Preparing for War
Groaning with hatred for all phones, I un-snuggle from my covers, and claw at the loud device resting on its base beside the bed. My hand harshly snatches it up, and finally, the insistent ringing ceases. The thought sends relief flooding through my tired system until it frizzles and sparks, close to gliding back into the languid, lazy feelings from the aftereffects of sleep upon a newly risen body.
Damn phone. Stupid ringing noise. Why can't phones just blink! Poke! Or something without resulting to using loud obnoxious ringing sounds! Another unsolved mystery to sit collecting dust.
The person who has called at such an hour gets their chance to speak and me to listen as I not to gently place the phone under my ear. Come on, it's . . . I sneak a peek at the clock . . . 2 p.m.! I do not usually get up till 4 p.m. This whole day I am going to have a booming headache from my sleeping pattern being disrupted. This better be worth my time.
"Hello?" I groggily greet, slowly and easily sinking back into my bed, under the covers, like a hermit crab creeping back into its shell.
"Buffy." Angel spits with distaste through the phone. My breath hitches. "You should be up already. You do know I'm throwing a party tonight?" The question is asked, but with no time to reply. "Being the best at your job, I want you to be there looking oh so pretty." I can just picture his smug ass smile. "It starts at seven. I want your tight little body in Tara's club at seven on the dot, or maybe earlier."
The line goes dead.
Somehow my room just dropped fifty or so degrees. I shiver with imaginary chills. Angel called. Angel spoke. Buffy must obey. That is they way it is, and has to be. This makes me pathetic. Connected to a leash. You might even go and say brainwashed. Sad as it sounds, they are all true. I live in tsunami waves of fear. Waiting and ready to do anything and almost everything so that I can dive over to the shore for a moments rest. Only a moment.
I scramble from the bed. The energy that comes with rest, seemingly hidden as I drag my limp body to the bathroom for a shower. Angel gleefully sucks the life out of my young body. Each order. Each party. Each everything he does dumps another spurt of Buffy's soul down his eager throat. And goddamn it, I give my consent by acting out what he demands. I really am pathetic. Such a wimp. I have good reasons, though. Biding my time is all.
Biding my time . . .
I repeat the mantra in my head. But like every morning or . . .er . . . afternoon it never completely replenishes my proverbial cup. Poor cup needs to be filled. It yearns to be filled with self-respect, pride, and an internal degree of contentment. These things are so lost to me now. They are buried in the deep ocean like concealed pirate's treasure. All golden doubloons and sparkling diamonds waiting to be mine. Oh, waiting to be found. So much patience it has. Something that is leaking from me with every moment that I relinquish myself to Angel and his rule.
I have no more patience. Something must be done. Something has to change. I have to utterly destroy this life to rebuild anew. And I have to execute the first step. The very first and essential step to the gradual process of restoring my soul, will be made by me. No more stalling with the wish, and hopeful thoughts in my head that someone else will do it for me. I am fed up. No more bottomless hole of fear. It's time to climb out. Now I will take the responsibility no one else is willing to. I will, without hesitation, without second thoughts, without a defect . . .
. . . kill him. Kill Angel.
With bravery from my thick torrent of hate that has been boiling and escalating for years, I will accomplish this, and with cunning it will go off smoothly. It cannot be that hard to kill Angel and his little band of followers, while making off scot free. Can it?
All right, this will take planning, determination, and all the skills I have ever required. This will be the hardest task in my entire life. Even harder than the first time I had a customer. I visibly flinch at the nauseating thought that conjures memories and feelings that no woman should ever have. That night passed like a school day. It was as if my body was in a prison, but my mind set it astrally free. My body was running on automatic, pure instincts of survival. My mind was just ticking down the seconds till it was over while it flew over meadows and drank tart lemonade.
Tears begin to unite with the translucent water gravitating downward to the spiral that is my drain. If only I could travel with that water. Disappear with a gurgle. I clench my hand around the knob and turn. The water shuts off with an abrupt and silent end. Soon I feel the air with its goose bump inducing chills sweep through the shower curtain. This is not helping any, Buffy. Scrap yourself off all those dingy motel rooms and act as you say you will. Do as you say you will.
Plan.
Don't succumb to tradition and routine anymore. Don't believe in your own lies. Embrace the evil truths and build a bridge out of perdition.
I can do it. I can do it.
