Entry 6Posted 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?