Jenny is dead-


/The paper is stained with little circles of dried droplets, and the handwriting is unkempt./

A week has passed since it happened, since I wrote those words in my journal. The pain is still . . . fresh. Still consuming. But if I do not relate this tale, I'd be doing a disservice to her. Jenny deserves to be remembered. Though I shall never forget her or the wonderful things she made me feel, I need her to be recorded in these pages, so she'll live on forever.

Forgive the shaky hand, I may be determined, but I am not necessarily sober. Facing that horror, reliving that hell . . . it takes its toll. Even being in the same house has proven to be difficult. Shortly after the funeral, I stayed in a hotel for a few days, unable to sleep here. Eat here. Live here. But here I am, facing it, as we all must do when we've lost someone dear to us.

It began with a note. A drawing, to be more exact. Angelus left Buffy this token whilst she slept, and she expressed a need to revoke the invitation right. I was particularly drawn to Jenny that day and voiced my study of a ritual that might do what we sought. She just so happened to have a book not in my collection. I've only recently discovered that she had bought it for me for Valentine's Day, but as the state of our relationship was rather fragmented, never had the courage to present it to me. There's an inscription carefully written on the inside cover.

'I don't much care for this holiday either. But who says a woman can't one-up her loved one? For my sexy fuddy-duddy, all of my love. PS: I finally found a book you don't own. I call this cause for a secluded 'snog' eh, England? Yours, Jenny.'

The fact that she defaced an ancient text but filled it with an adorable text, likely to give rise to my consternation, just shows what kind of woman she is was—one who knew how to work me extremely well. Dear lord, I miss her. Must continue . . .

It was at this exchange that she let slip that she loved me. That though her duty had come first, she had not expected or planned to fall in love with me. There are few moments in my life where I can recount a feeling of acute joy. Buffy killing the Master was one of them . . . Jenny admitting her love was the other. Chelsea winning the League Cup against Middlesbrough just awhile ago was another. I just never expected such joy to be sucked from me so quickly or harshly.

With this book, I discovered a ritual which allowed for the countermand of the invitation right. Whilst Buffy and Willow performed it on both of their homes, I noticed that Jenny was working late. I popped in, and she told me she was working on something, but she didn't wish to share unless she was right. I . . . invited her to my home later . . . and I left. I can't help but think if I had stayed to help, I might have been able to give her a running chance. By the state her classroom was found in, it was obvious the struggle at least began there. Angelus might have killed me instead of her.

Whilst all of this was happening, I went to Buffy's to check on the ritual. Willow greeted me at the door, giving my book back. It seemed Angelus had made an appearance to Buffy's mother, as they were now having the dreaded Talk. I bade a quick farewell and returned home, fully intending to begin the ritual. When I arrived, I found a rose attached to my door. Recalling that I had invited Jenny over earlier, I immediately thought it was from her. Of course, the fact that my door was locked and Jenny doesn't have a key should have clicked, but it didn't. I thought it was Jenny.

I entered. La Bohème (O Soave Fanciulla) was playing. I can't ever hear that song again. I threw out the record when I arrived after . . . after. There was a bucket of ice with a wine bottle inside and a note. 'Upstairs' it said, and upstairs I went. Foolishly, I still believed this to be some wonderful act of seduction by Jenny's hand. Then I found her where I expected to find her . . . though not how. She was dead. Her neck snapped. Positioned in just the right way for me to see her lifeless eyes waiting for me. I can't fully recall what happened after this moment. I was in a sort of . . . haze. I was numb. Shell-shocked, perhaps. I know I called Buffy and Willow told them what had happened. And I know I went to the police station and described to them the events as I knew them.

It was only when I stood outside of my door once more that I felt anything. Rage. A rage such as I have never tasted before. It was coupled with the eeriest form of calm. I knew what I needed to do. I acted without much thought. It's difficult to describe exactly how I felt. I was so detached from everything, it was nothing I have experienced before. Perhaps I was suicidal . . . I know I didn't care that I was walking to my most certain death. There was only one concern I had—hurting Angelus as much as he had hurt me. I think a large part of me wanted to die. Because then I could be with Jenny again.

The attempt failed, of course. Both attempts, really. I did not destroy Angelus, though I feel I gave him a good fright and some burns to go along with it. Buffy intervened and ultimately saved my life. I was cross with her, of course. Perhaps a part of me, the selfish part, still is. She denied me my death. My release and reunion. I wept. How I wept. My Slayer wept with me. She did succeed in grounding me, however. She reminded me that she couldn't face her duty without me. So, here I am. Resolute to continue on. Buffy lost her love, too. It would be unfair of me to leave her as well. Though she was incorrect in claiming that she needed me, that she couldn't do it alone. I need her so much more than she needs me. Without her, I am entirely alone. Buffy still has her mother, her friends. I have no one but the Slayer now.

My darling Jenny, I am so very sorry. You would have lived had I never stumbled into your life. Not enough people will know what a light you were in this world. And no one shall know just what you meant to me. Your sacrifice has impressed on me a fact I have been too soft on—never trust a vampire. I won't forget the lesson. Ever again. Vampires are by nature evil and selfish. They do not love, and they do not know goodness. If they did, they wouldn't have been able to touch you.

Tomorrow, my new bed arrives. I've been sleeping on the couch. I can't . . . sleep in the same bed that I found her in. I had it burned. Sheets, pillows and all. Perhaps with the new bed, the violation that occurred here will start to ache less. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the sight, whenever I climb my stairs to reach my bed. And roses. God, I can't ever smell roses again. Scent has always been a direct link to memory for me. My neighbor grows roses. I'm going to ask her kindly tomorrow, if she'll consider growing something else instead. I can't stand to smell them.

What else is there to say? That I'm doing better? That would be a lie. I'm functioning again, and I consider that some progress. The group has been wonderful in their support. Even Xander has managed to make me smile. Buffy is helping the most. She understands my needs whenever I'm not feeling myself, which is simply to work and focus my mind. Though I know she can handle the patrols on her own, she has insisted that I join her. I will say, staking a few vampires serves to improve my mood for a few hours. Yet it always happens . . . I sink back into a listless despair. I'm trying to crawl out of it. I know I need to. But then I remember her eyes . . . and the roses.

It will get better with time. I know it will. The ache in my heart will hurt a little less every day. The lump in my throat will eventually dissipate. The tears in my eyes will dry. Is this a disservice to her though? She was so unfairly taken before her time, so shouldn't I suffer eternal agony over it? Someone has to. There has to be a balance for an act such as that. Angelus' death, I suppose, will have to serve. I know, inevitably, I'll become numb to the pain. I might actually know what happiness feels like again. Not today though. And certainly not tomorrow. Some day.

Jenny, I'm sorry.

Jenny, I love . . .

I loved

I love you.

Dear lord, I miss you.

-Rupert Giles

1998