I'm free...after five years, three months, and eighteen days, I'm finally back in the game. It's wicked cool to look out the bus window and see the world whiz by, like I'm watching life on fast forward. I really need the change after so many years of the same old shitty routine, day in and day out. Everything looks brand new, like I've never seen it a hundred times before. I'm grinning like a spaz, but I can't help it. I never thought I'd get excited looking at cows, and trees, and motorhomes driven by old men in plaid hats!

It's funny all the things you take for granted, until everything is taken away.

Like Pop Tarts. God, I loved Pop Tarts! The blueberry kind, with the little sprinkles on top, hot out of the toaster. Closest thing to cooking I ever did. I missed munching on Pop Tarts while curled up in bed watching MTV, waitin' for the new Green Day video to play. Made me feel like a normal kid, instead of what I really was.

I was...am...a Slayer. There's nothing normal about being a Slayer. I mean, I never had a Brady Bunch childhood anyway, but getting tagged as the fucking Chosen One really killed any chance I had of being a regular teenager. Instead of sneaking smokes and hanging out behind the Quik Stop like I wanted to, I was busy slaying vampires, demons, and monsters and wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

I used to think my childhood was terrible, filled with over friendly uncles, empty cupboards and empty stomachs, and a mom chugging Chivas at 8:00 in the morning. But once you slay a Ploordak demon whose just been chomping down on somebody's face like he's eating fried chicken, you start thinking that maybe an empty stomach ain't so bad.

Slaying...it's been a long time since I've done any of that. The only kind of monsters in prison are the human kind. Killing demons, good. Killing people, bad. That's where I screwed up. I got so wrapped up in slaying everything that tried to kick my ass, the line between right and wrong got really blurred. Death seemed like the easiest way to deal with anything that hurt me. Killing was the only thing I was ever good at, and what did that say about me?

But that was then. I'm different now. I've had five years to clear my head, and realize what's important. It took a long time, and a lot of bizarre little dreams with that mud-faced chick, for me to finally figure out what being a Slayer is really about.

I don't know how to describe Shitface; she was a total head-trip. She never told me her name, so that's what I called her. I think maybe she was a Slayer way back when people were all Clan of the Cave Bear, there wasn't any shampoo, and the closest thing to Maybelline was rubbing bird crap on her cheeks. I figured I'd drunk some bad prune-O the first time Shitface entered my dreams. Talking with her was like being on 'shrooms, everything distorted like a Nine Inch Nails video, and nothing she said made a whole lotta sense.

The first few times she started bugging me, I screamed at her to go away. Just leave me alone, so I could sit in my cell and rot to death, do penance for my whopping truckload of sins. I never went to Sunday school, but I'm pretty sure I committed four or five of the deadly ones. But Shitface kept coming back, and the dreams were so vivid, so...mystical. It was like she was trying to guide me.

In the visions, she reminded me about my responsibility. Being a Slayer ain't just about getting super powers, I've got a sacred duty to use 'em. Not to get my kicks, like I used to, but to actually make a difference. Shitface got me to face up to my gifts. I have to be the Slayer again. Not because the Geezer Council says so, but because people really need me. Buffy's gone, so the task of protecting the world lies in the hands of an ex-convict. Kinda scary, huh?

I told Angel about the dreams. Angel understands me better than anyone else on this planet, 'cause he's crossed the Evil County line, just like I have. I guess you could say he's kinda like my sponsor in the Recovering Homicidal Maniac twelve-step program. He'd visit me often, which I liked. Broke up the monotony of life in jail, helped me work stuff out, and he got to be a pretty good friend. That meant a lot, 'cause I can count the number of friends I have on one hand and still have enough fingers left to pick up a bowling ball.

I have another friend, one I've been wanting to see for over a year. Xander. If you'd told either one of us five years ago that we'd get to be tight, you'd have heard a big "yeah, right" from both of us. Not after all the shit I put him and his friends through. Not after I tried to kill him. I regret that I'll never be able to make things right for Finch's family, and that I couldn't patch things up with B before she died, but at least I got to apologize to Xander. He surprised the hell out of me by actually forgiving me. I don't know if I would've done the same, if our positions had been reversed. We started writing each other, and it felt really good knowing that I was able fix a small part of all the stuff I royally fucked up.

Xander couldn't visit as often as Angel, but he never forgot me. Because of him, I always got a Christmas present, or a card for my birthday. I really dug all his letters, because they meant someone actually gave a damn about me. Just knowing that I wasn't alone in this world meant more than any gift he could possibly buy.

We wrote about anything and everything. How crappy our parents were...the best B-movies...Scooby Gang gossip...the latest monster to hit Sunnydale...all our hopes, fears and dreams. Xander explained the best way to eat Oreos in order to minimize black cookie mouth. I taught him how to steal a Honda using a screwdriver. He also wrote a lot about his wife, Anya; sometimes about their sex-related arguments, but mostly about how happy they were together. With all the darkness that surrounded our lives, I was glad that Xander had found his shining light in Anya, but I also couldn't help wondering "what if" It's true what they say...all the good ones are married, undead, or gay.

I owe those two men everything. Angel gave me the strength to face my inner demons, and Xander gave me hope that my life could get better. I changed, all 'cause of them. I got my peace, now it's time to get down to work and prove myself. Hopefully make my guys proud.

I'm on my way back to Sunnydale, and I can't wait to see Xander. Not sure if I'm going to stay yet...I'm crossing my fingers that he wants me to. I got worried when the letters stopped six months ago. He's never gone that long without writing me, so I hope nothing's up. He doesn't know I've been released yet, so I hope he likes surprises!

…to be continued…