Author: ophelia11
Rating: PG-13 for pottymouths and innuendo. Strong chance for naughtiness later on.
Disclaimer: The story is mine. The characters are not. :(
Feedback: Pretty please? Please leave feedback on the Impulse thread on the Kitten Board.

Get busy living, or get busy dying. - Andy Dufresne, The Shawshank Redemption

Willow walked in to the police station hoping that she looked braver than she felt. Her simple black suit was constricting and gave the impression of walking in to her first job interview. Even with her hair pulled back, she could feel the beads of sweat forming along the base of her neck.

From the entranceway, her eyes darted around the room until they landed on the main desk. She approached cautiously, half expecting a pack of hungry lions to leap around one corner. Her mouth was dry and when she attempted to speak, only a muffled squeak came out. Smiling nervously, she tried again. "Excuse me. I was hoping to talk to someone about an open case."

Behind the desk sat a heavier set black woman with her eyes focused on a computer screen. The tag pinned to her pale pink sweater said, 'Beverly'. Thin, square framed glasses rested on the tip of her nose, with a simple chain extending from the arms to secure them around her neck. When Willow spoke, Beverly didn't immediately look up. The keys tapped for another 30 seconds before she shifted her concentration. "I'm sorry, what?"

Willow shifted her weight nervously, "I have an open case. I thought I could talk to someone about it?"

Beverly eyed the small woman carefully. Through the expensive suit and exaggerated make-up she saw a scared girl. Her eyes softened, "Is this an active case?"

She frowned, "Um...I...I don't know. I was..." she swallowed, hoping to push down the growing anxiety. When she spoke next, her voice held more conviction. "Last year I was attacked and the person that did it was never found."

A sympathetic smile came to Beverly's face as she examined the woman before her. "Given the time that's passed, I imagine that would be a cold case by now. Detective Ehlers works in that division, but he's in a meeting right now." She noticed Willow's distraught face. "If you give me your name I can get him a message."

"That would be great," she said with relief. "Rosenberg. Willow Rosenberg."

She jotted down the name. "Have a seat, Miss Rosenberg. I should warn you it might be a while."

"I don't mind." Willow gave her an appreciative smile and took a seat on a nearby bench.

For the next two hours Willow waited patiently on the hard wooden bench. Her attention wavered between her own daydreams and the bustle of activity around her. During that time she was reacquainted with aspects of the city best left forgotten or ignored. A uniformed officer led a tall, lanky man in handcuffs through the area.

Jet black hair was greased back and shiny curls brushed against the collar of his short-sleeved navy shirt. It was left unbuttoned, revealing a grungy white muscle shirt beneath. His cargos hung loosely on his body, held up by a cheap belt tightened to its last hole. While the distracted officer was faced away, he squinted and blew Willow a kiss. She felt an involuntary chill roll down her spine and fought to keep her body motionless.

Cold, dead eyes looked through her and his lips spread to reveal an ugly yellow smile. Every part of her wanted to look away, but the strong, defiant woman she once was told her to keep her gaze steady. Once he was passed, she blinked several times as if that alone could erase his dirty image.

Several times she reached for her shoulder bag to make sure it was close. The longer she waited, the more she tried to pull in to herself. When it felt as if she could take no more a dark haired man in his early thirties approached the bench. He appeared slightly disheveled in worn dockers and a pale blue button-down shirt. If the wrinkled fabric was any indication, it was already a long day. Sleeves were rolled up to his mid forearm and his tie was loosened around his neck. "Are you Miss Rosenberg?"

Willow stood and found herself eye level with his chest. "Um yeah. Call me Willow."

Smiling down at her, "I'm Detective Ehlers, but I prefer Tony." Gesturing with his head, "C'mon this way."

"Thanks." She followed obediently, keeping her eyes carefully focused on his back. He led her through an open room filled with desks, bulletin boards and a large dry-erase board. They continued down a wide corridor with a number of doorways on one side. Stopping at one of the opened doors, he waited at the entrance until she passed by him. It took little guesswork to know it was an interrogation room. She pulled out a chair and winced slightly when the metal legs scraped across the concrete floor.

