Posted on 2007.02.19 at 20:55
There’s so much…too much. And I’m not even sure I should be writing it down.
Though I hear there are some who have made it a habit for longer than there have even been Watchers.
Watchers, Christ, what a cosmic joke. The observed of all observers….
Now I’m the one being watched, but not with good intent, not with help and the comfort of tea and books and stuffy, safe platitudes.
Watched like an insect, pinned under glass. Which way will I jump? What will I do next?
No wonder Giles wanted me here to tell me in person.
I’m - not human. Never was. It’s a miracle, given my profession, my chosen paths, that I never found out before that night in Sark’s hands.
I can’t die. Well. I can. But I’ll come back - a permanent, doomed revenant, oh God, it doesn’t even sound better written down!
To keep me dead, decapitate me. Was that why Justine’s knife failed? No….no. I didn’t die. Then.
This would have been triggered sooner, if I had.
Immortals. Immortals, watched by another branch of our damnable Council, and I never knew.
I never knew.
But Giles did. He wouldn’t tell me how he had this information, but - he could tell me enough.
That there will, in the end, be only one of us remaining. That I’m condemned to a life - if that’s what this is called, now - of battle, of fighting. If not because I want some great, unknown prize, to be the last one standing, then simply….to survive.
I wonder if Rudyard Kipling knew of us? ‘If you can keep your head….’
I think Giles has already chosen his candidates for survival. I’m not among them. I know that much, could tell it from his voice. He was more concerned as to what this revelation would inspire in me.
It hasn’t inspired much.
I just feel - lost. Anchorless. As though any second now, this terrible unreality will be unreal, I’ll wake up, and -
I can’t think like that.
I’m not supposed to say anything, people aren’t supposed to know - is Giles completely oblivious to everything, then, to the most basic needs of existence?
Does he truly think I was going to lie to anyone - he told me to stay with Spike or Angel at all times, did he think that I wouldn’t have let them know the truth, after that?
I don’t know whether I can tell Angel, of course. He suspects, naturally, he was the one who told me how ‘wrong’ my blood was. He suspects something. But he won’t have even the faintest inkling of this…
Apparently I need a teacher. I don’t want one. I don’t want anyone near me except the ones I know I can trust.
Xander - and I’ll thank every deity going for him, because he’s the one person keeping us sane, right now.
Illyria. Good God, Illyria, who’s starting some kind of relationship with Xander that I don’t even care to think about too carefully.
She was the instrument of my fall, once. Now she’s one of the few people - yes, people - that I hold dear.
They feel like the only reality in this whole strange half-life.
I can’t do this. I can’t - resign - myself to what I am.
And there’s something going on with Spike, something that’s making him grimmer than ever and trying so hard not to withdraw from me, to deal with whatever it is…
He’s trying so hard to put me first, so very hard, and succeeding, my God, is he. But I’m worrying about the cost to him, I’m not in any state to try and help, not yet, and I need…
I don’t know what I need. That my skin ends where it should, that I’m alive, really alive, not some…monstrous hybrid from a fairy tale.
I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I was never designed for it, I’m not -
I’m not Angel. I’m not one of those whom Giles admires. I’m -
Angel was right. I’m wrong. Intrinsically, utterly wrong, in every breath I take.
I wonder. If I asked, if I said, out loud, what I really want, would one of them do it for me?
Would they take my head?
Posted on 2006.09.23 at 21:54
I'm scrawling this down in some godforsaken hotel in Newfoundland, of all places. Somehow I cannot help but feel that if I put this down as ink on paper, it will make sense - God, I hope. At least it will be some kind of record, should things go as badly as I fear.
My mental life seems to be a journal all in itself these days. Not quite a 'Dear Diary' (heaven forbid) but - approximating it, shall we say?
I am beginning to view myself as an anomaly, a source of curiosity that must be scrutinised. Why else, really, would Giles want me in London so very definitely if not to take me apart under one form of microscope or another? God knows that, despite our recent rapprochement via the wonders of very long distance (and distanced) conversation, there is scarcely a mutual trust between us.
I must not forget that he has believed me, at one time or another, capable of atrocities. Whether my past behaviour has leant itself to such interpretation or not is scarcely the point - the fact remains that he has believed it to be true.
And I cannot allow myself to trust him. Despite his help, despite everything, I must bear in mind that this is the man who would have - and did - leave us to our fate without a qualm. To do otherwise would be foolish.
