Xander Takes a Walk
By: Aurorarose13
I walk, staring only at my feet. I watch them as they click against the stone squares beneath them. I see the lines of dirt in between, see the worms burrowing through them, see the microscopic organisms devouring other organisms. I notice flecks of mica in the stone, lustrous golden flakes that twinkle in the street lamps.
I wonder why it is that gold is so precious. Mica has the same effect: it bedazzles and enchants; it looks like gold and yet it is not—it is worthless. Why should gold be so valuable? What makes it special? What makes it different? But then I realize that only one thing can be number one. There is no room for second bests, not in this heart of hearts.
So I walk on. I see green grass surrounding me. Hope. Then I see the brown grass surrounding it. Death. Then I see my life flash before my eyes. Sameness. Sunnydale is no different than this grass. We have Hope for a little while, then it dies. Hope takes a twenty-story plunge off the side of a tower, and she dies.
Yet somehow we survive without Hope. No, surviving is different than living. Surviving is like the grass; it's just growing and continuing on with life, knowing it will die. Living is fighting death, loving others and striving for happiness. I survive, I do not live.
I pass a tree, branches barren for the upcoming winter. Its bones rattle and shimmy with fury. It does not want to be naked, but Mother Nature orders it so. None of us want to be that exposed. We don't want to show what we're hiding underneath. So we take ridiculous walks like these and tell ourselves that it's all right; that's the way it should be. Looking around, I know I should be coping better with things. If the seasons can change, why can't I? But I guess it doesn't matter how many days will pass, for I will always be naked—now and forever. No Hope, no hiding.
There's a church to my right. It's so magnificent. The large stained glass windows with vivid Biblical portrayals of prophets and saints tower over me. Gothic spires, more out of some sort of nightmare than church vision, protrude from the rooftop, antennas tuning into God, I suppose. I think back on all the times I believed in something. When I had Hope, I had faith. I had faith that everything would be all right, that everything would work out all right. I had faith that the world would move on, that good would never lose and that evil would rush back into the shadows. When I had Hope, I existed for a reason.
Water droplets at my feet. Am I crying again? I can't tell anymore. No, it's actual rain this time. Tears just seem to fall from my eyes without my notice. I guess when you're empty inside, you don't feel it when you lose a little of something else. I cut my thumb last week. Bled for a half-hour and would have even longer if Anya hadn't noticed the crimson on the sofa arm. Boy, did I get in trouble for that! Blood never comes out, never washes away. Anya scrubbed for an hour, but the stain will be there for the rest of eternity. She just doesn't understand that blood leaves the body, but it never leaves you.
Fat spherules of rain plop down onto my head, slicking my hair to my face. My skin is soaked. Good, that way no one can tell if I've been crying. What Anya doesn't know can't hurt her. The rain pours harder. Wash away my sins and with them my pains, oh Lord.
End of the line, now.
The sidewalk meets the road. I come to an intersection. I have four choices: one—go straight past the Bronze and home to what I know; two—turn left past the Magic Box and see what lies beyond; three—go right past the church and see if my salvation awaits; four—head back to patrol in the cemetery and pray that Hope finds me from beyond the grave.
I choose the usual: four.
I guess I'm just stuck in my rut, pulling down the mud around me and digging my own damn grave.