Once she was seated he closed the door behind him and moved closer. "I'm sorry I don't have a better meeting place." He took a seat opposite her and set down an olive green folder on the table between them. "Most of our business is...well...unpleasant."

Willow sighed, "I'm a little too aware of that."

The detective nodded and placed his hands over the files before looking at her carefully. "So what is it I can do for you today?"

Without directly answering his question, Willow cocked her head to one side and furrowed her brow. "Why is my case cold after a year?"

His eyes drifted to the window across the room while he determined the best way to answer the question. Turning back to her, he spoke with a low, soothing voice. "Honestly, ma'am? Most cases go cold in a matter of days. It doesn't mean we're not interested in solving it. Too often there just isn't enough evidence to warrant an active investigation."

"Oh," she answered slowly. The explanation made sense, but did little to ease her mind.

Thoughtfully, "There hasn't been any recent activity if that's what you're checking. You know the same information that we do."

The redhead frowned, "W...what is that exactly?"

Tony looked at her carefully. Her green eyes were lost and full of sadness. Somewhere in them he saw how much she needed this time with him. Though he hated doing so, he flipped open the folder. Along the inside cover were various Polaroids of Willow's bruised and battered body. He quickly covered them with papers and glanced down at the police reports. "Until your attack, there was no concrete evidence of a crime...other than the nuisance calls. Those originated mostly from pay phones or a prepaid mobile phone."

Willow swallowed hard, feeling herself thrust back in to her past. Unable to speak in that moment, she allowed her silence to serve as confirmation.

Noticing her reaction, the detective paused briefly before continuing. The details he recounted now came from memory rather than read from the enclosed notes. "There were obvious signs of violence in your apartment that night. Unfortunately, there wasn't any trace evidence that could be tied back to a suspect. Your neighbors didn't see anything..."

From far away, she spoke in a robotic tone. "The whole thing happened so fast. I don't think I had time to make a sound."

Concerned, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

She managed to nod, even as her heart screamed for her to stop. "I'm sure."

"As we now know, Jess Wilson really is an editor at Mandalay Publishing." Tony's eyes continued to watch her intently, looking for any small sign that he should stop. "With your assistance we determined that he was not your attacker and from all indications, neither of you were aware of the other. He's been cooperative from the beginning, though it seems that his only involvement was the use of his name."

"I still can't believe I fell for it," she said with disgust.

"Miss Ros...Willow. Con-men work hard on their stories and scams. Email hoaxes. Identity theft. The movie Six Degrees of Separation was all about using someone else's identity to infiltrate another person's life. You aren't the first to give credence to such a story. It was tailored for you to believe. Don't punish yourself."

"Thank you. You're kind to say that." Willow couldn't quite let herself off the hook, but she did hear his words and allowed them to ease her ache slightly.

"I know we had you sit with a sketch artist, but the rendering never tied back to anyone in the system. There just isn't anything else to investigate right now." Sighing, "I know this is frustrating..."

"Frustrating?" she said incredulously. "My sleeping habits are ridiculous. I barely go out at night. When I do, I'm a neurotic mess." Noticing his startled expression, she softened. "I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault."

"No need to apologize. I'm the one that's sorry. I wish there was something more we could do for you right now. It might help for you to talk about it. Not the facts and details so much as the experience. Get it out in the open?" He watched her nod dumbly. "Can we speak freely?"

Willow's eyes met the detective's soft, hazel ones. "Please?"

With an exaggerated effort he closed the file and pushed it aside. "The way I see it, you're at a fork in the road and there are two directions to go. One. You can forget. Not truly forget, but enough that you can move on with your life. Still be cautious, but let it go."

"And the other way?" Willow asked with interest, unsure whether she could follow the first path.

"Go home. When it feels right, go back over that time in your mind. Retrace everything you can. Did you know a traffic ticket helped to catch 'Son of Sam'?" Tony paused, allowing the suggestion to settle in Willow's mind. "After that, reconsider the first option."

