I think if this week's events can be described as anything, I would use the word: illuminating.
Before the gang realized something supernatural was occurring, I was experiencing quite a few odd events. It began small. My favorite tweed vest no longer fit, though it had just a few days prior. I ran out of my favorite tea—Earl Gray, for the record, which in itself is cause for real alarm. There are few means I have that keep me calm and relaxed throughout the hectic high school day. As I am not always allowed to shirk my duties and read, tea is my very last—and most dependable—security blanket. Thus, I was forced to drink—I shudder to even write it—American coffee. All day. The jitters were unbearable.
From there, the real trouble began. I was in the stock room, organizing and filing and making an inventory of new arrivals that still needed to be added to the index for the library card catalog. Inform Principal Snyder to remove the Teen Romance aisle for more stimulating novels. I needed to return to my office for another pen . . . when the most peculiar thing happened. Though the stock room is, in truth, just a few aisles inside a larger room, I found myself getting turned around. It should have been impossible, practically speaking. I had followed the wall, and it should have taken me right to the door, yet it did not. Instead, I found myself walking in aisle after aisle. I thought I was hallucinating or having some sort of nervous breakdown, but when I heard someone calling my name, it was as if the hallucination shattered, and I jogged right out of the door to find Buffy and the others waiting.
As I wasn't entirely sure what had just occurred, and I was rather embarrassed that I had gotten lost in my own stockroom, I made no real mention of the boggling venture and was resolute to push it to the back of my mind. Instead, the gang informed me of a student who opened his book and inadvertently unleashed hundreds of spiders into the classroom. As the number was quite astonishing, there seemed something not quite normal about it. I began my research, though with no clear direction in mind. My research did not last long, as there was an attack in the school's basement. A student named Laura was severely beaten and taken to hospital.
Buffy and I decided to see if she could tell us anything of her attacker. Our visit proved fruitful, and we learned that the attacker had said something about lucky number nineteen before he had attacked Laura. We also discovered a boy who had been beaten into a coma by the same attacker. Shortly after our return to Sunnydale High, another personal incident occurred. Whilst attempting to scan the local headlines, I was unable to read at all. All text was rendered as . . . nothing but symbols to me. I knew what the letters were supposed to be, but my mind projected them as some form I did not recognize. The fear was paralyzing. Reading is not just my job, but a great pleasure to me. It has been my longest companion—the written word. To have it ripped from me—and I believed at the time that I was beginning to go mad, that it was my own mind failing me—it was brutal. I felt purpose and joy had been taken from me, like innocence stolen from a child. It was a reeling experience.
Which is why when we discovered that the boy in the coma, Billy Palmer, was the one responsible for all that we were seeing, I felt a great sense of relief. I wasn't losing my mind. Somehow, perhaps through a unique psychic link brought about by the trauma he experienced, he integrated the nightmare dimension into our reality. Our nightmares, both laughable and terrifying, were coming to life. I was not the only one affected. Xander, apparently, had shown up to class without clothes, save his pants. Thank god for that. As the nightmares became worse, I stumbled upon another one of Xander's nightmares, which involved a rather irritating clown and a large knife.
My last nightmare was the most . . . horrific. It's one that haunts any Watcher, but seeing it before my living eyes . . . I think I only realize now how much Buffy means to me. She's more than just a Slayer. She's a girl with her own dreams and desires. Underneath all of her super human strength and feline reflexes, she is just human. A remarkable girl stuck in an endless fight against the darkest of evils. Doomed to fight and fight and fight until one day her strength isn't enough, and she is killed. Such is the fate of all Slayers. I have been taught this most of my life. I even accepted it. But these past few months with Buffy, all that we've been through, and all that I've seen her overcome . . . her fate isn't something I can accept any longer.
From now on, I am going to train her harder. I want to ensure that she is prepared for anything. For the Master, for the end of the world . . . anything. I won't fail in my duty to her. That tombstone bearing her name shall never come to pass.
Buffy's nightmare was even more surprising. I suppose I never put much thought into what Buffy fears the most, and I feel terrible writing that but it was revealed to me. Vampirism. Buffy had been turned into the very thing she hunts. The shame I saw in her eyes . . . the fear when she realized what she had become. It was heartbreaking.
Thankfully, it all ended when Billy defeated the attacker, revealing that it had been his baseball coach. The brute is now, thankfully, being sent behind bars. The nightmares vanished, and we now find ourselves back in our mundane—as mundane as it can be on a hellmouth—lives. I intend to keep in touch with Billy. I wish to know if this psychic link has disappeared, or if it remains with him still. If it has, he could prove to be a fascinating study. If not, well . . . at least he shall have a normal life. Tedious.
At least it's Friday. I can reflect over my deepest, darkest fears over a bottle of scotch and recover tomorrow morning. Sounds like a romp. Buffy is headed to LA, I believe, with her father for the weekend. I met him briefly as well. The father of the Slayer . . . Unlike her mother, I found him . . . lacking unimpressionable.
Ah well. Fathers usually are.
-Rupert Giles
1997