I hate her. All he ever did was love the bitch. He did every little thing she ever asked of him. Hell, he even went out and got a soul just so she might feel something other then hate, revolution and disgust towards him. And she still treated him like he was little more then scum.

Yet he continued to loved her.

Despite that she had never been anything but a bitch to him, he would have done anything for the whore. Even die for her.

Following her around like a puppy for and bit of appreciation or affection she might throw his way.

Hell, he burned for her. More then once. But this time his body won't be healing. The... god, I can't even think of a word to begin to describe that. But whatever my sister, god, the word feels as lethal as the razorblade in my hand, just let him sacrifice himself to save her sorry ass.

She didn't even mourn him. None of them did, 'cept Faith and me, but she didn't even feel bad in the slightest. At least the others felt a little guilty for the way they had treated him.

Buffy, (shit, I'm amazed I don't choke on her name,) couldn't even try to understand why I was depressed because he's dead. Never mind that it had been months since we blew up Sunnyhell.

Six months after he died, she sat down and to talk to me. At first, I thought, maybe, she had realized what he had done for her, because her tone sounded regretful.

But no.

She went off on how she should have killed him when he first got the chip, or thousands of times after that.

Then the fucker had the gull to tell me not to act like anyone had really died. Because he had just been a thing. Throughout the whole conversation, she never called him Spike, he, him or William. Just IT. I wanted to claw her face off right there. But I was a good little sister and nodded and agreed with her, even though what little of my heart and soul ha been spared when Spike burned silently died during her talk.

I look over at the bag in the corner of my room in the huge house Giles somehow managed for all of us, including all of the surviving Slayers that Buffy and Faith trained while they were potentials, and take in a breath to calm myself down.

This is it. No turning back.

I go over to the bag and remove the stuff in it, until I find the syringe I filled earlier with a magical poison and hid in the bottom of my backpack so no one would find it. The poison is slow-acting and takes about half an hour to kick in. But once it does, you're dead in a matter of nanoseconds. I got the stuff from Amy Bitch-Witch Madison. When I went to her, I think she was planning on doing something to me, to get revenge on Buffy and Willow because if she hadn't been in England visiting relatives, she would have died when Sunnydale went under. But when I told her what I wanted and why, she was glad to help.

I draw in another breath while I insert the needle into the largest vane in the crook of my arm that I can see. When I first came up with this plan, on the night after Bitchy's heart-to-heart, I was going to run away after I killed her, but I soon came to realize that I couldn't love without him. And this way, we'll be in hell together. Burning side by side for all eternity. Just proves how much I hate her when the idea of being in hell is more appealing then living with her.

Quietly, I creep into her room, and just stand there watching her sleeping for about five minutes before I remembered my time limit.

I can't afford to savor the moment. Too bad.

Damn, I wish I'd thought of that sooner.

The razor is still in my hand, and I silently pad toward her.

"Buffy..." I whisper. It's been a week since our lovely conversation about him, but they are still amazed that I'm talking to anyone other then Faith and Tara again that they'll jump up and do anything I ask in fear that I'll go back to the way I was before.

Oh, did I forget to mention? Tara sometime appears out of nowhere and tries to comfort me, the way she did while she was alive. She was the only one who knew that I was in love with Spike and she or I would sit and hold the other whenever Spike would do something major in the Buffy department or Willow tried to pull some magic thingy over Tara. I know for a fact that if I weren't so in love with him, I would have had a huge crush on Tara.
Fifteen minutes left. I've got to stop letting my mind wander if I'm gonna do this.
A tear lips down my cheek when I remember the horrified look on Tara's face when she found out my plan. She begged me to rethink what I'm going to do, but I refused. This is what I need to do. I've got to avenge his death.

That was the last time Tara came to see me.
Twelve minutes. That's the good thing about magic. Accurate down to the last time.
"Buffy." I repeat, slightly louder this time. She bolts upright in bed and looks at me, surprised.

"What?" she asks. "Is something wrong?" I shake my head.

"No." I tell her. My sister looks confused.

"Then what's up?" I walk over to her bed, sit beside her, and look directly into her green-blue eyes.

"You know it should have been you, right?" I ask.


"It. Should. Have. Been. You." I repeat slowly, as if speaking to a small child.

"Are you feeling okay?" She reaches up to feel my forehead, but I don't want her touching me so I catch her wrist with one hand, lay the blade in my lap and hold her wrist facing upward, lightly running my finger back and forth.
Ten minutes.
"I'm feeling fine. It's you who shouldn't be feeling." I tell her. "It is you who should be blowing in the wind. Not him. He would have gotten over you. It was unnatural for a vampire to be in love with a Slayer. He would have come to see that." I dig my nails sharply into her flesh, avoiding the vanes. She cries out softly, but that's all. "But I can't get over him."

"Dawn, what's wrong with you?" She asks, starting to get out of bed. I shove her back down, hard. The drugs tend to enhance your strength in the last fifteen minutes by five times.

"Did you know I was in love with him? Did you have any idea how much it hurt to see you treat him like that? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH IT KILLED ME WHEN HE DIED?!?" I practically scream. She's staring at me, wide- eyed.
Seven minutes.
"It should have been you who died." I tell her, coldly, my voice barely above a whisper. She is frozen in place, unable to believe her baby sister is saying these things to her, Queen Buffy. Tears form in my eyes again, as I think of him.
Five minutes.
"But it will be." I put one hand on her shoulder, keeping her so that she is still lying down, and hold her wrist tightly as I pick up the blade.

But I don't even need to let her know who is in control, because she has closed her eyes tightly as if trying to deny what is going on.
Three minutes.
I draw the blade in a swift motion, cutting a hugely deep gash, making her crimson life spill out onto her white duvet. I do it repeatedly, some so deep, I'm half waiting for her hand to fall off.
Two minutes.
I lay down her arm, and reach across her for the other. She is whimpering slightly, but that's all. Which is good. No matter what Spike once said, screaming does not make it all the more fun. I mutilate her other wrist in the same fashion as the first. I can hear crying and I look over to the far end of the room. Tara is standing there with a tear- streaked face, but none are falling, and her eyes are pleading.

"Don't do this, Dawnie. It's wrong."
One minute.
I ignore her, even though I know she's right. I try to deny her words, take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, I gasp.

What the hell have I done?

"Oh, god, Buffy. I'm sorry..." I begin to cry softly at first, but soon the soft sobs have turned into huge, heaving gasps for air and I can't stop bawling. "God, there is so much blood." I press the bedspread to her bleeding wounds, but her blood soaks through almost immediately.

The next thing I know, Giles has burst into the room and sees us. "What the bloody hell is going on?" He shouts, running towards us. He picks up Buffy in a fireman's carry, and shouts; "Call an ambulance!" Buffy's eyes flutter as he starts towards the door, she smiles weakly at me, and I know that for some reason I'm forgiven.
Zero minutes.

Time's up.