Pairing:basically Spike centric
Warning:Early season seven of BtvS
Spiraling Down
The voices had become companions to him as he remained in the dank and filthy sewer; cowering futilely against a roughened wall.
They weren't all talking to him, but they were. Every sound faded seamlessly with the rotten perfume of garbage emanating delicately into the closed interiors.
He didn't much mind the stink, though; it kept the ghosts at bay. It served as some sort of horrid repellant against them, he observed. Seemed like even hallucinations didn't take too well to the smell of rotting filth. Even they had some dignity to preserve, and Spike had let dignity slip away from him some time ago.
Whenever a new vision of death wisped into his field of view, he'd cower against the walls, waiting for the lurid shadows to filter away, and trying to make himself small and unnoticeable by enfolding his body into a fatal shell. And making himself small was unbelievably easy. He had never felt smaller in his entire existence.
Through the concrete above him, Spike could hear the dull throb of a corner pocket's juke. Heart was soulfully singing "These Dreams" and Spike vaguely pondered why he couldn't wake up from his own. If nightmares were just dreams, then his reality was no better.
At one moment, the cacophony of voices was so intense that he could swear his ears were turning to liquid. Actually, his mind was as well.
Had he thought that he could fully repent and redeem himself with his new spark? Was he as stupid as he'd proven himself to be not just a few weeks ago?
See, the problem wasn't that he couldn't handle the nasties of his past, but the problem was that his soul wasn't shiny enough. The spark was already fading. Already old.
It had lost its ethereal and otherworldly glow some time ago; the remnants of it hung restlessly around his neck like a discolored colored pretty, pearl necklace. Staining his outsides like blood red wine and slowly seeping in. He was tainted and contaminated more worthless than before. But his worthlessness had some type of fanciful arc to it now. It mocked his efforts and laughed at his poor state. How cruel, how ironic.
The shrill quality of his own laughter abruptly was lost as it echoed and reverberated a thousand times off the walls. The lonely sound stung a million times deeper since he was the only one the sound could fall back on with gentle force. The only one who heard.
He trails the dirty water through his fingers and puts his soiled fingers to his lips. The deep color of blood oddly comforting just as the figures standing before him are now .He feels exalted without knowing why. And they're speaking; for once, he can't hear them. Better to be blind and never see them again, but the diverged metronome is best enjoyed while the silence prevails.
Haunting eyes of coal and wicked green. If you can't be heard, then why be seen.
Share the slaughter of innocents with another man. For we're all innocent, however much we've sinned.
Forever, destiny, and a burning sweetness . If it tastes of golden ashes, then how can it be pure?
If you can't find the absolution that you yearn for, then burn sweet Willy; burn, burn, burn.
Glide over the chariot and light the day. Fire's safe, and only burns when the spark won't stay.
Burn, sweet Willy; burn, burn, burn.