Magenta
You'd pushed for the sheets decorated with the roses. The ones that were on sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond, a steal at forty-nine ninety nine.
"It'll be like sleeping on a garden," you'd exclaimed a little too loudly in the aisle. The old lady examining the satin sets beside you had left abruptly.
"Only, whose to say we'll be doing much sleeping," you'd added, dropping your voice to a whisper. Tara had been pushing the shopping cart patiently while you'd scoured the shelves.
She'd giggled and grabbed your hand, leading you across the aisles to the solid sheet sets.
"How about magenta?" Tara asked. She'd glanced at you sideways with the 'kicked puppy' face she'd perfected lately - which you knew she'd stolen from the Summers sisters, Dawn in particular.
She didn't really have a reason to want the sheets, but you'd given in anyways. You always did.
And you had to admit, the sheets were sexy to sleep on. That is, when the two of you really slept.
The sheets are still with you. Occasionally, you'll shape them to fit a female form but most the time they're lifeless as a body.
Tara's body. You remember cradling her head in your arms and whispering "ohbabynogetupbaby" in a steady mantra.
You breathe in the scent that is Tara's mixed with the stagnant scent of blood. You refuse to wash them, to remove the remnants of her that are seeped in.
Buffy comes in daily, as you stare endlessly at nothing. She talks animatedly about things you don't comprehend because it isn't then, it's now and Tara's no longer here. She draws open the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight, but you'll draw them closed as soon as she leaves. You don't know why she bothers.
"Willow, I registered for classes again today. I can't believe Dawn's beginning high school soon. Willow, there's a new evil on the loose and Willow why won't you look at me and Willow, I think we're losing you, and please won't you let me wash those sheets."
Her words come out in a constant stream. You don't hear any of them, except for 'sheets'. You clutch them protectively, a vibrant security blanket.
You'd think Buffy wouldn't be so worried about blood, but it's always about blood even when it's the Slayer.
"No," you say defiantly, simply. Buffy only shakes her head and leaves. You wonder how crimson the blood would have appeared on the flowered sheets which were white and easy to stain.
You wonder what everyone in the household thinks about you and your reaction to Tara's death. They speak of dangerous side effects and warn each other to check up on you constantly because let's face it, you're a killer and can you really reform?
And you wounder if they realize how much you're hurting and if they know that soon, their sheets will also be streaked with magenta.