Postcards From The EdgeAnger Inward
Dear Diary: December 17, 1999
For the umpteenth time today, Buffy asked if I received any more postcards from Spike. Xander asked. Giles asked. I've been bludgeoned by questions today. I'm surprised I'm not bruised by it. They kept talking to me, asking me all kinds of questions. Wish they could just let me be. Of course, I told them about Spike's last postcard, but since Thanksgiving, I haven't heard from him. It's been just over half a month now. I guess perhaps the novelty has worn off.
I still haven't heard anything from Oz. He hasn't written or called. It's like suddenly he doesn't exist anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I dated a ghost. Sometimes I feel like a ghost.
This morning, I started running a hot bath. I was sitting on the edge of the bath, and I just started weeping. The pain inside me wanted out, but I didn't want to let it go; it's all I have of Oz. And I cried and I sobbed, and I remember thinking, I am a wailing ghost. In the world, but not of it. Backgrounded. Wallpaper. Faded. There's just nothing inside me that I have left to give, except my pain, and nobody wants to hear it.
Except Spike. Sure, vampires need blood, but what they really crave is pain and suffering. I suspect that my pain would be like a vitamin for him.
Hold on, I think I hear the postman...
Nope, just a salesman, so I'll just pretend no one's home. Nobody is. Only emptiness. It's a good place to be. I am feeling comfortably numb. The pain in my belly is gone, rising out of me in painful gasps, moaning, but finally free. I won't imprison that pain anymore, that ball of grief and anger and sadness. Numb now. No feeling. I'm floating in still air...
Now that was the postman.
Three of them. Postcards. Each dated a day a part, but delivered at once. Why would the post do that? What's wrong with them? Can't they do their job right? Now, I have three cards from Spike to deal with at once. And they're all from Los Angeles. One showing the cityscape during the day, another showing the cityscape during a colorful sunset, and the third showing the cityscape in the dark of night.
Here's the first one, Los Angeles in daylight...
Willow Rosenburg, 1213 Elm Street, Sunnydale CA
postmarked December 13 1999 - Los Angeles, CaliforniaMet up with an old friend. Well he's not a friend really, and he's not old anymore. He's very dead, and I finally got back something he took from Dru years and years ago. It was her favourite doll. China and chipped paint. Caught myself a Red tonight. She's not you, but she'll do.--S
Los Angeles at dusk...
Willow Rosenburg, 1213 Elm Street, Sunnydale CA
postmarked December 14 1999 - Los Angeles, CaliforniaTrying to make this Red like the doll. China she's not, but I've chipped her paint; knocked her in the mouth, broke a tooth. She just wouldn't stop screaming; couldn't concentrate. Red's finally stopped squirming. Ropes've done too much damage, so I won't be using them on you. And silk's to slippery. Sometimes I wish they could just lie still. Cooperate. Let me do my work in peace.--S
Los Angeles at night...
Willow Rosenburg, 1213 Elm Street, Sunnydale CA
postmarked December 15 1999 - Los Angeles, CaliforniaThe Red's dead. Smashed the doll. I decided it wouldn't do for you. No, you're special. You see, you've got nothing to do with Dru; the Slayer does. You're a way to get to Blondie, that goes without saying. But you're mine, a chokecherry, blood wine, vanilla and strawberry. Plucked and torn and tasted. You will be my masterpiece. Just my way of saying thanks for listening. It was bloody human of you. --S
Diary, I'd give anything to feel terrified right now. I'm afraid that if Spike were here, I wouldn't move. I'd cooperate and let him work in peace, but I can't seem to care.
My heart's thumping in my chest, and I can't admit I feel anything. I can't, because a small part of me is thrilled, that someone would be willing to cause me pain and ultimately provide the ultimate cure to it: \death.
I can't tell Buffy! I can't!