After exiting my shower, and spending a grueling half an hour getting ready in the bathroom like a programmed robot; lotion applied, deodorant swiped, hair blown dry, teeth brushed, etc. I emerge. My hair is a mass of waves and curls, twists and turns, giving me the best wild and exotic look I could get. The make up covering my face is ruby lipstick with light rosy eye shadow. Now for clothes. My hands flip through the articles of skank-wear populating my closet until . . . I locate the outfit that will have men drooling in puddles at my dainty feet.
Absently a treacherous thought from the old me forms in my mind and whispers into the empty room:
"Angel will definitely like this."
I discard my towel onto a place instantaneously forgotten. Gaze appreciatively held by the constrictive smoky black leather pants, and old style deep crimson corset with thin satiny bell sleeves the same color of my pants. Yeah, Angel will like this outfit. A brilliant smile on my face as I shimmy into it . . . bras and panties be damned . . . and along with many hops and awkward poses, zip up the tight as fuck pants. The corset is a lot easier to get on. Positioning myself in front of my long mirror, I give a twirl, and another twirl, and yet, another.
Oh so pretty, my ass. I look gorgeous.
Suddenly the world comes tumbling down like a two-year-old's set of building blocks. My earlier comment to myself echoing through this overstuffed brain. Shaky breaths are inhaled. Calm breaths exhaled. I'm Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Not Angel's Buffy. Just Buffy. Or am I Angel's Buffy? Angel's Buffy for life? Kind of like a marriage? To death do us part?
Am I? Can I, break free of this!? Can I, cut his strings and be a puppet no longer?
SHUT UP!
With terrible exertion all my doubts are battered into broken little demons that have ripped out arms, busted kneecaps, and mouths sewn certifiably shut. This brain of mine will not ruin my plan-in-the-making with its pressuring fear mingled with ominous second guesses. Soon, I'll be the genuine Buffy again. The one I was back in High School. No need to worry. No need to stress. I only need to think which will lead to me constructing a plan. A good plan, for my good day.
No one can destroy this in less than a second, but me.
That will not occur.
For now . . . I hope.
Feeling just a tad better and more assertive, I compliment my outfit with some chunky boots before I scurry on into the kitchen. Willow greets me with a grim expression, no glint or suggestion of the brilliance her eyes usually carry. My feet halt in their tracks to the fridge. The small smile on my face as greeting twitches to a fall.
"Has Xander eaten my stash of chocolate cookies you made last week?" I fail at lightening the mood with a witty line . . .
Willow plucks up an apple from the basket and tediously nibbles. "Tara informed me that another one of Angel's parties is tonight." Her eyes stay set on her apple. "She spilled all the juicy details."
I knit my eyebrows together with visible confusion. What could be the big deal? Willow knows he has parties at least once or twice a month, when high paying customers visit, or for a big celebration of some kind. She should be very used to this by now. And as for juicy details, there may be some fresh blood in town, a new rich guy, or guys for the nabbing. If that's what she means then I vow to get to him first. More money in my pocket. Envy of all the other girls. The satisfaction of being the first to try him out. The possibilities . . . the money.
I cautiously reply. "Something important you wanna tell me?"
Her eyes stare up into mine, green churning fury against curious shining hazel. "There's this new guy crashing." She searches my eyes for a reaction. "He's supposed to be all tough guy. Sporting the whole `don't fuck with me' aura. Bad to the bone, sorta deal." Her nail scratches the surface of the apple skin, peeling it back like husked corn, liquid secreting through, down her finger. "Killed plenty in his teen years. And has killed more than a plenty so far in his adult." She continues her search of my eyes . . .What the hell is she looking for? "I know what you are planning to do."
The words are unexpected. They disrupt her whole speech. Swinging the topic to another branch. I falter in my stance. The heels on my boots somehow feeling way to high now. Vertigo overwhelming my senses. Do not look down. Do not look down.
"Buffy, I've seen it in your eyes on the late nights when you come home." My hands flare out to grab on to safety. "Pure hate." The next words pack an emotional punch. "I have expected you to crave this sooner or later. And here it is. The craving that's shuddering through your body, gnawing and chomping away at your thoughts, now more than ever." A silent scream escapes from my inner voice, my eyes divert to the ground, the floor is one long expanse of air, as if I am upon a building taller than the imagination could ever manufacture. "You want his death." She obnoxiously snorts out a question wrapped up in a statement. "Don't we all?"
Falling. Falling. Falling in a spiral to the deep bellow of the truth of the matter. Her eyes. They continue to bore and drill cavernous holes into mine. What she is still searching for . . . she has finally found in my misty eyes.
Undiluted hope.
The silence thickens in wait for my words.
"What's his name?"
Willow produces an understanding grin. "Spike."