If I am a monster - if the abnormalities I have detected within myself are as bad as I fear - then I suspect Rupert will sincerely believe he has no choice but to list me among those things that humanity should be protected from. Like all of us, he is, to a certain extent, dictated to by his conscience. Too much has happened to him, in recent years, for me to believe that even a trace of sentimentality (should he even feel such a thing towards me) would be permissible under such circumstances.
I do not intend to be disposed of as some inconvenience, nor do I believe I can be classed as some rabid and uncontrollable species that must be euthanised. I remain capable of reasoned thought, of emotion, of what must vaguely be termed humanity.
I make mental lists of what I can believe in, and yet I am continually proved wrong. Angel would have headed that list, once, yet, as so often in his case, this has proved to be based on sand. His priorities are neither me nor mine, and I must accept this.
I allow myself to believe in Xander's friendship, and hope that this, too, may not prove to be a chimaera.
In Illyria's strange, divided idea of loyalty and affection.
I allow myself to believe, foolish though I may be, in Spike. I have learnt that actions, for him, are worth a good deal more than words, and that words themselves count for much. That he is here should reassure me, and yet, and yet, I cannot be reassured, cannot allow myself to be, because so much may change...
What am I?
Posted on 2006.07.09 at 17:34
Current Mood: infuriated
There are days when the temptation to shake Angel until his pointy teeth rattle becomes almost overwhelming - and this is one of them.
I don't suppose Spike's going to be too thrilled with him, either.
Damn and bloody blast.
How can anyone with so many years' experience be so unforgiveably stupid?
I'm trying to set aside my resentment at how, yet again, Buffy must take precedence over all else, but I suspect I'm not succeeding, considering how truly furious I feel with the pair of them at the moment.
And now I have the forthcoming joy of telling Spike as to our change in plans.
Would it be so much to ask that once, just once, things could follow according to plan? Apparently so.
I'm fighting the very strong desire to tell him exactly how cowardly I think he is being - and how very much his behaviour has hurt me. However, it would accomplish nothing.
I sometimes wonder why I even try.
Posted on 2006.02.15 at 21:43
Just sent an email to Giles - damn good thing I didn't send the first one, as he might have assumed I'd become suddenly illiterate. Not that the distraction wasn't pleasant - hm.
I'm finding a balance. I think we all are, though I'm not sure I'm ready to commit what I hope to paper. Angel's certainty about things is occasionally mind-bogglingly straightforward, but it really isn't my style.
And God alone knows what Spike ever thinks, deep down.
It's a start. A tipping of the scales upwards towards equilibrium. All I know is I'm damned well not going to relinquish it.
Equilibrium...now that is something to think about. Angel thinks he may have a lead on where Gunn took the contracts, but I'm a bit more disturbed about some other things that came up in conversation. I'm not sure I like the idea of Spike having read the stories out of one of the books of legends to Drusilla, and I'm most disconcerted by what she seemed to make of them.
I should have been taking notes, I suppose, but the situation was - bizarre. We're heading for Paris, as soon as I hear from Giles, Angel seems to have stored some scrolls and a diary which (to quote Spike) they 'got off some old bookseller we killed' - apparently belonging to an old Roman. Spike seems to have turned whatever he read in those papers into fairytales for Drusilla.
Damn it, when will people learn that legends are dangerous? It's like transcribing magic into a playtime hour for children - and I can't imagine a better way of warping the messages contained.
More unnervingly, I'm starting to think that with all of her talking to the stars, Drusilla hit on something closer to the truth than anything I've found so far in the books. Saying she had Cassandra's eyes...for some reason, the thought makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I'm hoping to God the bloody woman was talking about the gift of prophecy, but I have a nasty crawling suspicion it isn't that at all...
And quite frankly, her version of the Apocrypha terrifies me.
On a lighter note, I think I have a perfect reason not to immerse myself in the text again this morning. And I don't want to be thought of as the one who left this time around. I just - need to write things down. I don't want to become so absorbed again that I fall into error.
It would be nice if - well. It was nice when I had people I could talk to before, who could pull me out of insomniac obsession with something I can't quite grasp.
If I don't allow myself to trust this time, I really am past help.
It's simply - something Spike said keeps ringing in my head, and I can't shake it enough to sleep as deeply as I need.
"She said lightning took away their lives and gave them swords instead."
Why can't I put my finger on what that's making me not-quite remember?
Right. Back to bed. I will not start some crazed assumption that I can fix this by myself. At least I can learn from past mistakes...
