Numb.
Based on the comic book story of the same name by Brett Matthews and Cliff Richards.
All lines taken directly from the Dark Horse comic book "Tales of the Vampires" belong to their writers. No copyright infringement intended.
Thanks for the beautiful story, guys.
The dead, wintery sky hangs above him, heavy. His breath fogs the air as he stands at the edge of the town, the small "Welcome to" sign next to him obscurred by dirt and time.
His long black wool coat flaps in the icy wind, the collar turned up to protect his neck from the cold.
He sees a diner at the edge of town, and approaches it on leaden feet, drawn to the place inexplicably.
The sign on the door says closed, but he pushes the door open anyway.
The place is packed with people; mostly families. He glances around, not really knowing why he's there or what he should be doing. He takes a seat at the counter, staring into the mirror that reflects his image; pale, pale skin, black clothing, black coat, snow in his hair, bottomless dark eyes.
A waitress approaches him, a pad of paper and pencil in her hand. She is perhaps in her mid thirties, harried but kind, her brunette hair in a short bob. She cocks a hip and smiles at him.
"What'll it be?"
"I'm not sure…" he answers, and discovers that he's not.
"Right. I know the thing," she answers, and puts her pad and pencil away. She reaches underneath the counter, pouring something into a cup for him.
She sets a mug in front of him, steam issuing out of it. "That should do you," she says cheerfully, and he reaches for it.
Closing his eyes, he takes a sip of the warm liquid, willing his insides to not be so chilly.
Why am I so cold?
He spits the contents out violently, the viscous stuff dripping down the wall next to him. The metallic smell wafts through the room, and the remaining blood that had been in the cup drips slowly down its side, making a small pool on the countertop.
He stares at it, not comprehending, a rivulet of the red stuff running from his mouth to his chin.
The waitress throws up her arms, and he looks up at her, horror in his expression.
"What? Mine's not good enough for you anymore??" she screams at him, her face ghostly white, black pits under her eyes, the slashes up her wrists a startling crimson against the pallor of her skin.
The man exits the diner, shaken. He walks aimlessly, heading toward the edge of town again, and a forest he sees there.
His breath trails out behind him.
"You can't do that."
A childish voice comes from behind him, and he turns.
"What?" he asks.
The little girl in the summer pink frock smiles and shakes her head, her ponytails whipping around her head. The stuffed rabbit she holds in her hands glares at him through one glass eye.
"You can't see your breath. No matter how hard you try," she tells him.
"And why's that?" he says.
"Because you're dead, silly," she laughs, like it's the most obvious answer in the world. "Like me."
His stomach drops like he's on a roller coaster, and just as suddenly the smoke from his breath isn't visible anymore.
"No," he whispers.
"Don't tell me you forgot," the little girl says petulantly, stamping her foot. "…you mean you killed me after I begged you so hard not to, and you don't even remember me?"
He gapes at her, agahast, the vision of her grey skin and blood soaked hair rooting him to the spot. What's worse are the two bite marks on her tiny neck.
"Jerk!" she says loudly, and kicks snow at him. She snatches up her dropped bunny, and walks off towards the woods, still muttering angrily.
"Wait!" the man calls, raising his hand, and running after her, tripping slightly in the deep packed ice.
He stops at the edge of the trees, raising his face to the dark sky.
"I remember," he says softly.
A little deeper into the woods, and he comes across a set of ruins that appear to be an ancient temple. He approaches the fallen collumns, and runs up the remaining steps, stopping when he reaches a door set into the floor.
It looks just like the entrance to a storm cellar. In the middle of the woods? In the middle of ancient Greek ruins?
The toy bunny lays haphazardly on top of the wooden entryway, its glass eye still staring accusingly. He reaches for the iron handles, and opens the door.
A uniformed usher holds out her gloved hand, the buttons of her jacket shining brightly enough to cause spots to dance in his eyes.
"Tickets, please," she says pleasantly.
He knows her.
"Jenn- Miss Calendar?"
"Yes, now that you mention it," she answers, pushing the heavy doors shut against the cold of the night air behind them.
"I had so many names- they melt when you're dead. At least for most of us," she puts out her hand again. "Now, those tickets…"
They're standing in a long hall, at the foot of a huge staircase. The walls are grey brick, and along them doors are interspersed randomly. He looks around, the light of the torches flickering on the walls casting weird shadows on the ground.
