Falling.....
I'm almost there.
I'm almost to the bloody top. I can make it. I have to make it. My muscles are screaming from the effort, but I ignore the pain. Nothing else matters but her.
I finally reach the pinnacle and she's standing there, barefoot, clad in a long flowing dress. There's blood dripping from her. Oh god, I'm already too late.
Buffy's expression is full of sadness and reproach. She turns her back on me and steps off into the abyss.
"Buffy!" I scream, and leap after her, trying desperately to grab at her flailing limbs or dress. If I can reach her, maybe I can shield her from the impact below with my own body.
I just manage to catch my fingertips briefly in her golden hair. Then the ground flies up to embrace us both.
Spike shudders awake, gasping and clutching at nothing in the darkness.
His body is tensed, his muscles straining with imagined effort. There's a pain deep inside his chest, and it feels like maybe he's cracked his ribs again. Reflexively he pulls his arms in close around himself, as if warding off a chill he cannot feel.
Then he's crying again, with great wracking sobs that shake his entire body. Useless salt rivers flow down his face, and keep flowing until he's all dried up and has no more to give.
Stupid soddin' dream.
He finally pulls himself up into a sitting position. He can tell he has overslept again, and cursing, he gropes around for a fag. Lighting it up gives his hands something to do, and helps him get his mind off of her. For all of fifteen bloody seconds.
He casts about and finds a bottle of Jack. Half full or half empty, it's all the same to him. He gulps down a few swallows, then takes another drag on the cigarette. And still his thoughts return to her, to her death, and to his ultimate failure.
Buffy.
Fuck, did he just say her name out loud? He must be going mental, completely sack o' hammers. Maybe he should get out of his crypt for a bit, get some fresh air, find some fresh blood. Clear his head of all these twisty thoughts that were churning him up inside.
Or what if he just sat here in the dark, and got pissed into oblivion?
Maybe then he'd be able to forget that she was truly gone from this sorry world. Maybe he'd dream again. And this time he'd get to the top in time to save her.
He downs the rest of the Jack and then settles back onto the slab he's been using as a bed.
Let the dreams come.
This time he'd be ready.
I'm almost to the bloody top. I can make it. I have to make it. My muscles are screaming from the effort, but I ignore the pain. Nothing else matters but her.
I finally reach the pinnacle and she's standing there, barefoot, clad in a long flowing dress. There's blood dripping from her. Oh god, I'm already too late.
Buffy's expression is full of sadness and reproach. She turns her back on me and steps off into the abyss.
"Buffy!" I scream, and leap after her, trying desperately to grab at her flailing limbs or dress. If I can reach her, maybe I can shield her from the impact below with my own body.
I just manage to catch my fingertips briefly in her golden hair. Then the ground flies up to embrace us both.
Spike shudders awake, gasping and clutching at nothing in the darkness.
His body is tensed, his muscles straining with imagined effort. There's a pain deep inside his chest, and it feels like maybe he's cracked his ribs again. Reflexively he pulls his arms in close around himself, as if warding off a chill he cannot feel.
Then he's crying again, with great wracking sobs that shake his entire body. Useless salt rivers flow down his face, and keep flowing until he's all dried up and has no more to give.
Stupid soddin' dream.
He finally pulls himself up into a sitting position. He can tell he has overslept again, and cursing, he gropes around for a fag. Lighting it up gives his hands something to do, and helps him get his mind off of her. For all of fifteen bloody seconds.
He casts about and finds a bottle of Jack. Half full or half empty, it's all the same to him. He gulps down a few swallows, then takes another drag on the cigarette. And still his thoughts return to her, to her death, and to his ultimate failure.
Buffy.
Fuck, did he just say her name out loud? He must be going mental, completely sack o' hammers. Maybe he should get out of his crypt for a bit, get some fresh air, find some fresh blood. Clear his head of all these twisty thoughts that were churning him up inside.
Or what if he just sat here in the dark, and got pissed into oblivion?
Maybe then he'd be able to forget that she was truly gone from this sorry world. Maybe he'd dream again. And this time he'd get to the top in time to save her.
He downs the rest of the Jack and then settles back onto the slab he's been using as a bed.
Let the dreams come.
This time he'd be ready.