Posted on 2006.02.13 at 21:38
Current Mood: anxious
I would truly like to know when I descended into lunacy. While I'm familiar with the fact that I live amidst it, I flatter myself that until this week I did a damned good job of remaining reasonably detached from it.
This seems to be no longer true, a case in point being that not only did I make the possibly irreparable mistake of letting - no, in all honesty, encouraging - one vampire to fuck me until I couldn't even remember my own name, I then got monumentally plastered and invited another one back to my bed the next night. Fortunately unconsciousness seems to have prevented me from yet another error, but not for lack of intent on my part. And while I'd love to think it was simply a hangover that made him uncommunicative this morning, I have a nasty suspicion it was a crashing case of 'what the hell have I done?'.
Blast all neurotic soul-ridden vampires. I have quite enough quirks of my own, without having to consider my every word with caution in case I cause tailspins in others.
I'm beginning to wonder if any common sense I had left me along with my life blood. That would certainly explain a great deal.
It would, of course, be even better if I could get this ridiculous set-up to work, but that would simply be asking too much.
The damnable thing - the utterly bloody damnable joke - is that this is what I want. At one level. Not this screwed up facsimile of friendships and bed partners, obviously, but what it has the potential to be - yes, I want that. I'm not suited to feeling affection for one person at a time - I learnt that much about myself in Oxford. I'm not entirely sure that I ever could be.
What I really want to do is talk to Daniel. Except the stupid sod's vanished again - really, would it be too much to ask of him to leave a contact number? What I'm going to do, little though I relish the prospect, is try and talk to Angel. Again.
Because that always goes well.
The week just gets better and better.
Posted on 2006.02.12 at 10:37
Oh God I'm cold, I'm so cold, I'm shaking, I -
He bloody left.
All I said and asked for and he left.
And now I can't get warm, I'm so so cold....
He was kind and he said he loved me and he wanted me and he left....oh damn you, Angel, damn you. He said I could sleep and now he's gone.
Well, there's a bloody hoorah for insomnia.
I can't get warm.
I can't stop crying. It hurts, dear God how it hurts....
Posted on 2006.02.11 at 18:21
Current Mood: thoughtful
One finds kindness in the strangest places. Not something I like, because to my mind it still comes tainted with pity poor pathetic Wesley, can’t even hold a weapon the right way round, but still, take it for what it is.
I have knives up my sleeves now, and I shouldn’t need anything, but God, did I tonight. Did I fucking ever. I guessed - I knew - that Charles must be dead, but I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to accept it. And isn’t it strange, how all the bitterness and the resentment went, how I sat in a bar with some hideous concoction of chartreuse and pineapple and aquavit in front of me, and just thought about how Gunn could grin like a maniac in the face of any Angel-inspired lunacy, thought about complicated handshakes and being called ‘English’, thought about everything and nothing and suddenly missed the stupid heroic bastard, not the lawyer in the sharp suits with a brain enhanced by God knows what, not the man who judged me and found me wanting in the days (weeks, months) of Connor’s kidnapping, of Angel’s vanishing, none of that. I missed Charles, my friend, my beloved axe wielding friend who once had a sister and would have gone into a hell of our choosing out of loyalty. Who did. Who bloody did.
Christ, I’m still drunk.
I can’t even remember how I got back here, but I’m guessing that it had something to do with Spike. Mostly because I tend to head for my bed, not for a sofa, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have found myself a blanket out of the cupboard.
I wonder why he didn’t take the bed? Would have been like him. Also the fact that he missed out on an opportunity to gloat over the state of my head this morning is a bit strange. Still.
He was kind.
He ate every bar snack in the place, terrified the bartender into making him a gherkin cocktail (several, if what I can remember is true), and generally offended 90% of the customers, but he was kind to me. Didn’t ask me how it felt to be bound by this contract, didn’t take any notice when I ended up having to rub my hand over my face, didn’t do anything except get the drinks (although he used my card, must remember to call him on that later, when I’m feeling less ridiculously grateful) and get me home.
I dreamt, I think. I must have, or maybe I just remembered, who knows. I dreamt of Oxford. I dreamt I was happy, dreamt of wisteria and gold-tinged stone and summer, of punting and rivers and books.
I dreamt of Fox, mouth crooked up as he explained some ridiculous theory about spaceships and aliens, of Daniel, agreeing with the theories and disproving them at once. I dreamt that I could tell them what I knew, and that they believed me.
I dreamt I was happy. I think I was, then, even though I knew what awaited me, that this was a stolen season.
I wish I could dream like that more often.