Title: Hell on the Body (*Please* read the warning for this story) I wish I could say just how long I've been here, but the truth is, I have absolutely no idea. Days, weeks, years -- all those familiar words have no meaning here. In hell, the only unit used to measure time is eternity.
And I'm stuck here for every last second of it.
I wish I could say that, deep inside, I knew that sometime this day would come. After all, I am...was?...am a vampire. Undead. Unholy. I guess in the end, I was spoiled by the whole concept of immortality. Like human teenagers who ignorantly believe that they will live forever; I, too, fell victim to that same kind of naivete. Just stick your head in the sand, Angel, you're immortal. It won't happen to you.
But it did, and here I am. Sentenced to hell for the rest of eternity. No deposit, no return. Game over. Sentenced with no possibility of parole. Even eighty years of penance was only a drop in the bucket for the other hundred plus years of evil I inflicted on the world.
Hell sure isn't at all what I expected. Growing up Catholic, I heard more than my share of stories about what awaited sinners after they 'passed on.' Imagine my surprise when there were no flames of fire, no stench of brimstone, and no pointy-tailed red-devil to cackle gleefully as I cry out in horror at the atrocities inflicted on me.
The reality is so much worse than I ever dreamed.
I can do nothing to prevent the sobs that wrack my body as I think about my child-like preconceptions of this place. What I wouldn't give for the heat of fires raging uncontrollably around me. Anything other than the cold, empty darkness that now surrounds me as I dangle here from the chains binding my wrists over my head.
I'm not alone in this void, though. No, I have a demon to keep me company, and it's not just any demon. My own personal tormentor is none other than the demon that has shared my body ever since the night that Darla changed me. Here in hell, it's not trapped inside me anymore. It moves around freely, joyfully punishing me in revenge for those years the gypsy curse enabled my soul to keep it in check.
And it uses all of it's new found freedom to torture me endlessly.
Once again, it's seems as if I'm something of a rarity. Out in the real world, thanks to the curse, I was a vampire with soul. Here, thanks to a couple of high school girls, I'm a soul that's still anchored to a body.
It must have been my demon's lucky day when it realized that it had both a body and a soul to torment. Nothing like a two-for-one deal. Terrific.
A searing pain drags me back from my mental wanderings. It's a feeling I know all too well, that of razor sharp talons ripping open my flesh from neck to belly. As the copper-tanged scent of my own blood fills my nose, I scream until my vocal cords are raw and bloody. The demon just *loves* to hear me cry out, whether in pain, or sorrow, or just plain outrage at my fate.
I've lost count of how many times this has been done to me since I've been here. The worst part is I know that it's going to happen again and again for the rest of eternity. Maybe it's some property of hell, or perhaps it's simply the quick healing properties that come from being a vampire, but my body always manages to heal itself without needing to drink blood.
My voice is gone now, the burning in my throat a mere drop in comparison to the flood of agony coming from my chest. As tears fall uncontrollably down my cheeks, I wait for that inevitable moment where the pain receptors in my brain short out from the overload. As it is, I don't have to wait too long until the pain dulls to a constant throb and my consciousness fades to gray.
My head slumps forward until my chin is resting upon my chest. I feel a strange air of detachment as I look down on the damage that has been done to my body with an almost clinical eye. Bones and other vital organs that were never meant to see the light of day (so to speak) are visible under the thick layers of blood that drip down my naked body.
The strangest thought pops into my head through the mental fog clouding my consciousness; a memory of a movie I saw called Braveheart. In the final scene, they torture the hero of the movie in a somewhat similar fashion. I only remember this because of a comment that Willow made at the time.
It happened back before the curse was broken and Angelus returned. We all met up outside The Bronze one evening, only to discover that it had once more been closed for fumigation. With nothing better to do, Buffy, Xander and Willow decided to go to rent some movies and watch them at Willow's. Not wanting to intrude on their plans, I hesitated as they turned and started to walk away, already discussing what they wanted to see.
"What about you, Angel?" Willow asked before she turned to look over her shoulder at me. Seeing that I hadn't yet moved from my original spot, she stopped, bringing Xander and Buffy to a halt as well. "Angel?" she questioned in that hesitant way of hers, "a-aren't you coming w-with us?"
