Title: Memories and Alcohol
Summary: Angel does some ranting…
Archive: Want it?
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Comments: Have some? Send em to me! kimmie@quincymail.com




I tipped the bottle back up to my mouth, draining it of the last few drops of liquid. Angry
at the state of emptiness, I throw it against the wall, enjoying the tinkle of glass on glass as the
bottle slams against the wall and into the pile of broken bottles I've drank myself into a stupor
with. the sound is brief, too brief, and once again I'm dropped into silence. I hate the times like
this, where I'm alone in the dark, with no one to talk to, no one who understands. I lost that all a
long time ago, and now, all I have are memories. Memories of killing my family, innocent people,
hunting Drusilla and finally, the struggle with good when I was cursed. I remember the screams,
the flow of blood, the crunch of bones as my victims struggled. The sound, the sights, the taste
of blood, thinking about it makes me sick, so I try not to think. Vodka helps, scotch, bourbon,
anything helps. Tonight, I've had some of each. A lot of each. Drowning my sorrows in alcohol
has been something I've done since I was alive. When I first left Sunnydale, I drank more than I
can ever remember doing, life and no. Now, I just do it to keep the memories of the times, both
good and bad from coming back. Good memories, of light, of life, of my Buffy. Those sometimes,
can be the worst. Thinking about her, how beautiful and perfect she is makes me want to die.
Knowing that I hurt her, when all I want to do is protect her from harm makes me want to
forget. Even if it means forgetting her for a while and doing something she'd be disgusted by.
Here I am, a pathetic excuse for anything, man or demon, the strange cross I am
between the two, getting drunk and whining about all the things I remember. the only good
thing about not having a conscience is not worrying. You never remember the things you've done
with anything but a smile on your face, because you aren't worried of getting caught, and you
don't regard the victims as something important. It just doesn't matter, like killing a deer or a
rabbit doesn't matter to many people, killing people didn't matter to me. Now, every scream I
caused, every ounce of pain I gave comes back one thousand times stronger, blocking out all
sounds but the cries, making me feel only a heart-rending pain.
I deserve this, though, I want to feel the pain, I need to hear the screams, they keep me
grounded, make me realize that I am never going to get a second chance, because I don't
deserve it, not after the things I've done.
Thinking about things hurts. Sometimes when the memories take over, I think about
Buffy on purpose, picturing everything, remembering everything, from the first meeting to the
last time we spoke, after her mother's death. She was so vulnerable then, so afraid. Its rare to
see Buffy either of those things, and to remember her pain, and my contentment at just being
able to hold her, to comfort her, and be there, it's too much to think on it and not be able to do it
again. I use those memories against myself, as a reminder of what I can never have.
I'm thinking too much, now, the alcohol is beginning to wear of. I can tell because when
I'm dead drunk, I can't think about one thing for too long, and I've been centered on Buffy for a
while now, and two, because I'm starting to see things clearly. I want the haze back, the
uncertainty, and the blackness. I stumble only slightly on my way to the kitchen. Clutching the
bottle of Jack Daniel's to my chest, I retreat to the couch, where I begin to gulp the liquid. For a
few more hours, I will be able to forget.