Postcards From The EdgeOutward Anger
"Willow," Sheila's voice drifted up the staircase.
Willow emerged from her bedroom, her hair unkempt, her clothes baggy, and dark circles under her eyes. She slowly descended the staircase, her hand dragging along the rail. She regarded her mother, who held her Psychology Today magazine under her arm and a small package in her hands.
"Willow," Sheila tusked. "Really, you should take a break from studying. Give your eyes a break. Exams are over until after the holidays anyway. I know we don't celebrate it, but it is Christmas today after all."
"Was there something you wanted?" Willow asked weakly, ignoring her mother's advice, her eyes on the package.
"This came for you." Sheila held out a bundle wrapped in silver Christmas wrapping paper. Taped to the top of it was an envelope. "Your friends do know you're Jewish?"
"Yes, mom," Willow said, taking the package. There was no indication that it was delivered by a courier, and nothing was written on the envelope. "How do you know it's for me?"
"The man said so," Sheila said. "Said he was a friend from school. Really, you should tell him your Jewish."
"Next year," Willow said, as she began to climb the staircase.
"Oh, and by the way," Sheila began. "Your dad and I are going out to visit the Robinsons. Don't wait up."
"Okay," Willow mumbled.
Back in her room, she carefully peeled the envelope from the package. The envelope wasn't sealed, and she hastily lifted the flap and pulled out a postcard. On the front was a picture of the main street of Sunnydale at night, showing people drinking coffee in a popular coffee shop. She flipped the card over. There was no postmark and no date. She read:
Wash in every crook and cranny. I'll know if you didn't. Wear strawberry, like before; no underclothes, just what's in the package. When I come, you'll invite me in. I know you will.--S
* * *
She heard her parents yell goodbye over an hour ago. Willow didn't know why, but for the first time in months, she felt a thrill rush through her as she ran a hot bath. In the hot water, she caressed her pale skin, lathered and rinsed. She did the same with her hair and made sure to use the strawberry shampoo. And just to make sure no soap film lingered on her skin, she ran the shower while the tub emptied.
Never before had she been so acutely aware of her bathing ritual. She towelled off, and lazily moisturized her skin, enjoying the touch of her fingers on her flesh. She combed her wet hair repeatedly, shaping it and molding it into a style that, once it dried on its own, would look best.
Naked, she entered her bedroom and pulled from the torn open silver wrapping paper, a long gown of turquoise satin. She held the slippery material against her chest, and shivered at its touch. She gathered the fabric to her face and inhaled deeply. It smelled of musk and incense and time. It had been worn before, and though the chill of the room was beginning to affect her, she held it to her for a few more moments before slipping it over her head.
Willow looked at herself in her dresser mirror, and as she began to twirl, watching the full length skirt swirl about her legs, something tapped at her window. She jumped and swiveled about. Her heart thudded. It was all she could hear above her shallow breaths.
She moved to the balcony doors of her bedroom. With trembling hands, she pulled back the drapes and caught movement of black in the darkness. Taking a deep breath, she opened the balcony doors. The cold winter air rolled into her room. Out of the darkness, a familiar person stepped forward and pressed against the invisible barrier to her bedroom.
"If the Slayer's here, I don't really care," Spike mumbled in a low voice. "I expected you would tell her; I'm prepared." He tapped a finger against his skull, indicating he had thought every possible contingent through.
Willow shivered. She couldn't move. She couldn't talk. She stared into his blue eyes and saw another kind of coldness, the flicker of his demon, stalking back and forth, waiting to gain entrance into her room, into her emptiness.
After a long moment of silence, Spike regarded her inquisitively, noticed that she wore the gown he sent. "You alone, Red?"
Willow nodded. "I in-invite you in."
Spike furrowed his brow, scented no deception on her part, and stepped into her bedroom. He scanned the room, saw his postcards on her desk.
Willow didn't move, staring ahead of her, out into the dark winter night. The coldness crept around her.
Picking up the postcards, Spike fanned through them, flipped them over and read what he had wrote her. His words stirred memories and his fierce anger burst forth. With both hands, he swept the top of her desk clean, sending books and pens and papers cascading to the floor.
As he was about to grab Willow, a piece of paper caught his attention. It was addressed to him. He picked it up and quickly scanned it.
"And all this time, I thought you and the Slayer might be plotting against me," Spike said. "Do they even know about the postcards?"
"S-some of them," Willow whispered. She hugged herself against the cold, started to wonder if she was doing the right thing. Deep, deep down inside, she knew it was wrong, but she couldn't seem to care.
"Bloody lovers," Spike shouted. "Is it really worth it? Dru, she still, she still makes me so angry, I want to break things." Then Spike thundered about Willow's room, knocking dolls and knick knacks from shelves, and then picking up a paperweight, hurtled it at her dresser mirror. The glass shattered.
Willow shook, but she did not move. She simply waited. She waited for Spike's anger to descend on her, the way it had descended on all the other redheads he tortured and killed. She shivered and trembled and listened to the vampire rampage through her bedroom. He tore down paintings and pictures from the walls, pitched her bookshelves and kicked her books, and smashed her computer on the bathroom floor, but not once did he touch her.
At last, tired of the tirade, Spike stepped over a toppled chair, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close. His touch was oddly gentle, and his eyes danced over her hair and the turquoise dress.
"All this time," he said, as he leaned in and smelled her neck, her fear. "I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong." He brushed his lips over hers, and Willow shuddered at their coldness. "The ones I practiced on, they all turned out wrong. Just messes of bruises and cuts and blood, I kept thinking I didn't have the right canvas."
He kissed her neck and nudged her toward him. Willow obeyed, stunned by his tenderness, waiting for his fists and his threats and his pain, but they never came.
"It was me, see," he continued, his voice becoming liquid. "I was the element out of control." He stared into her eyes, brushed his lips over hers again, then pressed them firmly against hers. "If I hadn't gotten so violent, just showed a little restraint with my anger, I would've had better luck." Spike paused a moment, and with one hand, brushed away a damp strand of hair from her neck. "Still, you're the original Will. You'll be the masterpiece. I promise."