Miss Calendar points toward the opposite end of the hall, which is so far off it's shrouded in shadow.
"Just take the hall down as far as it goes. Not that I should have to tell you. And whatever you do…don't open any doors."
She tells him this with the same blank smile on her face.
He nods, and begins to walk down the hall.
The doors seem to laugh at him, and he thinks he hears his name being called from behind one of them. He can't help himself, and turns toward one, twisting it's handle and swinging it open.
Jenny Calendar lurches out of the opening, her broken neck and torn dress pictures from a nightmare set of weeks that he doesn't care to think about anymore. He jumps backward, his hand flying to his mouth.
"I told you not to, Angel," she says sadly. "Why can't you spare yourself it?"
He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jenny."
"I'm not talking about the door," she says, her cold voice echoing about the hallway.
Suddenly the door is closed, and the dead woman is gone. The usher is next to him again.
"I only ripped the one," she tells him, taking the remaining ticket he has forgotten about out of his front pocket.
She promptly tears it in half.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Angel says, his hands out in a supplicating gesture.
"Ironic, you saying that…" usher Calendar replies, her hands replicating his movements.
She points to an opening in the floor, a great, black swirling mass that has sprung up out of nowhere.
"You fall."
And he does.
Plummeting through the darkness, a voice reverberates in his head.
"You're weak. You know what that means…"
Angel hits the ground, hard, his knees taking the brunt of the shock. Shaking it off, he looks up, hearing motion in the small room he's landed in.
"You," he whispers.
Angelus grins at him, fangs dripping saliva, anticipation hot in his words.
"No, Angel, you," he says, the Irish brogue mocking Angel.
Angelus is chained to the wall, the iron links wrapped around his neck, his arms, and his legs. Angel sits on the floor, unable to move, his jacket laying around him like broken raven's wings.
"Before the Blonde, before the hair, before the soul. You," spits Angelus, a long finger pointed at Angel's chest.
Angel gazes at him. "You were always into the hair."
Angelus barks a laugh. "True. But so is the rest. Face it, I'm the only thing that's ever given you direction. Drive. Even this annoying savior phase you're going through right now is all about one thing. When it comes right down to it…me."
Angel begins to stand, slowly.
"You can feel me breaking loose again every time you let your mind wander or close your eyes. We both know that's why you're here. That it's only a matter of time…why don't we drop the act?"
He puts out a hand, a huge, brotherly grin of love on his face.
Angel grasps the hand, accepting the help up.
"You're right. About all of it…" Angel answers, and stands fully, swinging his fist toward his alter ego.
Instead of punching him, however, he slams Angelus against the wall, clapping the iron manacles bound into the wall around his wrists.
The demon's eyes narrow, and he launches himself as far forward as possible, his teeth bared, prepared to rip out Angel's throat once and for all.
Angel's fist does meet Angelus's face then, and he sinks to the ground, blood dripping from his lips, the manacles holding his arms up in the air.
Angel walks away, his hands sunk into his pockets.
"…it just doesn't change anything," he finishes as he begins to disappear in the rapidly growing mist.
Of course, the demon won't let it go.
"You know, sometimes…sometimes I think you're the soul that was put into me. That that's all you are- a soul. Nothing more. So tell me, Angel. In your still heart of hearts…what do you see when you look in the mirror?"
Angel sits bolt upright, sweat beading on his chest, the sheets twisted around him. The curtains blow in the night breeze, and he huffs a few unneccessary breaths, calming himself.
He stands, a slight tremor shaking his torso and hands. He clicks on the light, padding to the long wall across from his bed. He stands immoble in front of the full length mirror that hangs there.
Tell me, Angel, what do you see when you look in the mirror?
He stares, turning his head, running a hand over his five o'clock shadow. The mirror stares back at him, reflecting nothing but the room and it's furniture.
He turns slowly, picking up his abandoned pajama top, and slips it on. He ignores the open windows, where the early morning birds have begun to call to one another.
He snaps the light off, plunging the room into pre-dawn darkness.
What do you see in your heart of hearts when you look in the mirror?
What do you see?
What?
He rolls back into the coolness of his sheets, and doesn't answer the question that has been plaguing him for as long as he can remember.
As sleep claims him, the tiny voice in his head that thinks of itself as Angel answers it instead.
Nothing.
Fin.