Guilty But Insane
And I won't say
That he shouldn't have paid
But momma
It wasn't my bullet
- Tori Amos 'Little Amsterdam'
Willow is a person that sees ghosts.
Sometimes separate, sometimes a single being. Sometimes she cannot tell where one ends and one begins, but she knows that there are only two. Only two.
Sometimes she feels undeniable love and lust, and sometimes loathing so strong she can taste it, like metal and bile in the back of her throat. She cries cold tears at night because she does not know which is which is which.
Willow is a person that feels ghosts.
But only if they wish it so. She wears the white blouse sometimes, and the when she runs her fingers down the cotton, she can feel the crusted bloodstains, even though the material is pristine and white. She can smell the burnt flesh and gunpowder and hear the scream that Tara never screamed and sheds the tears she never shed.
She can feel Warren's rage and frustration and his anger and pain, like a tight black spiral in his gut and she can understand. She feels dirty because she can understand. She washes her hands but the gun-smell sticks and she hates and loves him, for she can understand.
Willow is a person that knows ghosts.
They are both so important to her; to who she is and was and ever shall be. They etched her lifeline in the heavens and nothing shall ever be free for her again. They dictate her daily routine, and she tries to please them so that perhaps they will stop wailing in her head...
Just for a moment. Please.
She floats through life these days, almost as a phantom herself. No one much speaks to her anymore, and she does not mind. She does not wish to disturb anyone. She has those that love her, even though it makes her cry inside.
The love is real. It is brute and black and fierce and bloodstained, but it real.
And Willow is not really a person anymore. No, not so much.
Because while Willow's ghosts feel and care and rage and love, Willow doesn't do much of anything these days.
Willow is not much of anything, anymore, these days.