A Witch's Journal
Part 1: Betterment
October 17, 2001 Tara gave me this beautiful, blue journal a while ago. She said I should fill it with all my "big brainy thoughts". She is the sweetest. I didn't know what to write in it until now. It seemed wrong to fill it with grief and false hope. Maybe I was afraid I would jinx it. I was terrified that it wouldn't work. But it did. We brought Buffy back. I don't want to talk about that yet. Let's just say she wasn't happy about it. It was probably wrong of me to expect to be heaped with praise and gratitude. I know it's not wrong to want to see her smile, and to see Dawn smile, and have things be good again. While I sat on the edge of her bed she asked me some questions about school. I chattered. Then I told her how much I missed her. She said, "I'm here". But she isn't. I just want her to be happy. I'd settle for just being able to talk to her like we used to. Instead she is spending a lot of time with Spike. She seems comfortable with him. That's not a good sign. He is kind of nice to her. But he is still Spike. I didn't want to say anything. Buffy seems kind of fragile. She isn't herself. I can't just blurt out whatever I think. It's like everything hurts her. I feel like she is trapped behind glass but when I tap on it all I do is make her jump. I don't know what to do except keep an eye on things. They were talking outside. Spike was doing that boyish thing, where he looks down at the ground and kicks at things. Buffy looked still, pale, thin, vulnerable. I couldn't hear them. I didn't stop watching until Spike left. I remember his teeth on my neck and, that other time, the broken bottle and the threat. I can't always be there to watch. Buffy is turning to him more and more. I am convinced that there is good inside Spike, and Buffy needs that, I guess. It's all the rest that worries me.
New And Improved
October 26, 2001
Willow walked in slowly, moving the creaky door an inch at a time. She looked around letting her eyes adjust to the dark.
"Hey, it's me, your friendly neighborhood Willow. Just stopping by, you know, like I never do. Hello!"
She heard what sounded like a whimper.
"Spike? I was just wondering if you were feeling any different. Maybe a tingling sensation? Or a sudden urge to support Greenpeace? Become a vegan? Spike?"
There was only silence. Willow couldn't see him in the dim light. Tricky shadows filled the corners of the crypt. By saying a few words, she made a blue flame appeared at the tips of her fingers. Then she heard a shriek.
"God help me!"
"Spike?"
She still couldn't see him.
"It's called a Cool Flame, or bla, bla, bla something in Latin. It doesn't burn. It wouldn't even burn you. Come out."
"Please leave me in peace."
"Spike?"
It didn't sound like him.
Willow moved toward the source of the voice. Hidden behind the slab, a figure huddled in a corner.
"I'm not mad. It's a dream," he said in a refined English accent.
Willow got closer.
"Not real," he said, looking ahead, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
"It's OK."
He looked up, glasses fogged under curly brown hair.
"My name is Willow. I won't hurt you."
to be continued
