Disclaimer: Joss owns all.
A/N: I was inspired randomly, but the idea would not take form, so I just started writing. This is what came into existence. It's supposed to be Spike reflecting on Buffy many years after her death. Thanks to Michelle for beta'ing. I appreciate each and every review.
Immolation:
What was it? What was it that made you hang on to her for so long, so desperately. Was it her face? Was it because she had the face of an angel? Was she your angel?
No. You don't think so. Was it because she was Good? Was it because she was like the flower trembling fresh and new on the vine? Was she the unopened bud?
No. You don't think so. Was it her hair? Was it the way her long, golden hair glimmered? You were always the vain type. Did you even love her? Was she your golden-love? Or were you her immortality? Were you there to be the immortality of a girl born to die?
No. You don't think so. Did she love you? Were those three words she said while you burned meaning a thing? Do you remember her hands? Such tiny hands. . .she couldn't have loved you. She was Good. You were an evil thing, are an evil thing. Was she salvation?
No, she was not salvation. Was it because she was so fragile? Just like a porcelain doll. All fragile and so easy to shatter, but she played tough didn't she? Do you even remember her the way she was? Can you remember what she was like?
It's been so long since she died. Do you even remember her face? Do you remember her shape, her form? Do you remember anything? Her hair. You offer that memory to your immolated mind. Sacrificed on the alter of her. Fatal sunlight. Those deathly rays falling, tumbling across your chest. Should it have burned?
What was she? Was she Good? Was she your angel? Was she the freshest flower on the vine? Was she your life? Was she salvation?
No.
She is your dementia. She is the Slayer of your soul. She is the loudest voice in the back of your head. She is your condemnation. She is your Punishment. She is The Sun, only she keeps burning you long after she is gone. How did she die anyways?
Did someone slip their fangs into her neck and drink her soul? Did she escape her fate and die in bed surrounded by grandchildren? Did she bleed to death alone, her own stake buried in her stomach slowing her inevitable death? You can't remember. Did you cry?
No.
You don't know anything, but you hope it was you who dealt the final blow. You hope you ended your own immolation.
A/N: Do review, the muses await opinions eagerly.