Kill the Pain! (Part 2)
#
"I don't want to do this," I tell you in a small voice.
"Face it, B," you reply, "you gotta do it. They're a part of this mess, like it or not, and you'll never get your head screwed on right again until you've had it out with them."
You're right, of course. As usual. I don't know what I would do without you. Scratch that, I know quite well, don't I? After all, I remember what I was about to do when I first met you.
I remember like it was yesterday.
Sitting in my dark apartment, surrounded by the broken pieces of my life. The few things I took along with me when I left home barely give the room a feeling of being filled. I'm not living here. I'm not living at all, actually. I'm just existing. For the pain.
I keep seeing his face. Surprised, hurt, needing to know why I did it.
I look at the kitchen knife I took along from work, look at the gleaming edge of the blade and I wonder what it will feel like to finally end it all. Put the cutting edge against the skin of my wrists and press down with that Slayer strength, the same I used to drive another blade into someone else's skin.
Tears roll down my face. They don't come that often anymore. Maybe I just don't have all that many left. Or maybe I'm starting to forget. Forget what he looked like, forget how good he smelled, how he curved his lips into that sensuous half-smile he had that could melt me into a puddle.
I take the knife and hold it against my wrist, feeling the coldness of the steel. One movement and it will be over. Maybe the gods will be kind and send me to Hell. That is what is supposed to happen when you commit suicide, right? You go to Hell.
Please! Let it be true!
"You sure you want to do that?" I hear you ask me. Hear your voice for the very first time.
I look up and there you are, standing in the door of my apartment like you own it, all easy strength and confidence. Dressed in black leather pants and something barely deserving of being called a top. Your dark eyes glisten as you watch me, watch the knife I still have pressed to my wrist.
"Who are you?" I ask you, wanting to be alone. Wanting to finish this without onlookers.
"Boring question," you reply, abandoning your pose at the door to come closer. "Much more interesting to ask what you think you are doing."
"What does it look like?" My voice is dripping with a tired sarcasm. I want you to go, go away!
"You don't want me to go, believe me," you answer. Did I speak those words out loud? You sit on the bed beside me, just out of reach, and I can almost feel the heat trailing off your skin. Something about you makes me tingle inside. A bit like I felt when he was still around. I don't know you, but you feel so familiar. As if I should know you.
"You know nothing about what I want," I mumble.
"Oh, but I do know a lot. Buffy."
I look up at your face, seeing the way your lips curve into a wicked smile.
"You know my name?"
"I know a lot about you. I'm like you, Buffy."
I just look at you, confused, and then you show me what you mean. The bed we sit on has an iron railing and with but one hand you bend the bedpost halfway around, not even straining.
"See what I mean?" you ask me.
"You're a Slayer?"
"Yep! Chosen to fight evil, save the world, yada, yada, yada! You know the score."
"Fine," I mutter back. "Then you can take over the job. I don't want it anymore."
I am about to press down with the knife when your hand slips over mine and pulls the knife back. I look at your face again, too tired to put up a fight, too tired even to be angry for your interference.
"That is not the way."
"I don't want the pain anymore," I whisper, trying to get back the knife, my way out. You pull it away from me, though, and I can't fight anymore.
"I can show you how to kill the pain," you whisper to me, your hair brushing mine. "I can show you how to live again. It will take time and it won't be easy, but together we can make it. The two of us, the Chosen Two."
I am so tired and your words are soothing. Kill the pain? Is that possible? I have been in pain for so long I have forgotten how it is not to feel it seep through my bones. I can't even imagine how it is not to be in pain anymore.
"What do you say, B?" you ask me. It is the first time you call me by that nickname.
I don't care anymore, so I just nod and let you do whatever you want to do with me.
That night we went out to kill the pain, you and I. You dressed me, you colored my hair, you gave me one of the knives you always carry. I just let you, let you do whatever you want to. Together we went out into the night and for the first time in nearly three months I found myself killing Vampires again. For the first time I felt alive again.
With you at my side it was a glorious feeling. No thinking. No remembering. Just fighting, feel the blood thunder through my veins, feel the snap and pop in my arms and legs as I dish out pain and punishment. That beautiful shudder that runs up my arm when the stake impacts against a Vampire's chest and pierces the heart.
It is in those moments, when death is all around me, flashing fangs and growling, that I don't feel the pain anymore. I kill the pain by killing others, kill the feelings inside me as the monsters turn to ash. When I fight and kill there is nothing but glorious numbness inside me, nothing but an emptiness that feels too good to be true.
No pain. For a brief moment.
"You have to go inside now," you tell me, bringing me back to the present.
I am standing in front of my mother's door and can already hear her moving inside, Slayer hearing picking up her every sound. Just knock and she will open the door, see me, and do ... what?
"Can't you go with me?" I ask you, needing your strength.
"I am always with you, B," you answer with a smile, "but I won't go inside with you. I will be there when you come out again."
With those words you are gone, disappearing with an ease I never really mastered. I have been the Slayer much longer than you, Faith, but you seem so much better at it. Nothing can hurt you. I wish I could be that way.
Finally I knock on the door, each step sounding from behind the wooden barrier ringing inside me, tearing at my shredded soul. So much pain. Why did I come back?
My mother opens the door and stares at me in disbelief.
"Hi, mom!"
I know you're watching me, Faith. It makes me feel safe.
