In Buffy’s dream, the bus she’s on is unnervingly empty. The seats are stained with the blood of those who barely made it out of Sunnydale High and every face fails to hide an expression of defeat.

Her best friend sobs in the back row, cradling something Buffy can’t quite make out from where she’s standing. Tears run freely down the witch’s face. Something terrible has happened. 

In Buffy’s dream, as the bus speeds on, forgotten are the names of countless frightened girls that pleaded for help as an overwhelming horde rushed towards them. But each face, each look of desperation and terror, is soldered into her memory.

There’s that taste of bile rising in her throat again. The fear she feels is so potent it makes her want to wretch.

The ever familiar stain of guilt creeps into her thoughts, from memories that refuse to grant her peace of mind.

Anger coupling with self-loathing, spreading through her body like a fire. Burning away the remnants of the girl she thought she was.

In Buffy’s dream, the chaos is suffocating her. There’s no reprieve. No pause. No time out. Death is her gift and it follows her and her friends.

An insurmountable body count rising every day. 

It’s hundreds.

Then thousands.

Then millions.

She knows this because it’s all the media outlets report on. It’s the terror that’s griping an entire country, alerting the world to something catastrophic; apocalyptic.

Nothing to do but retreat. No way to stop the massacre. No time to get a grip on the situation and it’s now too much to bear.

And the anger, still the anger grows and breathes and begs to be wielded through the scythe that failed her.

But in Buffy’s dream, she resists the dark instincts that drive her. She must stay focused. Has to lead. Has to fight. Slay. Kill. Breathe. Live another day.

The world with all its weight rests upon her shoulders yet it is a single death that finally breaks her back. One more death that she cannot possibly endure.

In Buffy’s dream, after what feels like an eternity, the tears finally stop.

The world stops.

At least she doesn’t notice that it’s still moving without her.

And there’s the anger. Oh god, the anger. A rage she’s never known for any enemy she’s ever faced. It consumes her before anyone can attempt to cut its cancerous progress and by the time it’s evident how far gone she is, it’s too late.

The anger turns to reckless abandon to madness to insanity.

In Buffy’s dream, she’s lost her fucking mind. Suddenly everything’s just a joke. A pointless pantomime. The world’s gonna end, she knows that for a fact. It’s palpable from the smell of bodies rotting on the wind.

And she couldn’t care less.

In Buffy’s dream, there is only the freedom that comes with a loss of self and mind.

The only thing that irritates Buffy is the length of her dream. It really is getting on now. Surely she’s slept long enough? Why hasn’t she woken up yet?

She’d like to wake up now.

It is just a figment of her overactive imagination after all. Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.