Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. It's very sad. All credit for the characters goes to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Not me. Damn.
Distribution: Are you kidding? I'd go insane with joy. Just tell me where, so I can watch and gloat.
Spoilers: BtVS Season 5: The Gift
Author's Notes: Buffy's falling, dying, and reflecting. Send feedback with love (or without...)
Slayers don't scar. We get hurt, we get sliced open and bashed and thrown against walls, but there are no marks on our skin. Until, of course, the day we lose. And then we do not heal, we go to our lonely graves (maybe) mourned only by a lonely Watcher (perhaps), covered in wounds. Sometimes missing a limb. Two. Sometimes the grave is empty. Every once in a while there is no grave. But the skin is flawless. The mole, our mark of birthright, is our only imperfection, and as it represents such a grand cause, I hardly think it deserves a negative connotation.
But I have scars. My doctor doesn't see them and my mother never wondered if the blood on my clothes came from wounds inflicted by demon-monsters. Not quite surprising. I'm dying, and now I can see my scars. It's a long fall. Very long. Enough to ponder stupid things and come to abstract conclusions. Kind of like sex, actually, right before spiraling into ecstasy. A moment of clarity. Always something new, every time. I'm on the brink, pleasure shooting through me, and I realize something. But anyways, back to this dying thing. Sex and death. Death and sex. Intertwined. And suddenly I have this picture of the claddaugh I never found years ago and its partner, and they're wrapped around and into each other, swirling, curling, changing their shapes. Like a lizard, or dragon. It probably means something, something inspirational and brilliant and insightful, but I never did well with symbolism in English class. Doesn't matter now.
I have a scar on my neck. Angry puppy. Dying angel. Doesn't matter. It's my only physical one, and I treasure it. Because sometimes it can remind me that I was human, still am. Not immortal, not invincible. Death is my art and my gift, and I give it freely, and now I am tasting it on my tongue like Angel tasted my dying. Death is my gift, and sensual, sexual, passionate pleasure is my art. I gave it to Angel and he lost himself and found a monster. I showed it to Riley and he abandoned everything to find its sweet taste again. Spike thinks he lusts after it, but he knows nothing. I keep it hidden from the others. They don't know. They shouldn't know. Because they are human and fragile and their skins holds scars and bruises and won't heal. I am a Slayer, and I can take the pain and survive and face the same pain tomorrow and the day after and the day after until eternity comes. But they are not such beasts of burden (not such beasts) and they will not wake up one day.
Slayers cannot have friends. I had friends, because I was hybrid. But one day hybrids fail, and scar tissue leaks away, and it is too much. And I'm still falling. I love you all. I won, and I'm falling again. One day, my friends, my Watcher, my family, my lovers, you too will fall. And I will catch you, so you will not have scars.
Distribution: Are you kidding? I'd go insane with joy. Just tell me where, so I can watch and gloat.
Spoilers: BtVS Season 5: The Gift
Author's Notes: Buffy's falling, dying, and reflecting. Send feedback with love (or without...)
Slayers don't scar. We get hurt, we get sliced open and bashed and thrown against walls, but there are no marks on our skin. Until, of course, the day we lose. And then we do not heal, we go to our lonely graves (maybe) mourned only by a lonely Watcher (perhaps), covered in wounds. Sometimes missing a limb. Two. Sometimes the grave is empty. Every once in a while there is no grave. But the skin is flawless. The mole, our mark of birthright, is our only imperfection, and as it represents such a grand cause, I hardly think it deserves a negative connotation.
But I have scars. My doctor doesn't see them and my mother never wondered if the blood on my clothes came from wounds inflicted by demon-monsters. Not quite surprising. I'm dying, and now I can see my scars. It's a long fall. Very long. Enough to ponder stupid things and come to abstract conclusions. Kind of like sex, actually, right before spiraling into ecstasy. A moment of clarity. Always something new, every time. I'm on the brink, pleasure shooting through me, and I realize something. But anyways, back to this dying thing. Sex and death. Death and sex. Intertwined. And suddenly I have this picture of the claddaugh I never found years ago and its partner, and they're wrapped around and into each other, swirling, curling, changing their shapes. Like a lizard, or dragon. It probably means something, something inspirational and brilliant and insightful, but I never did well with symbolism in English class. Doesn't matter now.
I have a scar on my neck. Angry puppy. Dying angel. Doesn't matter. It's my only physical one, and I treasure it. Because sometimes it can remind me that I was human, still am. Not immortal, not invincible. Death is my art and my gift, and I give it freely, and now I am tasting it on my tongue like Angel tasted my dying. Death is my gift, and sensual, sexual, passionate pleasure is my art. I gave it to Angel and he lost himself and found a monster. I showed it to Riley and he abandoned everything to find its sweet taste again. Spike thinks he lusts after it, but he knows nothing. I keep it hidden from the others. They don't know. They shouldn't know. Because they are human and fragile and their skins holds scars and bruises and won't heal. I am a Slayer, and I can take the pain and survive and face the same pain tomorrow and the day after and the day after until eternity comes. But they are not such beasts of burden (not such beasts) and they will not wake up one day.
Slayers cannot have friends. I had friends, because I was hybrid. But one day hybrids fail, and scar tissue leaks away, and it is too much. And I'm still falling. I love you all. I won, and I'm falling again. One day, my friends, my Watcher, my family, my lovers, you too will fall. And I will catch you, so you will not have scars.