Her Song
By. Bento Box
Completed on: April 6th, 2003
Disclaimers: All characters are from the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer and are copyrighted to Joss Whedon, the WB Network, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar, UPN, and every-frickin-one else besides me. Lyrics used are from Poe's CD Haunted, song is also entitled "Haunted." No copyright infringement intended.
Draft: Two; BETAed by the great and holy terror of Spike y Xander plotbunnies, Sajinn! MUCHAS GRACIAS!

--

He didn't know what the hell he was doing here, in this almost familiar atmosphere with its comforting air and low-voiced murmurs. Soft, laughing voices traveled to his ears and the bartender was friendly, red-painted lips parted in a wide, teasing smile as he conversed amiably with the customers.

'What the hell am I doing here?'

In this too tame place without telltale signs of a drunken beer fight, of window panes rusting over, and the nose-curdling stench of body odor tinged with the despair and disgust with life.

He felt out of place, in his waning anger and darkness, his beloved Docs scraped and covered in dry memories of blood and gore.

His mind steered his body on autopilot towards the bar, and he walked away a minute later, leaving behind the open warmth on the handsome face with a glass of something in his hand.

The lighting was dimmer here in the back, away from the glowing lights from the empty stage and crowded dance floor.

Pulsing music followed him in his wake as he passed the pairs and groups of friends, lovers, acquaintances.

A detached sip from the cold glass in his hand told him the drink wasn't strong enough, wasn't what he wanted, wasn't what he was here for.

He didn't belong here, in this lighthearted place, in this air that made the weight around his mind lift unwillingly and with such unfamiliar calm. He didn't understand what he was doing here; how he came across this place, why he chose here instead of the bar not a few doors down, the one with the flickering neon sign proclaiming Billy's Juggers. The bar a few doors down where the window panes were rusted, and the stench of vomit, piss and beer was overwhelming.

The tile beneath his boots were shiny and hard, the dull thuds of his soles drowned in the throbbing music.

He stopped at a small corner where the light was dim, casting a pale glow over the small table for two. He slid into the chair and fingered the rim of the glass in his hands, the smooth underside of his thumb pressing against stroking back and forth.

Bringing his hands away from the drink, he clasped them loosely in his lap and leaned back against the chair, and closing his eyes, he let the music wash over him and the scent of sweet blood that he had not tasted for so long....

Ba da pa pa ba da pa pa...
Come here
Pretty please
Can you tell me where I am
You, won't you say something
I need to get my bearings
I'm lost
And the shadows keep on changing

The husky voice drifted around him in a silky caress and unconsciously he leaned forwards in his chair to rest his chin on clasped hands bent over a scratched tabletop.

And I'm haunted
By the lives that I have loved
And actions I have hated
I'm haunted
By the lives that wove the web
Inside my haunted head

And he felt like laughing, hysterically, as he sifted through the many artists, the hundreds of musicians and the endless number of songs to identify he'd come across over his years, to the one that was now being played.

'Haunted,' that's what the song was called, by some gel, 'named Poe.'

Ba da pa pa ba da pa pa...

So he let his mind drift, awash in his memories, as the voice continued to sing her song.

Don't cry,
There's always a way
Here in November in this house of leaves
We'll pray
Please, I know it's hard to believe
To see a perfect forest
Through so many splintered trees
You and me
And these shadows keep on changing

Within the hollow space of his mind, he took a seat in a hard-backed chair, sitting and staring intensely at the small screen that displayed the rolling images of his past, his present, his blank future.

Like a movie it played, the credits rolling, beginning with the key stars.

Starring!...

Spike, William the Bloody, the Fangless Wonder.

Buffy, Slutty the Slayer, Body and Mind Fucker, the Heart Killer.

Dru, Princess, the Demon Slut with the face of a Doll.

Angelus, Angel, the Ensouled Poof of a Sire.

Cecily, Untouchable Beauty, the First Link in the Chain.

