028--dictated/optional spam;
[Spike opens the door to his room and drops his journal. He just woke up in Wes' room covered in dirt and broken flower pot, so this is the first time he's been here recently. And... it isn't how he left it. The first thing he notices is the smell. It's one he knows all too well. Blood. Everywhere. So strong it almost staggers him, and undeniably human. But he can't see it anywhere. There are no corpses visible. Just a lot of antique furniture that could have come from his mother's house and a few bookshelves. He walks closer and sees that they're all books of poetry. He scans the spines, catching names like Poe, Shakespeare, Dickinson, Seuss, Coleridge, Donne, Wordsworth, Baudelaire, Shapiro, Tennyson... many more.
And a shelf full of poems by one William Pratt. Spike doesn't dare touch them, but he knows instinctively that inside them will be all the poems he's written, the ones he scribbled as a human, and the ones he couldn't help but continue to write after his death. He thought they were all destroyed. Any he'd managed to hold onto would have blown up with Sunnydale. But here they are. Printed and bound. With an ornate golden cup filled with Mountain Dew as a bookend.
And then there are the walls. Buffy's face, plastered over everything. But he can tell that's only the top layer. Underneath it is a fairly solid layer of images of Drusilla, and under that, scraped over and torn and destroyed not quite past recognition, are some images of his mother and Cecily.
There are some patches where all the images have been torn away, and the wall looks like a human heart. It's not moving, though. It's dead still.]
God...
[He collapses onto one of the chairs, staring around the room, feeling like he's in shock.]
[ooc: Open over the journals or in person if you want to visit him!]
And a shelf full of poems by one William Pratt. Spike doesn't dare touch them, but he knows instinctively that inside them will be all the poems he's written, the ones he scribbled as a human, and the ones he couldn't help but continue to write after his death. He thought they were all destroyed. Any he'd managed to hold onto would have blown up with Sunnydale. But here they are. Printed and bound. With an ornate golden cup filled with Mountain Dew as a bookend.
And then there are the walls. Buffy's face, plastered over everything. But he can tell that's only the top layer. Underneath it is a fairly solid layer of images of Drusilla, and under that, scraped over and torn and destroyed not quite past recognition, are some images of his mother and Cecily.
There are some patches where all the images have been torn away, and the wall looks like a human heart. It's not moving, though. It's dead still.]
God...
[He collapses onto one of the chairs, staring around the room, feeling like he's in shock.]
[ooc: Open over the journals or in person if you want to visit him!]