Author's Note: This fic is my first attempt at angst. It is not, however, a plea to not commit suicide (though one should probably weigh recent events carefully before doing so), nor is it a pro-Jesus story. I simply started wondering how Spike felt and it gave me an idea that was quite sad. This is how I think Spike would be feeling at this point in the series.
Spike's Suicide
By Lyle Brown
The wind is picking up now, and as I look down upon the growing crowd of nightly pedestrians below me (no doubt questioning the validity of my situation) I still find no comfort in my heart or peace in my mind. This is the end of my existence, and pray tell, what do these people think of me, crucified to the wooden paneling of the residence of the last being I ever truly loved? What does God think of me, biting back screams of agony as I attempt to portray that final position of redemption?
I'm not doing this for him and I'm not doing this for her either. Buffy's just some girl I happen to be completely infatuated with. I'm doing this because I am not blind, because I'm no longer confused and I can now grasp what's become of me, of my role in this world. I'm a heartless demon, with no soul to keep me back, no sorrow or grief or remorse to keep my lust for blood at bay. I'm not doing this because of the chip in my head, and I'm not doing this because I haven't taken a life in over a year, feeling the hot blood course through my lips, around my tongue and down my throat, coating my stomach. I'm doing this because was I able to see myself in the mirror every day or even just once, I wouldn't be able to look myself in the eyes.
A vampire is often called a half-breed, a low-life who sucks the living soul out of a body, feeding off of one of the most vile races ever to be created. We are known to be part of that race and yet not. We spawn from that race yet our blood flows not like theirs, but with theirs. Our hearts do not beat and we need not breath, so some consider us lesser than humans. But we are above them on the food chain, feeding off of them, so others consider us greater than humans.
Because of this, my brethren believe they are almost at the bottom of the barrel, struggling to remain on the evolutionary chain just above the humans. They are wrong. There is someone who is beneath them, someone that separates them further from humans, proves that they are not the half-breeds they appear to be. I am that being. I am that which parts the two. I am shunned by humans, I am shunned by vampires. Both are my peoples, yet neither will take me. I am that half-breed. I am nothing. But I am eternal.
Is this to be my fate? To wander the earth or to be stuck in Sunnydale, either way forever scrabbling for spilled blood or an open truck carrying blood donations at the hospital. I think not! I choose the fate of my existence, and I will not remain this nothing, this shit half-breed that's love sick for the one true hunter of his kind, I will not share the fate of my sire!
...But does the almighty understand this? That I am without a soul and yet, had I the power I would still not kill a single being if only it meant the chance to be loved by her? Does he know that I would forever swear myself to her? Does he care? No. He as well shuns the sight of me. I am unholy, and will remain so. Repenting for the damned? There is no such thing when one has no soul with which to repent. And with this final action I commit yet another unforgivable sin, I break yet another law that he has set upon his people. But what does it matter? At the end of it all, who will notice my plight? No one. For I am below the lowest of the creatures of the night, those who prowl on his sinful children.
And yet as dawn hits, and the pain begins, I know that I am still above them. For all my wrongs and the evil that resides within me, I know what I am. I am in no way blind to the reality of that which I have become. The pain that hits me now may be the worst I have ever experienced, and the screams and howls that erupt from my mouth may be in no comparison to what is really being felt inside, but at least I know what I am. At least I am aware of my surroundings, of my being.
Buffy has opened her window, no doubt hearing my tortured cries. She stares at me, and I pray for the rays of the sun to take me away, to make everything fall away and to begin my infinite torture that can not possibly compare to what I'm feeling now as she just watches me turn to dust. A flash of bright light sears away my sight and I begin to drown in the darkness, but not before catching sight of something.
I
am confused at what I have seen. My consciousness remains long enough for
me to ponder over what it was. There is a sharp pang, and I do feel remorse,
I do feel it. The pang is not from the harshness of the so-called holy
sun, but from guilt. Guilt not for committing the sin, but for misinterpreting
what was in front of me. Guilt not for breaking God's law, but for not
knowing, and indeed being blind. The last thing I saw and will ever see
is burned into my psyche, even as it fades into the pain of hell and the
essence present has started my torture. I saw an angel, one I saw often,
in the cover of daylight or in the broad open of nightfall, one I first
hated and then loved, both times to the very depths of my being. I saw
that angel crying...