Years - Anya
Five years ago, she was a demon. Four years ago, she wasn't. Three years ago, she fell in love. Two years ago, someone she knew died, then another. A year ago, she got her heart broken, someone else died, and another nearly killed them all. This year she won't count it all because it hurts. It hurts and Xander can't make it go away and she can't handle it now.
One thousand, one hundred years ago she was human. Then she wasn't. Being human is different the second time around. She cares too much, loves too much, wants too much. People die. Because of her, or not, who knew her, or not. Halfrek, Buffy, Joyce, Tara, the slayers, hundreds and thousands of nameless men she eviscerated during her brief stint as a new-and-less-than-improved vengeance demon.
She wants vengeance, right now. On someone. Anyone, really. The First is supposedly gone, but she wants to find it and kill it again.
Four years ago, her power was ripped away. Three years ago, she accepted it. Interlocking human parts and the smell of bleach on whites day in the basement. A year ago, it was all she wanted. The human dream. A pretty white dress and flowers and money spent on a day she wanted more, needed more than she had ever needed anything else. A year ago, she lost that.
This year, Buffy died again. This year, Anya is left bare and void of purpose. No store, no fiancee, no Slayer, no vengeance. No power. She doesn't want anymore years so that in three hundred and sixty-five days she can look back and say 'A year ago, Buffy died. And Eve, and Chloe, and Amanda, and Kendall, and' slayer after slayer after slayer after slayer...
A year ago she got drunk and had sex with Spike. There's an interesting one.
For the first time, Anya really looks around the room. Spike is missing. She racks her brain, picturing the battle, or the end of it, in her head. Dawn kneeling, Kennedy stumbling, and Spike...running...
I should have run, she thinks, and next year I would have said
A year ago, I left it all behind.
