A Kindness

Buffy & Spike - [PG] - 30/09/2002

What can I say? I'm an optimist...

I lower my eyes to the dim concrete floor, my mind in such turmoil that it is ten times the pain of the cuts on my breast. My goddess of light, my beacon in the dark of my past soullessness, doesn't understand the sacrifice I made. And she is right, of course; I thought I would ascend into the light, that although I am mired in shadows, I could illuminate that darkness with the brightness of my soul. But the darkness is too strong, it has sullied my soul until it is barely the flicker of a candle in the pitch black night. Even the wan, dusty light bulb above my head shines brighter in my prison of concrete and metal.

When I look up again, my tormentor is still standing before me. She is now wearing white, and holds a jar and a plastic cup.

"I-I brought you some blood," she says, casting only furtive glances at my undeserving face. "Thought you might be hungry."

For one insane moment, I actually consider the possibility that she might be real. Maybe my sweet angel has heard of my sad state and taken pity on me, as she did when Glory tortured my demon. But that moment of kindness is the only one I can recall, and I must come to the conclusion that, like my tormentor, she is a figment of my imagination, torn from my unconscious by the despair in my battered soul.

"Who are you?" I ask nonetheless, intrigued by this apparition.

She looks sad and confused; I can smell fear on her sallow skin. "I'm Buffy. You saw me earlier, remember?"

I do remember. The apparition asked about my wounds, and now it brings me food. I entertain the thought that by communication, I might entice it to stay with me, that it might provide me with a glimmer of hope against the constant onslaught of the other, less pleasant Buffy and her nefarious consorts. But then I remember what I am. Nothing. I don't deserve hope. This apparition can be nothing more than a trap sprung by my tormentor, much as a torturer might invite his victim to a lavish meal after starving him for months, to finally break his resolve with one last act of apparent compassion.

"Don't bother talking to her, Sparky," says the man leaning against the wall beside me. "She can't help you, she's just a girl. I'm far more powerful than she'll ever be. Maybe you should just kill her now. It'd be a kindness, you know."

"Sod off!" I snap at him, losing my temper because I know he's right. "I'm not interested in your kindness."

The apparition looks upset. She places the jar of blood on the ground and looks as if she's going to run away and cry. But then, her face sets in resolve.

"Okay, I'll go. But I want you to eat something first." She doesn't look at me, but crouches down and concentrates on pouring some blood into the cup she brought.

She holds it out to me and the acrid smell seems to call to my veins. Yeah, could do with a meal. Can't be ranting and raving on an empty stomach. Bloody hell, look at me, don't even know which end's up these days. I grab the cup and drink it greedily; the blood is cold and nearly tasteless, but this'll get me on my feet. Then I'll break every bone in that twerp Warren's body and use his remains to batter the rest of them. They might be powerful, and I might be worthless; but a fellow's got to try, right?

"Tsk, you naughty boy, playing tea party with the Slayer," says Drusilla, sitting on the floor beside me. "She's all ice and sunshine, she doesn't understand you like I do. She looks at you and sees only shadows."

Oh, I've heard that record before. Over and over in my head and in these walls, till it's like a bloody drill pounding in my head. She doesn't see me, she doesn't love me, she'll never understand me. And why should she? She has better things to do with her time. I turn away and finish my cup. At least it'll heal the cuts on my chest and then we can start work on a different way of getting it out. Knowing my luck, I'll probably have to cut my arse open or something.

Feels good to get some nosh down me, though; makes me feel all mellow. I have had better meals, of course, meals which brought me the warmth and companionship of the people I loved. I remember sitting in the kitchen, perched on my stool, as I watched Cook and Rosie prepare our Christmas dinner. They let me have a sip of sherry, and laughed at the face I made.

"I don't have any sherry now," I tell my angel.

She looks puzzled and stands up to go. "I'm not sure if you understand me," she starts, her brow wrinkled into a myriad of furrows. "But I've got a job at the school now. It's only a couple of days a week, but I can keep an eye on the Hellmouth, and Dawn, and you, all at the same time. I'm starting on Monday. So I'll come back and check on you then, okay?"

Then she turns and leaves me alone in the dark, with my enemies and a jar of cold blood. I close my eyes, unable, for a moment, to contemplate my loneliness after the scant two minutes of hope I have enjoyed. But even if she isn't real, she has promised to come back. I will hold on to that pinpoint of light, that tiny star in the blanket of darkness that envelops me. After all, a fellow's got to try, right?

This story is copyright 30/09/2002 by Ariana. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the property of Mutant Enemy.

greatdju19

EdElweiss