I froze, not sure of what to do. Did I want to go with them? Desperately. But I'd always been careful to not intrude on their lives outside of 'slayer business' any more than what was absolutely necessary. I could feel the look on my face, the same frightened expression that so many of my victims had worn in the past. Sensing my hesitation, Buffy came to my rescue. With an air of casualness, she walked over and linked one of her arms through mine, pulling me forward to join them before I could mutter an excuse to go my own way.
Of all my memories of the past hundred years, that particular night will always remain one of the most special. No, it didn't have the air of satisfaction that came from defeating the Master, or the super-nova brilliance of the night Buffy and I became lovers, or even sick betrayal I felt when Buffy ran me through with the sword and sent me to hell. What I remember most, and what makes that one night so dear to me, was just how...*normal* it felt.
Renting Braveheart had been Xander's idea, but given that it starred Mel Gibson, Buffy and Willow readily agreed. I'd never seen it, but even if I had, I wouldn't have objected. I was too happy to be included to care.
The four of us ended up sprawled in Willow's living room. Buffy and I were on the couch, her petite body leaning against my chest with her legs curled up on the seat beside her. Xander and Willow sat on the floor in front of us, happily nestled into a sea of throw pillows. After raiding the kitchen at the halfway point of the movie, we were surrounded by enough junk food and soft drinks to supply a small convenience store.
Looking back on it, I can't figure out if there was any one particular thing that made that night so special. We laughed in the appropriate places, the girls oohed and aahed over Gibson's 'buffness,' and once or twice Willow pointed out a historical inaccuracy or two. Of course, Xander being Xander, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to take an occasional pot-shot in my direction, especially given that Buffy was curled up against me like cat at a scratching post.
At one point, Xander made a crack about me painting myself blue and riding into battle. To my surprise, it was Willow, instead of Buffy, who jumped at the chance to defend me.
"Geez, Xander, Angel's old, but he's not *that* old. William Wallace lived centuries before Angel was even born."
"Oh thank you, Alex Trebek," Xander retorted.
"Xander, you might know that, too, if you ever realized that Monday through Friday, that hour you consider nap time is actually a history class," Buffy joked.
"Besides, Angel's Irish, not Scottish," Willow added.
I didn't let Xander's little barbs bother me, though. Instead, I did my best to ignore them and simply enjoy the evening. By the time the movie ended, both Buffy and Willow were reaching for the box of tissues.
When the movie was over, Buffy and Xander got into a rather heated discussion over whether or not the movie had too much romantic stuff in it. Not wanting to get into the middle of *that* argument, I gave Willow a hand cleaning up the empty bags, bowls, and glasses that were scattered throughout the living room. As I followed her into the kitchen, she commented that I really didn't need to help her, but thanked me anyway when I said I was raised to be a polite guest.
The next thing I knew, fresh tears were sliding down her cheeks. Not sure what was wrong and with no clue as to what I should do, I awkwardly put a hand on her shoulder and asked her what was the matter. Setting down the remaining glass she carried, she wiped away the tear-tracks on her face with the back of a hand. The gesture was so innocent, it left her looking more vulnerable than I'd ever seen her. "I just don't understand how, when there's so much real evil in the world, people can be so cruel to one another."
I could only shake my head sadly as I looked deeply into her red-rimmed eyes. "People don't need to be possessed or vampires to be evil, Willow."
"No, they don't," she agreed. Then she raised those bright green eyes of hers to meet my own, as if she defied me to deny whatever she was about to say. "But then again, vampires don't necessary need to be evil, either, do they?"
"Willow...I...," I was too surprised to voice the objection that automatically came to mind. In the end, it didn't matter. Even if I hadn't been tongue-tied, my words would have halted as soon as she raised her hand in a classic 'stop' gesture.
"Angel, no matter what you've done in the past, you're one of the good guys now. You've saved all of our lives at one point or another. I mean the number of times you've saved Buffy alone should qualify you for some kind of medal..."
I was astonished! She was defending me again, and this time against my own self-conscience. In that instant I thought back over all the times she'd done the same thing -- defending me to Xander, to Giles, and sometimes even to Buffy. Almost from the beginning, she did her best to include me in their circle of friends -- an invite to the Bronze here, a game of pool there -- just making sure that I felt wanted those times I did show up wherever they happened to be. She'd not only given me help when I asked that time with Buffy's 'friend' Ford, Willow had also invited me into her house without question. That's when it hit me: this girl was a true friend.