The suggestions were not profound, but Willow was able to find solace within the words. "Thank you for your time, detective."

He nodded and stood, watching her do the same. "May I ask you something?"

"Certainly," she answered as she walked around the table.

"Why today?" he said simply.

One eyebrow rose in question, "What do you mean?"

"As you mentioned early...it's been a year. What made you want to come down here today?" He leaned against the table and watched her.

She shook her head and shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure. I've been on hiatus from my life for some time now. I think I'm just starting to realize what I've missed."

Satisfied with her response, he stood up and walked over to the door. He turned the knob and pulled it open for her. "Believe it or not, that sounds like a pretty healthy first step to me."

Willow smiled as she passed by him. "It's been a bit overwhelming."

They walked back to the main area together. "You should look over the bulletin board out front before you leave. There are cards for support groups, self defense classes, and all kinds of stuff. You might find something helpful."

"I know I keep saying it, but thank you. Not just for going over this with me, but for treating me like a human being. It would've been easy to shoo me out the front door like a pest."

Chuckling, "You aren't. I'm sorry if you were made to feel that way in the past." He paused near the entrance. "Now go home. Read through old letters, journals. Whatever you have. See if any of them trigger a memory. If they do," He reached in to a breast pocket and pulled out a business card, "then call me. My direct line is on there and my cell phone. They both have voicemail if I don't answer."

She accepted the card and slipped it in to a small pocket inside her bag. "I'll see what I can find."

"Don't be discouraged if you don't find anything. Come tomorrow, look ahead." When he looked at her this time, he seemed shy for the first time. "There are always going to be bad people out there, but there are good ones too. Go live your life, Willow Rosenberg."

The smile she gave him was genuine. She reached out and touched his arm with genuine affection. "Take care, detective."

Later that evening, Willow was secure in her apartment with the door locked and curtains drawn. She was freshly bathed and snug in a pair of flannel pajamas. Smiling clouds stood out against the bright blue background and wearing them always made her feel better.

When she arrived home after her visit to the police station she was too wound up to eat. Her mind raced in several directions and it took a lengthy soak in the tub to release her nervous energy. Now that she was settled in to her evening routine, her stomach growled.

She walked across the kitchen and pulled out a cereal box from the cabinet. After scanning through the dishwasher she found a bowl and poured a generous serving of Fruit Loops. She retrieved a carton of milk and covered the cereal until it neared the edge of the bowl. After returning the milk to the refrigerator, Willow picked up the bowl and carried it in to the living. She began eating as she walked toward the couch.

Her makeshift dinner was set on the coffee table and she looked around for the bag she carried earlier. It was casually discarded on the floor next to the front room table. Her cell phone poked out from the front pouch and she leaned down to retrieve it. She picked it up and pressed the number 5 speed dial and began to pace nervously.

There was a series of rings before a familiar voice greeted her to voicemail. She hesitated, unsure whether to leave a message when the beep jolted her back to attention. "Um...hi Ben. It's me. I...well...I know we haven't talked in a while. I also know that's mostly my fault. I just...I was thinking about you and kinda wanted to hear your voice. Dawnie's graduating soon. Hard to believe. We're planning a party so I'll let you know. Just...call me back when you have a few minutes, okay?" Realizing she was beyond rambling, she pulled the phone away and pressed end.

Shaking her head, she tossed it on to the table. She didn't regret the call itself, but wished she handled the message part better. Too late to change things, she shrugged it off, walked to the hall closet, and opened the door. A worn duplicating box was shoved in to the far corner and she dragged it out in to the open. It seemed heavier than she remembered and she struggled to carry it back to the coffee table.

One corner was ripped so the box lid came off easily. Setting it aside, her attention was fully on the contents. Several photo albums were lined up side by side. Toward the center was a smaller shoe box filled with cards and letters from those she loved most in the world. Next to them were a number of journals that easily dated back to high school. The varying patterns of their covers tied back to different times in her life.

