Stage Two: Anger

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"Good morning, Mr. Pratt. Are we going to be reasonable today, hmm?"

"Fuck you," Spike snarls at the doctor, twisting and struggling within the confines of his straightjacket. Doesn't work. He's still stuck.

"Hmm. Perhaps another dose of laudanum."

With a supreme effort, Spike manages to launch himself from his padded corner. He rushes the doctor, only to overbalance and fall to the ground at his feet. "Go bugger yourself, you poncy arsehole." Unlike his vampire strength, bravado is never in short supply.

The doctor's lips thin and his eyes narrow, and he takes a mincing step back. "While Mrs. Pratt may prefer that we do not engage in electroshock therapy, if you persist in this… uncivilized… behavior, this moral insanity, I shall have no choice but to advise it."

"Best try strapping yourself in first. Maybe you can shock your limp dick back to life."

Spike can see his reflection in the good doctor's glasses. He appears insane, even to himself. Hair askew, cheeks sunken and unshaven, eyes burning bright, spittle flying. His appearance matches the turmoil within.

The doctor leaves, barring the door to his solitary cell.

"Fuck you!" Spike rages at the door. He's used up his more creative curses over the past however many days he's been in here, and has fallen back on the tried and true. "Fuck you!" he yells to the ceiling, hoping the shadow demon can hear him. "And fuck you too, you fucking bitch," he tells the as-yet unborn Buffy Summers.

Curling into a ball, he moans and sobs. "It's your fault, you bitch. Your fault I'm here, your fault…"

Whether he's blaming his mother or the Slayer, he's lost track.

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Spike is in hell. Worse than hell. Forced back into nancyboy, milksop William's fragile, tepid existence. Banished to the loony bin by his own mother, subjected to the quackery of the times by a sadistic doctor Spike's not too sure is entirely human.

Alone, day and night, there's nothing to distract him from the faces of his victims, Buffy at the forefront. Has he killed her? He can't remember. He knows he's thought about it. Dreamt of it, alone in his padded cell.

"Your fault," he croaks, lips cracking with the effort. Her fault, for making him want to be a man.

He flops to his back, thinking he should've know better than to make a deal with a demon. Can't be trusted, that lot. When Spike gets out of here, he's going to find the shadow demon, and force him to take it back. Then he'll tear him limb from limb, and feed him his own beating heart.

"Your fault," he tells him, her, the world. "Your fault."

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The door to his cell creaks open, and Spike blinks against the sudden brightness. The tall, spindly, shadowed shape in the doorway suggests the doctor has returned. How long has it been since his last visit? Since he's threatened Spike with the electric chair? Spike remembers four visits from the orderlies since then, four meals and four half-hearted efforts to maintain his personal hygiene. Not more than a day or two, then.

"Good day, William."

"Bugger off."

The doctor ignores him. "Your mother is here to see you. I trust you'll be on your best behavior for Mrs. Pratt."

His mother enters, and gasps in shock at the sight of him. She brings her hand to her mouth, tears in her eyes. "Is this quite necessary?"

"Mr. Pratt has proven singularly uncooperative," the doctor says, primly. "It is for his own safety, and the safety of our staff."

"Oh, William." Anne moves closer, and falls to her knees beside him. "Please, my son. Can you not try to get better? For my sake, if not your own?"

Spike doesn't answer.

Anne flutters helplessly beside him. "Bessie should make a full recovery," she says, attempting to fill the awkward silence. "Doctor Gull predicts there will be some… scarring… but no other lasting damage. Physically, that is…"

He refuses to think about it. Refuses to think about the way her flesh had lodged between his teeth, strands of it stuck there days later. He has no desire to vomit on himself again.

Anne doesn't bring up her own injuries. Instead she says, "Please, William. Please." She turns his averted face to hers, her touch gentle and loving. He doesn't deserve her compassion. He's a monster, and will make her one too.

Rage and self-loathing bubble up and overflow, pouring out in snarls and curses and snot and tears. The things he's done… And the bitch of it is he shouldn't even care. Wouldn't even care, if it hadn't been for some stuck-up, self-righteous cunt of Slayer.

If he hadn't gone to find the demon… No. That's not it. Not the real source of his troubles.

If he hadn't tried to make her love him back…

Hadn't begun there, either, had it?

If he hadn't fallen in love with the bitch in the first place. Hadn't returned to Sunnydale. Hadn't brought Dru to the Hellmouth hadn't put up with Dru for over a century hadn't been turned.

Hadn't been such a failure of a man in the first place.

Hadn't even been born.

That was the mistake, there. Being born. Spike turns maddened eyes upon his mother. The source of all his misery. She has escaped to the doorway, and is clinging to the doorframe, staring at him in horror.

"You should've dashed my brains out the moment you first saw me," he says in clear, ringing tones.

His mother pales. Her mouth opens and closes, but nothing escapes but a strangled gasp. She trembles, and begins to swoon. The doctor rushes to her side and holds her upright.

Spike feels a certain amount of satisfaction, being the one to say it first this time around.

"This is why I recommend most strongly that family members do not visit patients," the doctor says, his nattering, nasally voice floating in from somewhere far away. "For all of their sakes. It seems to have the effect of exciting the patients to far worse outbursts, and slows recovery. Not to mention the effect the shock of seeing a loved one behave so must have upon you."

"Yes, I see," Anne says, voice weak, breath wheezing.

"If there is one good thing to come of this encounter, perhaps you now see the necessity of employing a more severe course of treatment." He gestures to Spike, who glowers at them from his corner, arms bound tight. "Electroshock therapy seems most advisable. Do I have your permission to proceed?"

Anne's countenance is a mask of anguish. Spike bares his teeth at her, just wanting her to leave now. To let him be.

She turns away, granting his wish. "Yes, doctor. If you feel it is necessary, I give you permission to proceed."

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