Willow continued speaking as I was drawing my mental conclusions. "...I mean, look at the movie, they made William Wallace a knight or whatever, and he was fighting for his own people. You fight other vampires because you know it's the right thing to do..."
I couldn't prevent the wry smile that crept onto my face at her outrageous comparison. "I'm no William Wallace," I insisted.
"No," she replied simply, "you're you. He held out through fifteen minutes of torture. You fight the demon inside you every minute of every day and, if you ask me, well, that's a whole lot more impressive."
I only had to look at her face to see the sincerity and honest belief in her words, and it was enough to make me feel as if I could walk on water. Not knowing how else to express my gratitude, I just grabbed her into the biggest, friendliest hug I could manage. I could tell that my reaction frightened her by the way she instinctively struggled for the briefest of moments. Only then did I realize that she was probably terrified by the close proximity of my mouth to her neck. Wanting to put her at ease, I whispered a quiet 'thank you' into her ear and relaxed my grip so she wouldn't feel trapped. Once she figured out what was going on, I felt her arms, which had been flailing uselessly, settle tentatively on my back.
"You're welcome, Angel," she whispered.
Less than two weeks later, with the demon once again in charge of my actions, I began a campaign to terrorize Willow, one that almost ended up with her death by my own hands. She gave me her trust and friendship, and I turned both of them against her. Now, as I think back on my actions, I begin to cry. How could I have done that to her?
The crack of a whip and the pain of it striking my skin brings me back from my mental musings. I have no idea how much time has passed since I grayed-out. It could have been minutes, or it might have been days. A quick glance at my chest shows that the gashes there are only about halfway healed, if that's any indication.
The repeated lashes against my back make it difficult for me to concentrate. The leather cutting open my flesh jumbles the thoughts in my head -- pain, William Wallace, Buffy stabbing me, freedom, strangling Willow -- it's all mixed together along with the image of Willow and me standing in her kitchen. Like the gentle sound of a clear stream, I hear her whispered words from that day echo in my mind.
"You're you...and that's a lot more impressive."
The strokes are coming faster now, and I can feel the blood running down my back where the lashes have broken the skin as the words repeat in my thoughts like a skipping record.
"You're you...and that's a lot more impressive."
Somewhere amidst the agonizing pain in my head, I think about William Wallace and Willow.
"You're you. He only held out for fifteen minutes... and that's a lot more impressive."
I haven't cried out yet, a fact which I know infuriates the demon. Right then and there, I make a conscious decision *not* to give into the urge. I will hold out. I will do this in penance for trying to kill Willow. It's no less than I deserve.
The demon is going crazy now, every stroke is ripping apart the flesh on my back. The pain is incredible, and yet I'm not fading out like I normally do. I want to scream, and I end up literally biting my tongue to prevent it from happening.
I. Will. Endure. This. For Willow, she deserves no less.
More lashes and more pain. My mouth is filled with the taste of my own blood. Yet, I refuse to give into it. I will endure it -- for her...
...until finally I can take no more.
My screams echo in my head as I begin to curse in outrage. I scream at my demon for tormenting me, at God and every force of good I've ever encountered for forsaking me, at Jenny and all the Rom for their curse on me, at Darla for changing me, at myself for being foolish enough to be seduced by Darla in the first place, at Buffy for sending me here, at Angelus for trying to open the Hellmouth, at Xander for not giving Buffy the message he'd been sent to deliver, at Giles for not finding some way to stop Angelus before it was too late, and last of all, I curse Willow for giving me back my soul and with it, my conscience.
As that last part leaves my lips, I begin to cry. I'm sorry Willow, so sorry. I didn't mean it. I swear it. I never meant to let you down.
finis
Author: JR
Email: JRR42@yahoo.com
Rating: I'm going to say 'R'-ish for some heavy duty topics
Episode spoilers: 2nd season
Status: Complete
Archive: Please ask first, I usually say yes.
Archive category: Angst, friendship
Disclaimer: Angel, Willow, et al, are the property of Joss Whedon, the WB. All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.
Warnings: Oh, you betcha. This is a very dark piece, one that contains torture, angst, and plenty of Angel owies. If any or all of these topics don't appeal to you, then hit your delete key now. Please don't flame me, you've been warned...
As always, thanks to Heather, not only for beta reading, but for jumping over into a new fandom cause I want to play here for a while
Archive summary: Angel's thoughts while in hell