At the beginning, it had been different. Angel had felt the pain,
the torment, but he knew who he was. He knew what he was. A part of him
believed he deserved to be in hell. It was facing the fact that he would
never again look into Buffy's clear blue eyes that bothered him. The
physical torture he was enduring was only secondary to that pain . . . at
the beginning.
Hours turned into days; days into months; months into years. Decades crawled by, and Angel started to forget. There were times when he couldn't remember anything except how much it hurt. A flash of a scene would brush past his fevered mind and he would grasp desperately at the memory, hoping to remember something, anything of his time before the pain. Had there been a life without the pain? There HAD to have been. He could remember . . . what? What could he remember? Nothing but the fire. Nothing but the pain.
But sometimes, he had dreams.
Soft arms would curl around him, shielding him from everything. She would hold him like he was worth something, like she wanted him to be there. She had a name. What was it? He used to know her name. Sometimes, he could remember. Most of the time, he couldn't though. Not anymore.
She had the prettiest eyes. He could almost remember looking into her eyes. But then he couldn't remember if he'd ever really been with her. Was she real? Or was she just a fragment of his delusional mind? He didn't know anymore.
He wanted the girl to be real. He wanted it more than anything he could think of, because if she was real, then there had to have been more to his life than the pain. If she was real then he hadn't always been there; and maybe he had a name once. Maybe he had a life, and someone to love him.
For years, it went on like that. A century passed, and then another. Now, he couldn't ever remember, and the dreams had long stopped coming to comfort him. He . . . he still saw the girl sometimes, when the pain was at its worst, but he knew now that she had never been real. She was never coming to rescue him because he had made her up in his mind. He had made everything up. Nothing was real except the fire. He had always been there. He would always be there. Finally, miserably, he accepted it.
And that's when it happened.
Everything started to shake, and he felt like his body was being pulled from every direction. Before he could even comprehend what was going on, he felt the cold of a concrete floor beneath his bare skin. The sudden change of temperature caused him to shiver uncontrollably, and when he breathed in the cool air, it hurt his lungs.
For a moment, he was terrified. He didn't know this place. The fear subsided a little as he realized there was a familiar scent to the air. He forced his eyes to open, and saw a familiar form walking away from him. She was almost gone.
It was the girl. The one from his dreams! But what was this? Was he dreaming again? This was too much to bear. The tears welled up in his eyes until they overflowed and he was weeping. She couldn't be real, but there she was. And then she was gone.
With a jolt of clarity, a memory forced itself to the surface. Buffy. Her name was Buffy. And she was his.
For a long while he stayed there on the floor, repeating her name over and over ahead in his head.
It was all he could remember . . . but he never wanted to forget it.
Hours turned into days; days into months; months into years. Decades crawled by, and Angel started to forget. There were times when he couldn't remember anything except how much it hurt. A flash of a scene would brush past his fevered mind and he would grasp desperately at the memory, hoping to remember something, anything of his time before the pain. Had there been a life without the pain? There HAD to have been. He could remember . . . what? What could he remember? Nothing but the fire. Nothing but the pain.
But sometimes, he had dreams.
Soft arms would curl around him, shielding him from everything. She would hold him like he was worth something, like she wanted him to be there. She had a name. What was it? He used to know her name. Sometimes, he could remember. Most of the time, he couldn't though. Not anymore.
She had the prettiest eyes. He could almost remember looking into her eyes. But then he couldn't remember if he'd ever really been with her. Was she real? Or was she just a fragment of his delusional mind? He didn't know anymore.
He wanted the girl to be real. He wanted it more than anything he could think of, because if she was real, then there had to have been more to his life than the pain. If she was real then he hadn't always been there; and maybe he had a name once. Maybe he had a life, and someone to love him.
For years, it went on like that. A century passed, and then another. Now, he couldn't ever remember, and the dreams had long stopped coming to comfort him. He . . . he still saw the girl sometimes, when the pain was at its worst, but he knew now that she had never been real. She was never coming to rescue him because he had made her up in his mind. He had made everything up. Nothing was real except the fire. He had always been there. He would always be there. Finally, miserably, he accepted it.
And that's when it happened.
Everything started to shake, and he felt like his body was being pulled from every direction. Before he could even comprehend what was going on, he felt the cold of a concrete floor beneath his bare skin. The sudden change of temperature caused him to shiver uncontrollably, and when he breathed in the cool air, it hurt his lungs.
For a moment, he was terrified. He didn't know this place. The fear subsided a little as he realized there was a familiar scent to the air. He forced his eyes to open, and saw a familiar form walking away from him. She was almost gone.
It was the girl. The one from his dreams! But what was this? Was he dreaming again? This was too much to bear. The tears welled up in his eyes until they overflowed and he was weeping. She couldn't be real, but there she was. And then she was gone.
With a jolt of clarity, a memory forced itself to the surface. Buffy. Her name was Buffy. And she was his.
For a long while he stayed there on the floor, repeating her name over and over ahead in his head.
It was all he could remember . . . but he never wanted to forget it.