Fingers trailed over the binding as if the memories could be reabsorbed through the simple touch. They hesitated over the last book, tucked away and forgotten for so long. It was always her best effort to finish a journal in time with her life. Sometimes one carried her through an entire year, while another may cross several years, but coincide with an important period of her life. The last one she kept was tucked against the edge of the box and its final entry fell some time before her attack.

Willow reached for her bowl and ate several large spoonfuls of her sugary cereal. Somewhat hesitantly she pulled out the final journal and sat back on the couch to read it. The opening cover page was dated nearly two years earlier and she struggled to remember exactly what was going on with her life at that time. Turning to the first entry, she began to read.

Just completed the editing process on the latest Rosen novel. Not sure how many more are in me. The publishers are eager to keep them coming, but I haven't a clue what to write next. Is it a bad idea to kill off the main character that made me rich? Sometimes I think I'd like to be done with writing. Business always seems to ruin the things we enjoy most. Then again, what else would I be doing?

Willow flipped ahead several pages, noticing the different colored entries. For all the years she kept a journal, she never managed to keep a pen nearby and was always at the mercy of whatever writing utensil she could dig up when the writing bug hit. Looking over them now, she smiled at the unusual rainbow that flashed by her eyes. She also had to chuckle at the different lengths of her entries. It was funny how she could feel so compelled to write something down, yet one entry would go on for pages and the next, barely a paragraph.

Her remaining dinner was soggy and no longer appetizing. She pushed the bowl further away and continued to flip through forgotten passages. Several dozen pages in to the book she paused to examine an entry. Her neat writing stared back at her in crisp, purple font. The date of this one was nearly six months after the first.

I'm afraid the story well may have run dry. I've been struggling with the latest book for months and all I have are a few disjointed scenes. Lately everything I've written feels like it's already been done before. If it isn't interesting to me, I doubt it'll be interesting to anyone else. It's the first time I've really started to feel pressured to write. Not a good feeling. :(

I met an editor from another publishing house this week working on an anthology of sorts. Different style of writing so I don't think it would be a conflict of interest. I'm not sure if I'm really interested, but I'll have to look in to my contract before committing. Right now I'm having a hard enough time with one story. I don't know if adding a second one to the mix would make things better or worse.

Willow continued reading, surprised how the series of entries brought her back in time. Emotions ran high, not only at the introduction of her eventual attacker, but simply remembering everything else that was happening. A year later, the pressure to write was ever present and she still had nothing to show for it.

Depending on her mood, one day's writing might be reflective or thought-provoking. The next would be a recap of the day. She read attentively, hoping to gleam a forgotten detail from her own words. It was toward the back of the book that she found something of potential importance.

I had mixed feelings about dating a potential editor. Gut instincts should be trusted more. Do you ever meet someone that just isn't a good match? Of course I write this to a book that collects my own thoughts so essentially I'm asking myself. Oy.

I'm just not looking for something serious and things are progressing faster than I'd like. Jess' parents died in an accident in high school which is hard for me to imagine. They were both teachers in Bridgestone so the whole thing was especially traumatic because it was shared with the whole town. J's sister (don't know her name) was older and already out of the house when it happened. They're still estranged. Not sure why I felt the need to provide backstory. Maybe to justify my thoughts. I get the feeling the attraction is less about me personally and more about needing someone to fill a void. Whatever the reason, I think it's time to break things off.

Willow continued to read without uncovering any more details. She felt the terror build as she relived the stalking in her own words. Though some memories were still vivid, others were locked away for so long. Even with some distance from the events, the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. The final entry was written several days before she was attacked and she was grateful for its end. She slammed the book closed harder than she intended, as if doing so would lock away painful memories. It was returned to its space in the box and she closed the lid on her past.

When she stood, her body protested loudly. During her investigation, kinks settled along her spine. She stretched and twisted, trying to work them out. She carried the box back to the closet and picked up her cell phone from the table to check the time. It was well after ten, but she decided to leave a message for the detective.

The phone rang twice before connecting to Detective Ehlers voicemail. Until the customary beep she wasn't sure exactly what she would say. "Um...hi Detective Ehlers. It's Willow Rosenberg. I did what you said. I didn't find much, but I may have a hometown. Bridgestone? I'm not sure if it helps. Let me know. Thanks."