Groaning with hatred for all phones, I un-snuggle from my covers, and claw at the loud device resting on its base beside the bed. My hand harshly snatches it up, and finally, the insistent ringing ceases. The thought sends relief flooding through my tired system until it frizzles and sparks, close to gliding back into the languid, lazy feelings from the aftereffects of sleep upon a newly risen body.
Damn phone. Stupid ringing noise. Why can't phones just blink! Poke! Or something without resulting to using loud obnoxious ringing sounds! Another unsolved mystery to sit collecting dust.
The person who has called at such an hour gets their chance to speak and me to listen as I not to gently place the phone under my ear. Come on, it's . . . I sneak a peek at the clock . . . 2 p.m.! I do not usually get up till 4 p.m. This whole day I am going to have a booming headache from my sleeping pattern being disrupted. This better be worth my time.
"Hello?" I groggily greet, slowly and easily sinking back into my bed, under the covers, like a hermit crab creeping back into its shell.
"Buffy." Angel spits with distaste through the phone. My breath hitches. "You should be up already. You do know I'm throwing a party tonight?" The question is asked, but with no time to reply. "Being the best at your job, I want you to be there looking oh so pretty." I can just picture his smug ass smile. "It starts at seven. I want your tight little body in Tara's club at seven on the dot, or maybe earlier."
The line goes dead.
Somehow my room just dropped fifty or so degrees. I shiver with imaginary chills. Angel called. Angel spoke. Buffy must obey. That is they way it is, and has to be. This makes me pathetic. Connected to a leash. You might even go and say brainwashed. Sad as it sounds, they are all true. I live in tsunami waves of fear. Waiting and ready to do anything and almost everything so that I can dive over to the shore for a moments rest. Only a moment.
I scramble from the bed. The energy that comes with rest, seemingly hidden as I drag my limp body to the bathroom for a shower. Angel gleefully sucks the life out of my young body. Each order. Each party. Each everything he does dumps another spurt of Buffy's soul down his eager throat. And goddamn it, I give my consent by acting out what he demands. I really am pathetic. Such a wimp. I have good reasons, though. Biding my time is all.
Biding my time . . .
I repeat the mantra in my head. But like every morning or . . .er . . . afternoon it never completely replenishes my proverbial cup. Poor cup needs to be filled. It yearns to be filled with self-respect, pride, and an internal degree of contentment. These things are so lost to me now. They are buried in the deep ocean like concealed pirate's treasure. All golden doubloons and sparkling diamonds waiting to be mine. Oh, waiting to be found. So much patience it has. Something that is leaking from me with every moment that I relinquish myself to Angel and his rule.
I have no more patience. Something must be done. Something has to change. I have to utterly destroy this life to rebuild anew. And I have to execute the first step. The very first and essential step to the gradual process of restoring my soul, will be made by me. No more stalling with the wish, and hopeful thoughts in my head that someone else will do it for me. I am fed up. No more bottomless hole of fear. It's time to climb out. Now I will take the responsibility no one else is willing to. I will, without hesitation, without second thoughts, without a defect . . .
. . . kill him. Kill Angel.
With bravery from my thick torrent of hate that has been boiling and escalating for years, I will accomplish this, and with cunning it will go off smoothly. It cannot be that hard to kill Angel and his little band of followers, while making off scot free. Can it?
All right, this will take planning, determination, and all the skills I have ever required. This will be the hardest task in my entire life. Even harder than the first time I had a customer. I visibly flinch at the nauseating thought that conjures memories and feelings that no woman should ever have. That night passed like a school day. It was as if my body was in a prison, but my mind set it astrally free. My body was running on automatic, pure instincts of survival. My mind was just ticking down the seconds till it was over while it flew over meadows and drank tart lemonade.
Tears begin to unite with the translucent water gravitating downward to the spiral that is my drain. If only I could travel with that water. Disappear with a gurgle. I clench my hand around the knob and turn. The water shuts off with an abrupt and silent end. Soon I feel the air with its goose bump inducing chills sweep through the shower curtain. This is not helping any, Buffy. Scrap yourself off all those dingy motel rooms and act as you say you will. Do as you say you will.
Plan.
Don't succumb to tradition and routine anymore. Don't believe in your own lies. Embrace the evil truths and build a bridge out of perdition.
I can do it. I can do it.
