Postcards From The EdgeDay of the Dead
November 28, 1999
Dear Spike,
Hello Spike,Spike,
You won't actually get to read this, because I don't know where to mail it. It doesn't matter though. Writing this is purely an act of temporary insanity, and if I don't do something, I feel like I'll fall apart entirely. Or, I'll start crying and won't stop. I don't know, maybe I should. Get it over with. But I don't think I'm ready yet. Too many emotions to deal with all at once.
Today is Thanksgiving. It's late now, almost tomorrow. Buffy forced us to eat a turkey dinner made entirely from scratch, and then we were attacked by the spirits of Shumash Indians. I guess that's pretty normal for Sunnydale. I would have stayed at Buffy's afterward, or returned to the dorms, but today is Sunday. I needed to check up on the house, go through the mail. I didn't really feel like being around anyone anyway. Glad my parents aren't here.
Got your latest postcard. I see you're still in Mexico City. The kids on the front, dressed as skeletons, their dark faces painted as skulls, I shouldn't have expected anything less from you. The Day of the Dead festival sounds very interesting and fun; I only wish you hadn't told me about the twin redhead girls you plucked from a tourist group. I imagine their terror, and my stomach clenches. You're a bastard, but you know that. You're a vampire, and I shouldn't expect anything less.
Oddly, my reaction to your postcards does not come as a surprise. I expect to shudder, to be drenched in dread, and to despise you for who you are. I think that's what I like about your postcards. I can't believe I just wrote that! But you see, you threaten me, torment me, try to frighten me, and although I am threatened, tormented and terrorized, I expect it from you. Sometimes, I almost anticipate it. Oh Goddess, what's wrong with me?
Depression. At least, that's what my psych text tells me. It states that "anger turned inward manifests as depression" and that "anger turned outward manifests as violence". So I'm depressed. What do I have to be angry about, you ask. Quite simply, Oz. You see, he did something to me I never would have expected. In fact, he did two things.
I'm so disappointed, so hurt. I'm all a rage and my head hurts. Oz cheated on me. First and foremost, he cheated on me, and blamed it on his werewolf aspect. Then, secondly, he left town. I think I'm still in a state of shock. I don't understand. What gives him the right to do that? Okay, so he cheated. It hurts. I feel betrayed and all, but people work through these things. They don't just up and run away from it, from their mistakes. He forgave me for kissing Xander in the warehouse that time, you know; I'm sure with time, I'd forgive him too. But now, he hurts me and then by going away he doesn't give me a chance to heal. It's like I have this gaping wound, and the person who could stitch it closed has turned his back on me. I hate him! I hate Oz! And now I feel guilty for hating the guy I love. How can that be?
I thought it strange that, in your postcard, your would ask me how I felt. I suppose you expected me to say terrified, afraid for my life, or something of that nature. Truth is, I feel powerless. Oz took away my power to help fix our relationship, and you, well I can't tell you to stop writing postcards, 'cause you will anyway, so that makes me feel powerless too.
I must be depressed. It's like all my energy has been sapped. I can't see the point of anything. It takes all my will just to get up in the morning, to shower and brush my teeth, to breathe. Sometimes at night, while lying in my bed, I hold my breath to see what it's like not to breathe. It's kind of peaceful. Death's reprieve.
They say sleep is kind of like death. My psych text also says that some people respond to stress by sleeping a lot. That I have been doing in large doses. Less time awake, means less chances of my brain thinking, or my heart stirring up strange concoctions of emotions. When I can, I try to come to the house instead of going to the dorm. The silence here helps. Back at the dorm, the life and laughter and energy around me feels like its seeping into the emptiness inside me and flooding me with all kinds of emotions I can't handle right now. So I go to a place that is empty and enjoy the equilibrium of the emptiness. I float, don't think about much, and sleep.
Oh my brain's a whirl. I see the postcard, children smiling, playing at being dead. The Day of the Dead. For me, it's been the Week of the Dead. First Oz carving out a deep wound and leaving me bleeding; it's just a matter of time before I'll bleed to death. Then the spirits of the Shumash, wrongly slaughtered so many centuries ago, outraged by their extermination. I think of the twins you've slain, wonder how much pain you inflicted before they died.
There's so much suffering just by breathing. No wonder we celebrate death.
LoveWillow