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Every day, Willow watches Tara die.
Multiple times a day, actually. Almost always, really.
The gruesome film plays nonstop on the backs of her eyelids. Over and over. Every night when she tries to sleep, every blink, every time she squints when the sun’s too bright. Again and again and again.
She’s begged them to stop. Pleaded for her mind to replace it with some other horror—the looks of fear on her friends’ faces, their bodies struck down by her uncontrollable power, Warren being flayed alive, anything she deserves to feel guilty about. But her body wouldn’t listen, the traitor.
The change in scenery didn’t help, either.
England was a nice change of pace, sure—less pollution, crisper air, no swelteringly hot sun—but for all the coven’s insightful teachings, they couldn’t stop her brain from ruminating on the moment. Again and again. Always the same. The same fatal shot, the same splatter of blood, the same fall, the same moment the person that Willow loved most in the world died in front of her, and a part of Willow died with her.
Willow has read plenty of Ancient Greek philosophical texts—no one’s shocked, she’s sure—but there’s a specific speech from Plato’s Symposium she’s thought about a lot recently. It's a bit cliche at this point but she really likes it.
This guy, Aristophanes, gives this speech on the origin of humans. Originally, there were three genders: male, female, and androgynous, and all humans had double everything they have now. Double limbs, double faces, double genitals, etc. Zeus punishes humans—of course—by splitting them in half, and that’s why people have belly buttons, because that’s where they were separated. And he moved their faces so they now always look at their stomachs and see a reminder of what they used to be. And Aristophanes used it to explain sexualities. Like, some men are drawn to women sexually and romantically because they used to be one whole androgynous human, and some men like men because they used to be one full male, and some women to women because they were one full female.
And obviously Willow likes it for the gay reason. All these homophobes spew endlessly about how unnatural and new homosexuality is and she’s all like, the Ancient Greeks, hello?
But Willow finds herself appreciating it even more after losing Tara.
The hurt is so indescribably deep. Willow aches and sobs and paces and digs her nails into her palms and it doesn’t get better. It’s so painful it doesn’t just feel like she’s lost her everything, she feels like she’s lost part of her. Her literal, physical other half.
And like how the humans in the story look at their stomachs and think of what’s been taken from them, Willow looks at herself in the mirror and all she can think about is that bullet wound. She feels it in her own shoulder, her joints and flesh betraying her just like her eyelids because apparently the entire universe is trying to hurt her.
Willow’s working on emotional control, but every time she sees Tara she wants to scream and stomp her feet, ball up her fists and hit someone because it’s not fair. It's not fair that she’s dead and it's not fair that she’s the one haunting Willow. She wants to be wracked with guilt, not sadness. She can handle guilt. She’s all with the feeling guilty. And she does feel very guilty, but it's covered by this impenetrable sadness. And fear. Fear that she’s going to snap again and this time the crayon story won’t be able to save her because she’s across the ocean from everyone she loves, including Tara who’s on the other side of the Atlantic and six feet below her because life’s not fair.
Willow’s been wearing a lot more dark colors lately. Not just because she’s mourning but also because it’s easier. The shirt she wore was white—was, until it was red. Red like her hair and roses and the feeling of her world slipping away from her—and now every bright colored shirt reminds her of the splatter. She’ll look at one too long and swear she sees little red dots littered across it, no matter how much she knows there’s no blood on it.
She’s been sporting less blue, too. It’s just easier to simply avoid triggers altogether. Not that it does much to quell the unending barrage of visions she’s receiving, but it’s worth a shot.
Eventually she will have to face all her triggers. Wear blue. Sleep in that room. Confront the terror of the mundane remnants of Tara’s murder. But not yet.
When she got dressed for the first time post-freak, she was hit by the same realization she had a year prior when Joyce died. All her clothes were stupid and childish, and as much as Tara loved them on her and wearing them could be in honor of her, Willow just couldn’t do it. It was too much and the world was already all with the much. So she dug out her saddest pieces, bought new things to fill the gaps, and took them to England.
She knows the wallowing is no good. She should be strong—strong like an Amazon—but it’s so hard.
She misses her friends. Xander was the one who managed to walk her back from the brink of disaster and yet her twelve-step plan for Magicaholics Anonymous is taking place on a different continent. Willow knows she should trust Giles and the coven and everyone but she’s struggling. Isn’t part of recovery apologizing to those you’ve harmed? Willow barely had any time with them before she got whisked away. She has so much left to say to Xander and Buffy and Dawnie and, hell, even Anya. She doubts she’ll ever see Andrew or Jonathan again but she has so much to say to them, too.
Willow takes a deep breath. She sees Tara in her head.
Giles wants to talk to her this afternoon. Every blink is agony.