After exiting my shower, and spending a grueling half an hour getting ready in the bathroom like a programmed robot; lotion applied, deodorant swiped, hair blown dry, teeth brushed, etc. I emerge. My hair is a mass of waves and curls, twists and turns, giving me the best wild and exotic look I could get. The make up covering my face is ruby lipstick with light rosy eye shadow. Now for clothes. My hands flip through the articles of skank-wear populating my closet until . . . I locate the outfit that will have men drooling in puddles at my dainty feet.
Absently a treacherous thought from the old me forms in my mind and whispers into the empty room:
"Angel will definitely like this."
I discard my towel onto a place instantaneously forgotten. Gaze appreciatively held by the constrictive smoky black leather pants, and old style deep crimson corset with thin satiny bell sleeves the same color of my pants. Yeah, Angel will like this outfit. A brilliant smile on my face as I shimmy into it . . . bras and panties be damned . . . and along with many hops and awkward poses, zip up the tight as fuck pants. The corset is a lot easier to get on. Positioning myself in front of my long mirror, I give a twirl, and another twirl, and yet, another.
Oh so pretty, my ass. I look gorgeous.
Suddenly the world comes tumbling down like a two-year-old's set of building blocks. My earlier comment to myself echoing through this overstuffed brain. Shaky breaths are inhaled. Calm breaths exhaled. I'm Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Not Angel's Buffy. Just Buffy. Or am I Angel's Buffy? Angel's Buffy for life? Kind of like a marriage? To death do us part?
Am I? Can I, break free of this!? Can I, cut his strings and be a puppet no longer?
SHUT UP!
With terrible exertion all my doubts are battered into broken little demons that have ripped out arms, busted kneecaps, and mouths sewn certifiably shut. This brain of mine will not ruin my plan-in-the-making with its pressuring fear mingled with ominous second guesses. Soon, I'll be the genuine Buffy again. The one I was back in High School. No need to worry. No need to stress. I only need to think which will lead to me constructing a plan. A good plan, for my good day.
No one can destroy this in less than a second, but me.
That will not occur.
For now . . . I hope.
Feeling just a tad better and more assertive, I compliment my outfit with some chunky boots before I scurry on into the kitchen. Willow greets me with a grim expression, no glint or suggestion of the brilliance her eyes usually carry. My feet halt in their tracks to the fridge. The small smile on my face as greeting twitches to a fall.
"Has Xander eaten my stash of chocolate cookies you made last week?" I fail at lightening the mood with a witty line . . .
Willow plucks up an apple from the basket and tediously nibbles. "Tara informed me that another one of Angel's parties is tonight." Her eyes stay set on her apple. "She spilled all the juicy details."
I knit my eyebrows together with visible confusion. What could be the big deal? Willow knows he has parties at least once or twice a month, when high paying customers visit, or for a big celebration of some kind. She should be very used to this by now. And as for juicy details, there may be some fresh blood in town, a new rich guy, or guys for the nabbing. If that's what she means then I vow to get to him first. More money in my pocket. Envy of all the other girls. The satisfaction of being the first to try him out. The possibilities . . . the money.
I cautiously reply. "Something important you wanna tell me?"
Her eyes stare up into mine, green churning fury against curious shining hazel. "There's this new guy crashing." She searches my eyes for a reaction. "He's supposed to be all tough guy. Sporting the whole `don't fuck with me' aura. Bad to the bone, sorta deal." Her nail scratches the surface of the apple skin, peeling it back like husked corn, liquid secreting through, down her finger. "Killed plenty in his teen years. And has killed more than a plenty so far in his adult." She continues her search of my eyes . . .What the hell is she looking for? "I know what you are planning to do."
The words are unexpected. They disrupt her whole speech. Swinging the topic to another branch. I falter in my stance. The heels on my boots somehow feeling way to high now. Vertigo overwhelming my senses. Do not look down. Do not look down.
"Buffy, I've seen it in your eyes on the late nights when you come home." My hands flare out to grab on to safety. "Pure hate." The next words pack an emotional punch. "I have expected you to crave this sooner or later. And here it is. The craving that's shuddering through your body, gnawing and chomping away at your thoughts, now more than ever." A silent scream escapes from my inner voice, my eyes divert to the ground, the floor is one long expanse of air, as if I am upon a building taller than the imagination could ever manufacture. "You want his death." She obnoxiously snorts out a question wrapped up in a statement. "Don't we all?"
Falling. Falling. Falling in a spiral to the deep bellow of the truth of the matter. Her eyes. They continue to bore and drill cavernous holes into mine. What she is still searching for . . . she has finally found in my misty eyes.
Undiluted hope.
The silence thickens in wait for my words.
"What's his name?"
Willow produces an understanding grin. "Spike."