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✷
For normal people, a 10 PM call was nothing out of the usual.
Maybe it was a family member calling to check in. Maybe it was your best friend, about to ask you if your parents would let you sleep over last minute.
But for the Meeks—Macher family, it brought nothing but dread.
"Buffy, I've told you to silence that thing a million times." The father sneered at his daughter next to him, peeling his eyes away from the screen to shoot her a look of disapproval. "It's movie night."
"I did." The brunette frowned, reaching for her phone with furrowed eyebrows. "But there's an option to override it for emergencies." As she flipped it over, her screen lit up with an image; her and Wes beaming, pointing finger guns at the camera with the title "BLONDE BOY HICKS!!"
"Who's calling?" Juno leaned over his sister's shoulder, furrowing his eyebrows. "Wes. It's Wes." He hummed, nodding at his parents.
"I'm gonna answer it. Just in case." The teenage girl hummed, pushing herself away from her family. Her finger hovered over the green button, pressing down nervously.
"Shit, Bufs— something happened." His voice was hoarse and rushed, the sound of sniffling ringing through the speaker.
"Wes? Wes, is everything okay?" Her voice was high-pitched, adrenaline and fear running through her veins.
"Tara— she—" Heavy breathing was heard, the rushing noises of the hospital behind him.
"What happened to Tara? Wes, spit it the fuck out." Her white—knuckle grip on the phone faltered, placing her hand on her chest for some stability. There was a churning in her stomach, ignoring the questions from her family behind her.
"Tara was fucking attacked— like, butchered— by someone in a Ghostface mask."
Oh.
Oh.
Without thinking, she hung up. She stood there, eyes wide and terrified as it washed over her.
The curse that had followed her family for twenty-four years had finally caught up to her. Caught up to Tara. Her parents. Her uncle. Gale. Ellie—Marie. It all washed over her, bile rising in her throat.
She almost didn't make it to the bathroom, ducking her head into the toilet before everything spilled out of her. Years of fear, and nightmares, and ghosts had come to fruition.
The girl gripped the white lid as she dry heaved, suffocating sobs coming out in between the release of her anxiety. There was no room to breath— not when her father was holding her hair back, or when her mother stood at the doorway asking what was going on with fear in her voice. She thought about their scars; her fathers shoulder, her mothers stomach. The deep gashes, years and years of running. Their own daughter serving as a painful memory of Stu Macher and Rebekah Loomis.
Everything came out of her, sputtering as she squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe if she kept her eyes closed, it wouldn't be real.
After what felt like hours, she felt herself pull away from the bowl as she fumbled for the handle. She watched it flush, a blank stare.
"Buffy, baby—" She could hear the fear in her fathers voice as she turned to face him, blurring his features together. His questions only made her feel sick, guilt rushing through her veins. "What happened?"
Her throat was on fire, eyes glazed over with pain and worry. "I can't—" She swallowed thickly, closing her eyes. "I can't— I don't know how—"
"Just say it, Buffy. Please." Randy pleaded, shaking his head as he pulled his daughter close to his chest.
"Tara—" her throat closed up, eyelids fluttering shut. "Ghostface— Wes called me to tell me— I don't know if she's alive—"
It didn't take her parents long to put it together, watching as her mother leaned against the doorframe for support. Buffy had never felt smaller in this moment, letting her father pull her impossibly tight.
After all, he needed it more than she did.
✷
"You don't have to go."
Randy Meeks stood in the doorway of his daughters bathroom with tired eyes, inhaling sharply. "I'm not gonna make you. I get it."
"Dad. Please." The brunette croaked, dragging the brush through her head. "I can't stay in this house alone. I need to be there for Amber and everyone else."
She watched her father sigh, worry hidden behind eyebags and pursed lips. "Fine. But I'm driving you and picking you up. If you need me to get you, just say the word and I'm there."
Her smile was weak, "Thanks, Dad."
It was much worse than they thought. Much more brutal. It was nearly impossible that Tara had survived, taking stab wounds to the stomach, back, and a slash to the chest. The killer had also snapped her shin in half, and stabbed through her hand.
When Buffy closed her eyes, she saw it.
She didn't get much sleep.
Quite frankly, she didn't know if she even could show up. She looked like a wreck, lips chapped and her fingers bitten to stubs. Eyebags that could carry groceries, and enough Hydroxozine in her to kill a small child.
Still, she pulled her hair back, and stared at herself in the mirror.