She hung up the phone and returned it to the coffee table. For a few minutes she stood motionless, feeling the weight of the day still lingering around her. At once there was relief at her new discovery mixed with the ache of reliving her past. She breathed deeply, taking in the seriousness of the day and then letting it go. Exhaustion was settling in to her muscles and she reached up to squeeze the back of her neck. A yawn escaped and she was broken from her self-induced trance.

Curtains were pulled tight and most of the lights were already off. She picked up her bowl and carried it in to the kitchen. As she did every night, she walked to the front door to double-check the locks, knowing very well they were already secure. It was a habit she couldn't manage to break. Finding comfort in these small reassurances, she considered them foibles and accepted them with little difficulty.

The walk to her bedroom seemed longer than usual and her feet dragged heavily across the room. When she reached the comforts of her bedroom she didn't bother with the lights. In one smooth motion she pulled back the covers and crawled to the center before collapsing on her stomach. The king-sized mattress swallowed up her small body. One lazy arm reached behind, swatting at the covers until her fingers met the fabric. With a wild tug, Willow brought the blankets up and over her head. The clean, cottony smell of her pillowcase filled her lungs and relaxed her. Comforted by the soft warmth of her bed, she was lulled quickly in to a deep sleep.

Willow wanders the streets of Sunnydale. It's a shopping day and she's meeting Buffy. Or is she? She stands in the middle of the street, turning and twisting. Who is she meeting? Deciding to browse while she waits, Willow continues to walk down the middle of the street from the direction she came. The storefronts are well lit, though none seem familiar. A long time passed since she was home, but she can't believe all the changes. When she looks up to see the names of these new shops, she gasps. Certainly her eyes are deceiving her. Still, when she blinks and looks back they're all names of her books. Weird.

Willow stumbles forward, looking toward the shops ahead of her. Eyes drift over the signs, but the names are too blurry to read. With tight fists she rubs at her eyes and looks down. Her view of the street is clear. However, when she looks up to the signs again, they continue to be muddled. Out of the corner of her eye she sees someone on the sidewalk. Turning, she watches a blonde woman as she disappears around a corner.

"Buffy," she calls, smiling. Willow jogs over to follow. Unlike the shops behind her, the ones ahead are darkened. Their merchandise is elusive, but for the moment she doesn't care. Buffy can explain what's happening. Yet when she reaches the corner and looks down the next street, there's no sign of her friend. Confused, she looks around but finds herself alone.

For the first time she notices the silence and stillness around her. No car horns. No children laughing. The absence of sound echoes within her and she feels her own heart thundering harder. Even that is muted, making her dizzy. This time when she steps forward, the scenery around her doesn't move. Looking down at her feet, she realizes she's not moving. She picks up the pace, but still remains in place.

Panic creeps in from every corner of her mind. Shadows waver and swell, beginning to swallow up the shops. She looks down to her own feet, trying to find what's holding her in place. Weaving between her legs is a gray cat with long hair and penetrating eyes. There are no memories of owning a cat, yet the animal seems vaguely familiar. Its mouth opens to mew, but still no sound comes.

In a flash, the cat is running down the street and when Willow moves to follow, she's no longer frozen. Though she runs faster and faster, she continues to lose track of the mysterious animal. She rounds another corner in time to see the fuzzy tail disappear in to an alley. Her movements slow as she approaches. In this area, it's still sunny but she cannot see in front of her. Without sound, she isn't certain the cat is still here.

Standing in the entranceway she is once again paralyzed, this time by her own fear. A pressure needles into her chest and quickly spreads. She now hears the cat meowing somewhere in the recesses of the alleyway. Unable to press on, the darkness hovers around her, calling out like a siren and pulling her deeper. Though she struggles against it, the ground falls out beneath her. Consumed by the darkness, her lungs tighten and her limbs move slowly, as if under water. Fighting to escape or breathe only worsens her situation and she sinks deeper in to the abyss...