By Minim Calibre
Notes: Spoilers through Dead Things. Buffy/Spike, PG.
I don’t want to ask myself why; I don’t want to know the answer—but if I didn’t come back wrong, what the hell am I doing?
She’s trying to understand, to empathize. But this isn’t like when Mom died. There’s just nothing that can prepare her for something like this.
Whatever “this” is.
His skin is so cold that when I touch him, I almost feel warm again. He tells me I belong in the dark; maybe he’s right. The dark is soothing against the bright, harsh light of day.
What the hell have I done? This isn’t me. It’s not.
Tara hands me a tissue and I realize she’s still trying to make me feel better, even after everything I’ve told her, everything I’ve said. Everything I’ve done.
If I’m not a monster, then what the hell am I? And why do I only feel like myself again after I’ve been with one?
And why can’t it ever last long enough for me to be myself with them?
She tells me that I’m still me, that I didn’t come back wrong…
They say it’s a thin line between love and hate. They’re wrong. It’s more like a mobius strip and I don’t know which side of it I’m on anymore. I don’t know which side any of us are on.
I don’t know which one I was punishing in the alley, the monster or the man. It’s all twisted up.
“You always hurt the one…”
Oh, God. I don’t want to go there. I can’t.
I wish Giles were here.
I want someone to lie to me.