And the scenes flashed by, going at a serene pace as his life, breathing and unbreathing, played out for him to view. Distantly, from outside of the small empty room besides his mental self and the television set, he threw back the last few gulps of his drink. Not strong enough to scald his throat going down, but enough to numb the dull ache that was beginning to grow at the center of his unnaturally moving chest.

And I'm haunted
By the lives that I have loved
And actions I have hated
I'm haunted
By the promises I've made
And others I have broken
I'm haunted
By the lives that wove the web
Inside my haunted head

Shallow, unneeded breaths were drawn in to rarely used lungs, and the seat melted away, the flickering screen vanishing as it the scenes were brought to life around him, surrounding him in remembered flesh and sight and sound.

The breaths drawn into the lungs of William, the sun that touched his pale skin and the stench of poverty brought him to those early days, the days without bloodlust, without anything deeper beyond that to survive his bleak and meagre life as an unaccomplished poet.

Then the air became heavy, a dead weight that filled his nose and traveled down the narrow passageway of his throat, and he choked on it, and began coughing and coughing and coughing until a hot wetness rose to the back of his throat and he was vomiting blood so hot it felt as if his throat was on fire.

And he was on fire; the sunlight catching the skin exposed where his clothes did not cover. And he was scrambling away, trying to get away, away from the light that was no longer warm, no longer safe, and he retreated, staggering backwards into the shadows of the narrow alleyway.

Hallways... always

Where he was captured within the cool embrace of slender arms and soft curves, and he stared into the cold eyes of the first woman whom he (thought he) loved. Her words lanced through his heart, and as he lay, pale skin smoking in her arms, he felt her long nails rake across his neck and they were stained.

In blood, her mouth was a perfect bow, the lips full and moist with his blood. The vibrant crimson stood out against her milky complexion, so soft and smooth she felt like silk against his body.

But her fans sunk in deeply, clawing their way to his heart and when she stood over his prone body, he could feel the cold stone of the ground seep into his skin.

He felt disconnected from his body, unable to twitch, to move, to react as she laughed, so beautifully, like a song, a taunting, heavenly song that followed him into the emptiness of dull, explainable darkness.

I'll always want you
I'll always need you
I'll always love you

And the sharp, prickling pain that started from his toes to travel up rapidly like a cord sunk in oil that has caught on fire, snapped his eyes open, wide, as they stared into the dark eyes of his torturer.

Eyes so diluted with cruelty that they were tinted black faded into a deep shade of brown that spoke of pity and disgust. And that bit in more deeply than the metal cuffs surrounding his wrists and ankles, than the collar that choked him so tightly around the throat.

And I will always miss you

The sense of loss, of betrayal, of sorrow and anger narrowed down into startling clarity as he felt the wooden lance spear through his chest, and time was momentarily suspended as he stared into the fierce blue eyes of the blonde woman, and then it was all over, the core of his very being wrenched outwards to leave a gaping whole in his chest.

The fire grew higher, fiercer, stronger as the split seconds flew by, but instead of ashes falling down into nothingness he found himself being shaken and called to by strange black eyes that belonged to an equally strange face.

And suddenly he was being snapped back to reality, back at the club where his mind had somehow found his body lying on the ground and surrounded by strange faces. All of them, with the faces belonging to strangers who seemed to care more about his well-being than any other he had ever known in the many faces he had worn.

The painful thought brought an onslaught of self-loathing and anguish, and he shoved at the hands that gripped him tightly around the shoulders, and forced himself rise unsteadily onto his feet, the shallow breaths from before turning into heaving pants that made him feel as if he truly did need the air.

'Need to breathe.'

Stumbling to his feet, he fought off the weak hands that tried to grip him, and took a blind path towards an exit. Any exit.

He passed through the back door where the rank of garbage was barely noticed by the now prone form that lay on the ground, off to the side, hidden amongst clumps of trash and shadows.

And inside the club, a distant voice continued to sing her song.

Ba da pa pa ba da pa pa...