Authors note: This is set well.before the episode Lovers walk in season
three. It is after Drusilla dumps Spike. And a personal side note I forgot
COMPLETELY that in Joss Whedon lore, the vampire has no reflection, and for
part of this tid bit I needed Spike to see his reflection. That is all.
The first thing he saw when he sorely opened his eyes was a blinding white light. His first thought beyond the drum hollow beating pain was "I've died and gone to bloody hell, or was it heaven?" A slight shudder at that thought. The ground on which he was sprawled was hard and cold and rough. Squinting, Spike tried to roll over ignoring the various protests of pain entrenched through out his body. It was then that things around cleared into focus. He heard the droning hum from the cheap florescent lights over head and the stale smell of dirt was sickening.
Spike appeared to be in some sort of warehouse. Flecks of industrial blue paint everywhere and the walls were scrawled with graffiti. Reading lazily "The once was a girl from Regina.." "Oh, bugger it all," he thought. Sitting up from the concrete floor, and grabbing at his trophy, the black duster like a security blanket, he knowticed how small the room he awoke in was.
Gingerly he hoisted his aching body from the floor. Reeling and dizzy he slapped an unsure hand onto a sturdy wall for support. When the woozy feeling had died down, it was then Spike knowticed the crimson under his fingernails. Turning his hand over he saw to his slight suprise dried blood smothering both of his shaking hands.
Spike, delirious, could not remember how the blood came to be there. He stood transfixed, staring at his stained hands. Until a light flickered snapping him back to reality.
Slowly he made his way over to a cracked mirror over a grim encrusted sink. Placing his hands on the sides of the mirror. Spike raised his eyes to stare at first blankly at the man in the mirror. In the piercing light, there stood him, in pristine white shirt and drawstring pants, barefoot, a blank expression on his face, drenched and daintily splattered in blood. "Kind of like Mr. Polluck exploded" he mused. A bewildered ghost with sharp contrasting dew drops of human blood in his dishevelled peroxide hair. Inhuman sapphire frosted eyes stared back at him. He positively glowed.
It was then he laughed. It all came back. Laughing gleefully, enough to make the dust fall from the plastered dank walls.
Laughing and running to the rusty sliding doors. Laughing as he struggled to push them open with much groaning on the doors part.
Laughing as he took in the sight. Ten, Twenty, Fifty, Laughing bodies intertwined, like bits of broken china, men, women, laughing children, beautiful in death.
Laughing till he fell. Hands splashing in a long cold pool of blood. It running gracefully downs his naked pale arms. Out bloody, damn spot out! Realisation.
Laughing into screaming.
Poet turned monster.
Lover turned killer. Leave here. Go back to the light. Go back to the pain, there you will find peace. Laughing peace.
The first thing he saw when he sorely opened his eyes was a blinding white light. His first thought beyond the drum hollow beating pain was "I've died and gone to bloody hell, or was it heaven?" A slight shudder at that thought. The ground on which he was sprawled was hard and cold and rough. Squinting, Spike tried to roll over ignoring the various protests of pain entrenched through out his body. It was then that things around cleared into focus. He heard the droning hum from the cheap florescent lights over head and the stale smell of dirt was sickening.
Spike appeared to be in some sort of warehouse. Flecks of industrial blue paint everywhere and the walls were scrawled with graffiti. Reading lazily "The once was a girl from Regina.." "Oh, bugger it all," he thought. Sitting up from the concrete floor, and grabbing at his trophy, the black duster like a security blanket, he knowticed how small the room he awoke in was.
Gingerly he hoisted his aching body from the floor. Reeling and dizzy he slapped an unsure hand onto a sturdy wall for support. When the woozy feeling had died down, it was then Spike knowticed the crimson under his fingernails. Turning his hand over he saw to his slight suprise dried blood smothering both of his shaking hands.
Spike, delirious, could not remember how the blood came to be there. He stood transfixed, staring at his stained hands. Until a light flickered snapping him back to reality.
Slowly he made his way over to a cracked mirror over a grim encrusted sink. Placing his hands on the sides of the mirror. Spike raised his eyes to stare at first blankly at the man in the mirror. In the piercing light, there stood him, in pristine white shirt and drawstring pants, barefoot, a blank expression on his face, drenched and daintily splattered in blood. "Kind of like Mr. Polluck exploded" he mused. A bewildered ghost with sharp contrasting dew drops of human blood in his dishevelled peroxide hair. Inhuman sapphire frosted eyes stared back at him. He positively glowed.
It was then he laughed. It all came back. Laughing gleefully, enough to make the dust fall from the plastered dank walls.
Laughing and running to the rusty sliding doors. Laughing as he struggled to push them open with much groaning on the doors part.
Laughing as he took in the sight. Ten, Twenty, Fifty, Laughing bodies intertwined, like bits of broken china, men, women, laughing children, beautiful in death.
Laughing till he fell. Hands splashing in a long cold pool of blood. It running gracefully downs his naked pale arms. Out bloody, damn spot out! Realisation.
Laughing into screaming.
Poet turned monster.
Lover turned killer. Leave here. Go back to the light. Go back to the pain, there you will find peace. Laughing peace.