The blood was red, like my Willow's hair. It didn't hurt; not like they tell you it does. Just a little poke and then a splatter on my Willow, like paint. Didn't dry like paint; paint gets pretty, but blood just goes dark and brown. It's only pretty when it's fresh.
It took longer than I thought, to die. They talk about instant death, painless, but they lie. It takes an eternity, and you don't even get to see your life flash before your eyes. At least, I don't think you do. All I saw was my Willow.
* * *
"I am, you know."
"What?"
"Yours."
* * *
Another thing they forgot to mention was the color. They show a fade to black in all the movies, but it's really red. Blood-colored, maybe. Rose-tinted glasses; the sullen carmine kind, not pale pink. Carmine. It's a pretty color, even if you never hear about it any more. There's a whole rainbow of colors people have forgotten. They'll never forget red, though. Too bright and bold. Makes itself known. My Willow wasn't like that, loud and crass and vulgar and too too too obvious. Spike called her Red, but she wasn't, really, just her hair. The rest of her was different. Quiet, maybe, like the interminable wait for death. I'm sure there was noise, but I didn't hear anything.
Funny, isn't it, how in reflection it was maybe ten seconds? Longest ten seconds of my life. Longer, certainly, than when I thought she'd chosen him. That was different; abandonment hurts, but it's a loud pain.
I really didn't think I'd leave her again, not so soon. There are a thousand thousand things I'd change if I could; a million stuttered insect reflections and mindless jabber just to try and fit in. I finally made it, though, took a hit for the team. 100% Scooby, that's me, but maybe it wasn't worth it after all. Join the team by losing my life; not an easy bargain. Nothing is, any more, not forgiveness, not love - binding, but tearing you apart all the same, and never really worth it, except that it is, oh, it is. She loved me, I loved her, and it was wonderful, fantastic, better than any adjective, but more transient than it should have been.
Then again, maybe we were lucky. Xander never did get over Anya's past, not really, and I guess I can't blame her for making the choice she did. It's who she was for so long, she deserves to be Anyanka and not just Mrs. Anya Harris, but they'll never work it out now. He'll keep it hanging over her head like it's her fault he left her, did exactly what she feared most. And she's what he fears, hates, despises with a purely human irrationality. His emotions rule him; he's all gut reactions, "demons bad," black and white in a world that's never anything but technicolor. There's an infinite variety before him, but if it doesn't fit into his perception of good, it must be bad; of course, if he thinks it's good, he can't help trying to get it, no matter if it'll spoil what he has now. He wants it all, you see, but he tries too hard and loses everything. Willow, Cordelia, Buffy, Anya; can't decide on one, and that's what does him in.
Poor Buffy doesn't even know what she wants, not really. She's got all these dreams of 'normal' and 'happy,' but she's kidding herself, and she knows it. Slayers and love don't mix, not like fantasy, but she's deluding herself with old movies. Happy endings never happen, because eventually everybody's dead, and then who cares?
Now Spike knows what he's after. It's a little atypical, but he's never been a 2.5 kids, puppy, white picket fence and picnics kind of guy. He's honest about that, at least; knows his faults and weaknesses, and the biggest one is her. Drusilla's a close second, though, shadow of his darkened past looming like an ad for some antiquated lifestyle, poster girl for what's wrong with everything. And maybe it's not even Buffy, not really, it's him who came back wrong. Vampires shouldn't love without souls, everyone knows that, shouldn't care; but he does. Always has, and he's loyal. A century with his dark queen, until she left him. A little bleached-blonde puppy; kick him and he just comes back for more, begging desperately for crumbs and shards that he can piece into some jigsaw mockery of love.
So, really, we were lucky. I was with my Willow for days, weeks, maybe months at a stretch of actual, genuine love. It's not like they tell you it should be; there's no happily ever after, not when 'ever after' can end like that. And it's not enough, really, not for what it is. But it's more than we deserve, and it really only needs to last until the blood is dry.
It took longer than I thought, to die. They talk about instant death, painless, but they lie. It takes an eternity, and you don't even get to see your life flash before your eyes. At least, I don't think you do. All I saw was my Willow.
* * *
"I am, you know."
"What?"
"Yours."
* * *
Another thing they forgot to mention was the color. They show a fade to black in all the movies, but it's really red. Blood-colored, maybe. Rose-tinted glasses; the sullen carmine kind, not pale pink. Carmine. It's a pretty color, even if you never hear about it any more. There's a whole rainbow of colors people have forgotten. They'll never forget red, though. Too bright and bold. Makes itself known. My Willow wasn't like that, loud and crass and vulgar and too too too obvious. Spike called her Red, but she wasn't, really, just her hair. The rest of her was different. Quiet, maybe, like the interminable wait for death. I'm sure there was noise, but I didn't hear anything.
Funny, isn't it, how in reflection it was maybe ten seconds? Longest ten seconds of my life. Longer, certainly, than when I thought she'd chosen him. That was different; abandonment hurts, but it's a loud pain.
I really didn't think I'd leave her again, not so soon. There are a thousand thousand things I'd change if I could; a million stuttered insect reflections and mindless jabber just to try and fit in. I finally made it, though, took a hit for the team. 100% Scooby, that's me, but maybe it wasn't worth it after all. Join the team by losing my life; not an easy bargain. Nothing is, any more, not forgiveness, not love - binding, but tearing you apart all the same, and never really worth it, except that it is, oh, it is. She loved me, I loved her, and it was wonderful, fantastic, better than any adjective, but more transient than it should have been.
Then again, maybe we were lucky. Xander never did get over Anya's past, not really, and I guess I can't blame her for making the choice she did. It's who she was for so long, she deserves to be Anyanka and not just Mrs. Anya Harris, but they'll never work it out now. He'll keep it hanging over her head like it's her fault he left her, did exactly what she feared most. And she's what he fears, hates, despises with a purely human irrationality. His emotions rule him; he's all gut reactions, "demons bad," black and white in a world that's never anything but technicolor. There's an infinite variety before him, but if it doesn't fit into his perception of good, it must be bad; of course, if he thinks it's good, he can't help trying to get it, no matter if it'll spoil what he has now. He wants it all, you see, but he tries too hard and loses everything. Willow, Cordelia, Buffy, Anya; can't decide on one, and that's what does him in.
Poor Buffy doesn't even know what she wants, not really. She's got all these dreams of 'normal' and 'happy,' but she's kidding herself, and she knows it. Slayers and love don't mix, not like fantasy, but she's deluding herself with old movies. Happy endings never happen, because eventually everybody's dead, and then who cares?
Now Spike knows what he's after. It's a little atypical, but he's never been a 2.5 kids, puppy, white picket fence and picnics kind of guy. He's honest about that, at least; knows his faults and weaknesses, and the biggest one is her. Drusilla's a close second, though, shadow of his darkened past looming like an ad for some antiquated lifestyle, poster girl for what's wrong with everything. And maybe it's not even Buffy, not really, it's him who came back wrong. Vampires shouldn't love without souls, everyone knows that, shouldn't care; but he does. Always has, and he's loyal. A century with his dark queen, until she left him. A little bleached-blonde puppy; kick him and he just comes back for more, begging desperately for crumbs and shards that he can piece into some jigsaw mockery of love.
So, really, we were lucky. I was with my Willow for days, weeks, maybe months at a stretch of actual, genuine love. It's not like they tell you it should be; there's no happily ever after, not when 'ever after' can end like that. And it's not enough, really, not for what it is. But it's more than we deserve, and it really only needs to last until the blood is dry.