(no subject)
He didn't lose his soul.
How could he not lose his soul after everything we did? Over and over and... over. I gave him at least three reasons to return to me, and his gasps of pleasure certainly backed them up. And he had the gall to call it perfect despair.
My boy still hasn't learned out to lie. I've known him for two hundred years - if nothing else, I know how to get him off. We filled nights with the kill, days with desire... we had a hundred and fifty years of never ending thrills and the most divine chaos.
So why am I feeling guilty about it now? Why do I shake uncontrollably at these beautiful memories, why has the poetry of a perfect kill suddenly lost its meter? Why do I suddenly sympathize with my disgusting progeny instead of being sickened by the pigs' blood that he drinks to ease his guilty conscience?
The obvious answer is too impossible for words.
It must be a joke. Some sort of great, cosmic joke that someone with great power and an extremely twisted sense of humour is playing on me, because this can't be real. I suppose that it could be a nightmare, and I'll certainly be waking up in terror at any second.
Because a soul? Impossible.
What would I even do with a soul? Become another do-gooder in the merry band of Angelytes? Mope around for a hundred years, living on a diet of vermin and the occasional hospital goodies until some juvenile vampire slayer struts into the picture and rescues me from my self-imposed solitude?
I donÕt think so. What I do think is that Angel and I need to have a long talk. A very long talk. And it's not going to end until one of us is a pile of dust.
Preferably, if this affliction is what I think it is, me.
How could he not lose his soul after everything we did? Over and over and... over. I gave him at least three reasons to return to me, and his gasps of pleasure certainly backed them up. And he had the gall to call it perfect despair.
My boy still hasn't learned out to lie. I've known him for two hundred years - if nothing else, I know how to get him off. We filled nights with the kill, days with desire... we had a hundred and fifty years of never ending thrills and the most divine chaos.
So why am I feeling guilty about it now? Why do I shake uncontrollably at these beautiful memories, why has the poetry of a perfect kill suddenly lost its meter? Why do I suddenly sympathize with my disgusting progeny instead of being sickened by the pigs' blood that he drinks to ease his guilty conscience?
The obvious answer is too impossible for words.
It must be a joke. Some sort of great, cosmic joke that someone with great power and an extremely twisted sense of humour is playing on me, because this can't be real. I suppose that it could be a nightmare, and I'll certainly be waking up in terror at any second.
Because a soul? Impossible.
What would I even do with a soul? Become another do-gooder in the merry band of Angelytes? Mope around for a hundred years, living on a diet of vermin and the occasional hospital goodies until some juvenile vampire slayer struts into the picture and rescues me from my self-imposed solitude?
I donÕt think so. What I do think is that Angel and I need to have a long talk. A very long talk. And it's not going to end until one of us is a pile of dust.
Preferably, if this affliction is what I think it is, me.