The mirror showed him a face he nearly didn't recognize, skin drawn and pale, dark circles beneath eyes that were cold and hard.  The scar tissue around his neck was still red, and still bothered him from time to time.  A phantom pain, Wesley told himself, a remembered pain only.  Sometimes that pain was the only emotion that reached behind the walls he'd put up around himself.  Other times, grief overwhelmed him, and he had to rely on things outside himself to give him a measure of solace.

            Alcohol.  Sex.

            Lilah always managed to get inside his walls.  Not that he would let her see that, of course.  That would be giving her another weapon to use against him, and she had far too many already.  He shuddered when he thought about how he had used her…and on one hand it felt like a small measure of vengeance, but on the other it made him sick to his stomach that he could do such a thing.  She was his enemy, he had no doubt of that, but did that give him a right to act the way he had?  Those words he said to her had been harsh and cold, calculated and aimed to hurt her.  He had exploited a weakness, for Lilah was certainly the most prideful being he had ever met.  Telling her that she didn't matter had hurt her more than a physical blow ever could.

            Pride was a sin.  One of the seven deadly sins.

            But Wesley saw no immediate need to make her suffer for it.  She had been civil at all times, and he supposed that was all he could ask of an enemy.  Except to leave him alone.  He could suffer well enough on his own, he did not need her help.  And he certainly would never give her his help.

            At times he thought he hated her, the way he sometimes hated Angel…but he had to give Lilah points in that comparison, for she had never tried to kill him.  He had only been trying to protect everyone.  He didn't want Connor dead, and he by no means wanted a return of Angelus…with no means to call a soul back to him, he would have to be killed, and Wesley had thought of Angel as a friend.  Not a close, buddy-buddy friend, but one you knew had your back in a fight.

            Why did they seem to think that he was the betrayer then?  He had never tried to kill Angel, which would also have prevented the prophesy from coming true.  He had never harmed Connor in any way, had in fact, been trying his damnedest to protect him for Angel's sake.  He'd been misled about the prophecy, but none of them had known it at the time.  He'd had his throat slit for his mistake, and that was punishment enough…he had thought he was going to die, with his blood pooling beside his face as he slowly lost consciousness.  And later, when he was at the hospital, alive and recovering, Angel had appeared…and had tried to kill him.

            That was betrayal.

            He saw the faces of Cordelia, Gunn, and Fred as they turned away from him, for Angel's sake.  Perhaps Fred had second thoughts, but it wouldn't matter next to Angel's opinion, and Cordy's backing of all things Angel said.  They had turned away from him, when he had thought them friends.

            That was betrayal.

            Wesley heard a smashing sound nearby, and only then did he really look again at the mirror, which was broken and shattered, rather like his life.  His fractured face stared back at him, and he could see the glass slightly red with his blood.  He looked down and could see viscous blood slowly welling from his cut knuckles.  The pain had snapped him out of his reverie, made him aware of things outside his own thoughts again.

            He grabbed a bandage for his injury, and wound it around his hand.  His throat hurt.  His hand hurt.  Even his bloody heart hurt.  He almost wished it would all end.  That somewhere, somebody would have an un-avertable apocalypse, and when he went to bed tonight, he would never wake.  It was a selfish thought.

            He turned the light off in the bathroom and went to pour himself a glass of alcohol.  He didn't care what kind it was, the first thing available would work.  He'd drink, and then he'd sleep, and wake in the morning with a headache and a guilty conscience.  His routine was getting bloody old by now, but it was all he had.  So he drank down the liquid, barely tasting it, and walked to his bed content in the knowledge that he'd soon be sleeping the sleep of the very, very drunk.

And I raise my head and stare/into the eyes of a stranger

I've always known that the mirror never lies

People always turn away/from the eyes of a stranger

Afraid to know/what lies behind the stare.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:  Lyrics are to Queensryche's "Eyes of a Stranger" which inspired this chapter.