence of clean clothes, I sat sipping at a lukewarm coffee, re-reading the classifieds page for the sixteenth time. Waiter, waitress, waitress, cleaner, waiter/waitress, shop assistant, 'make big bucks from your home!' waitress. Geez, in a town full of aspiring actresses they couldn't find wnough waitresses to fill these posts?
Still, it's one thing I can do I suppose. How hard can it be? I know, I know, those words are like the kiss of death. This is where they cut to the scene of me working my ass of in some dingy dinner, right?
- - -
The day dragged on. I went to see a few of the places, but the posts seemed to be snapped up pretty quickly. Guess there's a high turnover rate in LA. People moving on to bigger and better things. . . and people who haven't. Who slid backwards and become the dregs of humanity on the streets, begging becasue they couldn't afford the rent, eating in the soup kitchens becasue they can't afford a decent meal. The kind I walked by all the time when I actaully lived here. The kind I fear I'll end up being if I stay here too long.
Yet still I hurry by, ignoring them.
Returning to the motel where I'm staying, I find my bag and few belongings in a pile in the front hall. I approach the desk, banging on the glass. The wife of the landlord slides it back, responding to the noise in that prim, posh voice that infuriates me.
"Yes?" Like I'm not good enough to talk too. Maybe I'm not in her mind. Who know's what she thinks I'm doing here. Who knows if she even cares?
"Can I have the key to Room 105 please?"
She looks down to check something, though I'm sure she's been waiting for this moment. "I'm sorry, Miss. Summers. You were behind on the rent so we've had to ask you to move on. Thank you."
She closes the glass leaving me behind it, fuming and angry. So I'd missed one stupid payment. big fucking deal. I could pay it if they'd asked. I'd just been hoping I could get a job first.
Picking up my bag and thorwing the belongs left on top of it inside, I feel my anger mounting. I storm out, fuming. I think steam was coming out of my ears.
So. No job, no money and no roof. Guess I'm alot closer to the dregs of hummanity than I thought.