Author: Ambergoddess
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, Joss Whedon rules all. ME, UPN, blah blah blah
Feedback: Oh please! The more the merrier.
Rating: Ummm... for now, PG-13, get to more later
Summary: AU fic, no monsters, Hellmouth, or magic. Willow's a sophomore, Tara's a junior. Willow is alone and very depressed. Tara has to help.
Spoilers: None
Distribution: Fine, but tell me first, okay?
Notes: This is my first fic, and I don't have a beta, so bear with me. I love criticism, helps me write. Tara will show up eventually, so trust me, okay?
Anything else, message me please.
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False Euphoria
(thoughts in italics)
Have you ever stood on the top of a cliff and seen the whole world opened up in front of you? Felt like a bird, high in the sky, looking down on everything, totally untouchable? It's a euphoric feeling, and one that can be a tad dangerous. That feeling, one of utter freedom? If you're not careful, it can end in a nasty little tumble.
Some people, though, take that fall on purpose. They feel so alone, or unloved, or just plain worthless, they go to the top, feel the rush- and jump. In their minds, they're doing the world a favor. They don't deserve to live, or maybe their life is just so bad they don't want to. I was one of them.
It started my freshman year of high school. I felt like no one could touch me, or see me. I was invisible, completely cut off. The only time I was noticed was when someone needed something.
I was the school's genius girl, the one you went to for homework or study help. They would be grateful, you know, 'Oh, you saved my life, my project was due tomorrow, thanks so much for writing my paper, I love you-' you know, typical stuff. Then I'd go to the bathroom or walk through the lunchroom and I'd hear them, making fun of the loser with no life but books.
The thing was though, I didn’t get mad at them. I believed them. I thought I was so worthless, just a waste of space that could be better put to use by someone else.
It got so bad, I wanted to die. Of course, I couldn't do anything about it, because that wasn't what I did- I was good little Willow Rosenburg, reliable to a fault. Anything out of the ordinary would just be so shocking it would- well, I didn't know what would happen, only that it would not be good.
In the end, I guess I thought that if I did what everyone expected me to do without saying a word, I might be less worthless. That if I helped them, and took their cruelty, and only cried at home where no one would see, I would earn my place. So I did.
I did their homework, and took their shit, and after a few months, I stopped crying. I shut myself down inside. I figured feeling nothing was better than the pain.
The funny thing was, of course, I should have been used to it. It was like that my entire life. From day one, my parents weren't there. They hired nannies and sitters to raise me, and only paid attention to tell me what I should be doing better. I tried so hard to make them proud, I did, but I just never could. My mother would just spout statistics at me, and I honestly don't think I saw my father for two weeks the entirety of the fourth grade. They were spirited academics, and I think the only reason they had a kid was so they could be considered 'family friendly'. It always surprised me that they were aware enough of me to remember to give me money for my birthday. Their annual convention for some esoteric thing or another fell the week of my birthday. It got to be a ritual- wake up, get dressed, go downstairs, and read the note with the check attached. They used the same one every year- I hacked into my mom's computer and actually found a file labeled 'W BDay Note'. That didn't shock me.
Anyway, freshman year was bad. I hid for most of it. I got to know the library really well, since the likelihood of anyone actually coming in there was less than zero. I still heard the little snide comments, but they started to be drowned out by the ones in my head. Worthless, wrong, they're better off without you, no wonder you don't have friends, you don't deserve them... It was like that almost constantly.
Then one day, maybe a month into sophomore year, I was walking into the library, when a guy came rushing past me, big with the hurrying, and bumped into me. It hurt- a LOT. I couldn't figure out why until the librarian, a nice British man by the name of Mr. Giles, exclaimed "Good Lord, you're bleeding!"
Needless to say, I was startled. Funny thing though, I wasn't startled by the pain, as much as how good it felt. It seemed to lift some of the tension off my heart. I got bandaged up quickly, reminded Mr. Giles of my name, and ran out.
When I got home, I went straight for the kitchen. Opening a drawer, I pulled out a gleaming knife. I knew my mother kept these sharp, for whenever an urge to 'cook' came upon her. I got used to pizza pretty fast.
Looking at the knife, I got struck with an almost unbelievable urge to just make a little teeny cut. I was torn- I knew intellectually that this was dumb, but I remembered just how good it felt before. I thought myself in circles, getting into the worst mental babble I ever had. It took me a minute to realize that I hadn't just remembered the earlier pain- I had a new bloody line straight down my arm.
Looking at the blood making it's way down my arm, I realized that my head felt clearer. I wondered at this for a second, then just dismissed it with a smile. Life might just be looking up...
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So? Continue? Don't? I need feedback here people!
No story should be without it's 
. I'm sure you'd do an awesome job if you decided to write them yourself though too.
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