TO BE CONTINUED
#
"I don't want to do this," I tell you in a small voice.
"Face it, B," you reply, "you gotta do it. They're a part of this mess, like it or not, and you'll never get your head screwed on right again until you've had it out with them."
You're right, of course. As usual. I don't know what I would do without you. Scratch that, I know quite well, don't I? After all, I remember what I was about to do when I first met you.
I remember like it was yesterday.
Sitting in my dark apartment, surrounded by the broken pieces of my life. The few things I took along with me when I left home barely give the room a feeling of being filled. I'm not living here. I'm not living at all, actually. I'm just existing. For the pain.
I keep seeing his face. Surprised, hurt, needing to know why I did it.
I look at the kitchen knife I took along from work, look at the gleaming edge of the blade and I wonder what it will feel like to finally end it all. Put the cutting edge against the skin of my wrists and press down with that Slayer strength, the same I used to drive another blade into someone else's skin.
Tears roll down my face. They don't come that often anymore. Maybe I just don't have all that many left. Or maybe I'm starting to forget. Forget what he looked like, forget how good he smelled, how he curved his lips into that sensuous half-smile he had that could melt me into a puddle.
I take the knife and hold it against my wrist, feeling the coldness of the steel. One movement and it will be over. Maybe the gods will be kind and send me to Hell. That is what is supposed to happen when you commit suicide, right? You go to Hell.
Please! Let it be true!
"You sure you want to do that?" I hear you ask me. Hear your voice for the very first time.
I look up and there you are, standing in the door of my apartment like you own it, all easy strength and confidence. Dressed in black leather pants and something barely deserving of being called a top. Your dark eyes glisten as you watch me, watch the knife I still have pressed to my wrist.
"Who are you?" I ask you, wanting to be alone. Wanting to finish this without onlookers.
"Boring question," you reply, abandoning your pose at the door to come closer. "Much more interesting to ask what you think you are doing."
"What does it look like?" My voice is dripping with a tired sarcasm. I want you to go, go away!
"You don't want me to go, believe me," you answer. Did I speak those words out loud? You sit on the bed beside me, just out of reach, and I can almost feel the heat trailing off your skin. Something about you makes me tingle inside. A bit like I felt when he was still around. I don't know you, but you feel so familiar. As if I should know you.
"You know nothing about what I want," I mumble.
"Oh, but I do know a lot. Buffy."
I look up at your face, seeing the way your lips curve into a wicked smile.
"You know my name?"
"I know a lot about you. I'm like you, Buffy."
I just look at you, confused, and then you show me what you mean. The bed we sit on has an iron railing and with but one hand you bend the bedpost halfway around, not even straining.
"See what I mean?" you ask me.
"You're a Slayer?"
"Yep! Chosen to fight evil, save the world, yada, yada, yada! You know the score."
"Fine," I mutter back. "Then you can take over the job. I don't want it anymore."
I am about to press down with the knife when your hand slips over mine and pulls the knife back. I look at your face again, too tired to put up a fight, too tired even to be angry for your interference.
"That is not the way."
"I don't want the pain anymore," I whisper, trying to get back the knife, my way out. You pull it away from me, though, and I can't fight anymore.
"I can show you how to kill the pain," you whisper to me, your hair brushing mine. "I can show you how to live again. It will take time and it won't be easy, but together we can make it. The two of us, the Chosen Two."
I am so tired and your words are soothing. Kill the pain? Is that possible? I have been in pain for so long I have forgotten how it is not to feel it seep through my bones. I can't even imagine how it is not to be in pain anymore.
"What do you say, B?" you ask me. It is the first time you call me by that nickname.
I don't care anymore, so I just nod and let you do whatever you want to do with me.
That night we went out to kill the pain, you and I. You dressed me, you colored my hair, you gave me one of the knives you always carry. I just let you, let you do whatever you want to. Together we went out into the night and for the first time in nearly three months I found myself killing Vampires again. For the first time I felt alive again.
With you at my side it was a glorious feeling. No thinking. No remembering. Just fighting, feel the blood thunder through my veins, feel the snap and pop in my arms and legs as I dish out pain and punishment. That beautiful shudder that runs up my arm when the stake impacts against a Vampire's chest and pierces the heart.
It is in those moments, when death is all around me, flashing fangs and growling, that I don't feel the pain anymore. I kill the pain by killing others, kill the feelings inside me as the monsters turn to ash. When I fight and kill there is nothing but glorious numbness inside me, nothing but an emptiness that feels too good to be true.
No pain. For a brief moment.
"You have to go inside now," you tell me, bringing me back to the present.
I am standing in front of my mother's door and can already hear her moving inside, Slayer hearing picking up her every sound. Just knock and she will open the door, see me, and do ... what?
"Can't you go with me?" I ask you, needing your strength.
"I am always with you, B," you answer with a smile, "but I won't go inside with you. I will be there when you come out again."
With those words you are gone, disappearing with an ease I never really mastered. I have been the Slayer much longer than you, Faith, but you seem so much better at it. Nothing can hurt you. I wish I could be that way.
Finally I knock on the door, each step sounding from behind the wooden barrier ringing inside me, tearing at my shredded soul. So much pain. Why did I come back?
My mother opens the door and stares at me in disbelief.
"Hi, mom!"
I know you're watching me, Faith. It makes me feel safe.
TO BE CONTINUED