A crimson pool so warm and deep
Lulls me to an endless sleep
Your hand in mine - I will be brave
Take me from this earth
An endless night - this, the end of life
From the dark I feel your lips
And I taste your bloody kiss

- Type O Negative, "Bloody Kisses"

Marlboro man's lungs. Funny, a Brit like me having such a passion for the cowboy way. The desperados, with names like Rooster. Shane. Wild Bill. Spike. Guys with True Grit. "Fill your hands, you son of a bitch." God, I love that movie.

These are the kinds of things that run through your head when the woman you love leaps to her death in front of you. Every stupid thing you ever thought of hits you all at once, and you want to laugh, but then, a thousand years or three seconds later, it all goes away, and she's still dead, and the tears roll down your face before you realize it, and you feel them, splashing wet on your hands. That's when your brain and your heart catch up, and you start to cry.

It's days, weeks, months, maybe millennia later, it doesn't matter, and I still haven't stopped. She's on her way to wherever it is heroes end up when the curtain falls, and all I can do is sit here and cry.

No more. Claw yourself up off the floor, you ponce. You sound like some bleeding dime-store romance novel. All broody, lamenting your lost love. You know who you remind me of?

No, don't say it. Don't you dare, you bastard. I'm nothing like him. He had it. He had it all. He had the fucking sun, the stars, and the moon in the palm of his hand. And he walked away from it. Holier-than-thou, for the greater good, he walked away from it. I'd die for what he had, and he just tossed it to the wind. Better for her, he said. I wonder how many times he had to tell himself that before he could get on his horse and ride away, always the chivalrous knight. Ever the angel.

No more. No more brooding, no more crying… Tears don't do a hero justice, and you owe her that (and so much more). Somebody's got to fight the fight, make the world a better place. Only, you never were much good at that sort of thing. You always made things worse. Say what you want about Drusilla. She always had your number, mate. She always told it like it was:

"You're a killer. Born to slash ... and bash ... and, oh, bleed like beautiful poetry."

Yeah. I am a killer. It's all I was ever good at. And so, I'll kill. I'll hunt, and I'll catch, and I'll tear and shred all the colors of the rainbow. I'll find them, the things like me, the things that go bump and snarl and scream in the night. I'll find them like she would, only I won't do them quick. I'll make it last. I'll make it hurt. I'll make them pay. I'll make it so the few that walk away see the Big Bad every time they shut their eyes from now until eternity, if I let them live that long.

I find my catharsis early in the evening. Two of them. Vampires. Like me. I don't have any weapons, but I don't need them. Just fists and fangs, and the first one's down and I'm on him in an instant. The other starts to run when she sees me tear his throat out, but she doesn't get far. She's young and scared and I'm old and quick and I cut her, dragging my teeth long and slow down her neck and across her shoulder. I dab my finger in the wound and lick it clean, grinning wildly, like the mad poet I've always been. I hurt her some more, and then I let her go. I look her straight into her eyes, down to where I imagine her soul should be, and I tell her, real intimidating like: "If you want to go on pretending to breathe, you'll tell everyone, every vampire, demon, and second rate freak show you come across that Spike, William the Bloody, is looking for them. And if they don't want to wake up choking on their own fluids, they'll either fuck away off, or come for me first." And I speak slowly: "Did you get all that, love?" She nods.

"Good. Now off you go."

And I get all playful, leaning against a tree with my eyes shut, counting like it's a game of hide-and-seek. I hear her feet pounding; she's running faster than I ever have. And I start to laugh. Because I know, for every one of them smart enough to just pack up and go, there are ten who'll fancy themselves big enough and bad enough to take me down. And for a second, I think: "Now I know how she felt. What it is to have the whole night come alive, howling for your blood."

But, no, I'm not her. Whatever comes, I've given it an engraved invitation. She never asked for it. It asked for her. It demanded every ounce of her precious life, and she gave it. She jumped, and she's been falling for years. Sooner or later, Slayer or not, she was bound to hit, and hard. But she saved the world. Again. And that's what heroes do. They make everything right. But I'm no hero. A thousand years or three seconds from now, it'll all go away, and she'll still be dead. And good ol' Spike can't ride off into the sunset like the cowboys do, or he'll blow away with the tumbleweeds.

No, I'm no hero. I'm just a killer looking for something to kill. Because for that instant, when you're face to face with death, and you feel its hot breath, and it runs in warm rivulets down your chin, it's all ok. You're the dashing prince. You're the knight in shining armor. And the woman you love is alive and well somewhere, covered in luxurious furs and awaiting your triumphant return.

Because I can't live anymore without that false hope… because death is all I have left… because I'm a killer… the blood will flow like wine.

And I grin and show my fangs to the moon.

The End