She was always cold. Now. For some reason. Chills seemed common place now, not even fazing enough to shudder. He was gone; a void had been carved into her soul, an emptiness she had never recognized before now. She shivered, even now, in front of the warm flames; she was almost numb with cold. Maybe it was the place. His former home, the place that he’d left empty. Nothing in any corner, amazing that he had left so quickly and yet left nothing in his traces.
She stared, focusing and unfocusing her eyes upon the flames that danced and twisted, fiery reminders of where she was. A ghost, taunting her in wicked movement and flicker. This was what was left, of him, her Angel, a desolate mansion with unending halls and chilling echoes of the past that reverberated in the walls. She swore she heard them, voices, clanging, Buffy, Angel, crying, deep and sharp gasping, crackling, deafening reminders, but nothing to hold. She heard herself, him, the last time she felt him. ‘I can’t leave you. I was wrong…I need you.’ How much she wanted those words to be for her, ‘I need you.’ With every fiber that she was, she needed him, or a concrete piece of him. Something to hold to her body, to wept over, just something to make her feel again.
It was like losing a part of herself; her nerves seemed to desensitize, to undo their own making, to block all feeling, except the cold. Her brain was slower to function, or quicker, depending on your view. Returning her from a daze took longer. But she could feel emptiness, more than anything. Happiness was dulled and lifeless, a picture of perfection that seemed untouchable, but emptiness, a lone void, a deep pothole in her heart, or mind, or body, whatever you would view it as. She needed to fill it, with something. That’s why she was here, to find something to hold, to touch, to be real.
She finally rose, her dreamlike trance still blurring her mind. Pictures, she knew them, so familiar…She walked down the hallways, dazed, in a long daydream that she couldn’t stop or leave from. That’s how it always was. An illusion, it all seemed, so hard, and cold, and real, but not reality. Turning in rooms and looking, she found nothing. One final attempt and a sigh. She entered the last door, flipping the switch up and creating blinding light from above, she preferred the dark. But she saw, finally, as if in strategic position, a book she had seen Angel with hundreds of times. She always wondered if he read or just pretended to, as a way to ward off the people, the presence he thought he didn’t deserve, to look and be more somber. She never knew, never would.
She placed a pale hand on the cover, making sure it was real and not
another phantasm she had created, so many turned out this way. But it was
cold, she knew it had to be real. In her dreams, things were warm, happy,
mocking her existence, but this was cold, a disheartening truth she knew
too well. She picked it up, dusty, tearing at the edges, running her fingertips
up along the binding, fascinated with the ancient spine that seemed to
crumple under the pressure of her nails. Finally deciding to open it, her
fingers fell under the cover and pulled it aside. A title, an author, a
page, an inscription: ‘Angelus Liem, 1749.’ Simple, perhaps. But a solid
remembrance was held in her hand. Carefully pulling apart the pages, she
began to read.
LA:
Angel shouldn’t have left, well, it was the right decision in his mind, to get away from Buffy, she was not his temptation, but his grief. A welling sadness surged through his long dead veins. Not for Buffy, no, never for her, but for Willow. The sweet innocence was almost painful to be around; knowing he was evil and she was chaste, and that she’d never be his. That was Angelus’ fascination, her purity of heart, to see if he could break it, possess it, destroy it. Purity was a toy to him. But not to Angel, it was a divinity, a thing to strive for, but what he could never achieve. He couldn’t have her, deserve her, yet he was completely in love with her.
He looked again, the sketch that his demon had created. Willow, asleep. All he had left were the memories, and this, the image of her asleep, and beautiful, a ridiculing token of her naiveté, her sinlessness.
“Oh, forget it man,” Doyle’s voice broke through his reverie, “No woman’s worth the brooding. Just forget her.” Doyle laid a hand on his shoulder.
Angel looked down sadly at the small sheet of paper he held in his hand, “I can’t,” His voice filled with unexpressed anguish, “I can’t ever forget her.”
THE END