[Reviews - 4]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 3190 times

- Text Size +




Haunting the streets of Los Angeles in the darkest hours has become my new pastime. . .



. . .my new passion.



When emotions and thoughts fill me to the brim and threaten to spill over into areas of my life I’d rather they not touch, I find relief in fighting evil forces. . . no matter how thin the ranks.



I don’t remember how many nights I’ve been out alone. At first, Angel tried to follow me. . . to make sure I was okay.



In no uncertain terms, I told him to go away.



He didn’t listen.



The second time he interfered, he got an earful of my barely contained emotion. He was interrupting my flow. . . my continuity. I couldn’t handle someone else doing that. . . not right now.



I haven’t seen him since on my nightly journeys. Doesn’t mean he’s not there. . . just means he doesn’t hinder me anymore. . . like a giant anchor. . .



. . . released.



However, tonight is an exception.



I reach my destination, unwavering hand reaching for the door handle ready to swing open Pandora’s box.



Angel glides in front of my goal.



Earnest dark eyes wide and his forehead wrinkling with concern, he speaks, “Buffy, that’s a whole nest of vamps in there.”



Hands fly to hips. “So?” My retort conveys my annoyance quite effectively, I believe.



“You can’t take them all by yourself.”



“I *can.*” I lean closer to him. He smells of the sweet innocence of my youth, and I’m no longer young despite my outward appearance. There’s a certain type of nostalgia in that, but nostalgia isn’t the same as. . .



He matches my move, and I’m reminded that he’s no longer naïve either. “I know why you’re doing this, Buffy, and trust me, it’s not healthy for you. It’s not good for you to dwell in the darkness.”



He *thinks* he knows.



He doesn’t.



He’s the clueless man at the poker table where everyone knows who has which cards. And he only knows his own hand.



It’s for sure that he doesn’t know mine.



In his mind, he’s comparing me to Faith.



But I’m not Faith; I’m not fighting the odds for the rush of the fight. . . to make myself feel worthy of anything. . . to make myself feel whole.



I decide to tell him straight. “No, no, you don’t know what’s healthy for me. I’ll always love you, but you haven’t known what I need for a long time now.”



His shock at my bold words leaves him as paralyzed as a deer cornered by a wildcat. With the instincts of a predator, I bring my leg solidly up with enough force to knock him aside.



Groaning, he stumbles and re-gathers his balance as I swiftly open the door, enter my target, and shut the barrier behind me. Lighting the torch I’ve brought with me using Spike’s old cigarette lighter, I sweep the room, eyes falling on a nearby chair. Swiftly, I jam the object beneath the door handle, successfully prohibiting Angel from further interference.



The noises I’ve made rouse the sleeping undead, and I whirl back around with my knees slightly bent in ready position. My face is a mask of determination. Now, I will get what I need.



A voice bellows out of the shadows, “Who dares wake us fr. . .”



“From your beauty sleep?” I toss the torch from my right hand to my left and sling forth a stake from my jacket sleeve. Pasty pale vampires begin to emerge and advance on me. “’Cause well, it doesn’t seem like it’s working very well for you. You tried Mary Kay?”



The owner of the voice smiles wickedly, flashing me a pearly pointy. “Little girl Slayers shouldn’t come looking for trouble. They don’t know what they’re getting into.” The rest of the vampires provide a chorus of mocking laughter that only fuels the energetic buzz flowing over me.



It amazes me how fast word of the Slayers-in-Training-Now-Slayers has spread among the demon community.



“Not just any little girl,” I correct, launching myself at the nearest vampire with a flying kick, staking his neighbor with the non-flaming end of the torch.



For half a second, the demons freeze in their tracks like someone hit the pause button on the VCR.



Suddenly, one of the vampires recognizes me. “*Buffy,*” he growls, trying to make up for the others’ ignorance.



“Right you are. . . Buffy Summers. . . in the flesh.”



My words send a tremor through the throng, and I quickly count ten to twelve heads in the dim torchlight. I have my work more than cut out for me, and I’m thrilled.



Without further hesitation, the fight begins in earnest, and I soon find that I’m earning ownership of the battle. Using every ounce of my strength, I fling myself into the fray, using ratty furniture as sometimes shields and punching and kicking my way through the responding vermin.



The combined power from our preternatural strength bounces off the walls in perfect rhythm, and I deliberately slow down and speed up my movements to draw out the fray. . . to delay dusting them.



They give no sign of noticing, but I know that they’re fighting in vain because I’m controlling every aspect of the fight. Their panic upsurges as they begin to fatigue and as I begin to get the best of them.



This is the part of the exercise that I enjoy the most.



Why?



Because in between the disgruntled cries of the enemy and the strain of my screaming muscles, I *feel* his presence. . .



. . . Spike’s presence.



The feeling is distinct from anything I’ve felt before.



I can’t compare the emotion to the sharp ache that came with killing Angel. . . the shocked numbness that came with my mother’s unexpected death. . . the unequivocal acceptance of my own death. . . or the post-traumatic horror of my return from the grave. These events are pale in my mind. . . almost as if they never happened. They’re the kind of memories that remain black and white and gray in my thoughts.



The truth is that when I fight, something comes alive inside me. . . something Spike was always nagging me to embrace.



I never quite understood what he meant. . .



. . . not until that day in the cavern when his light. . . his soul saved the world.



The fight isn’t about darkness or pushing it back. . . it’s about spreading the light.



And that’s immensely easier than fighting the never-ending battle I was fighting to stop the evil. . . stop the night. The night will never end, but it can’t extinguish the light either.



Acknowledging this gives me a freedom I never thought possible.



Embracing the light within myself has granted me a fuel and a fire that I’ve never had and allows me to dance with renewed strength.



And sometimes. . .



. . . sometimes in the sweet oblivion of the tango between good and evil, I find him there with me. . . . I hear the sounds of his grunts and excitement as he guards my back. I see the flash of white-blond in the corner of my eye. I catch a faint whiff of cigarettes emanating from his clothing. I discover him watching me with glowing azure eyes, appreciating the hidden strength of my slight-appearing muscles as I dance for him. . . as I pound and kick and. . . slay.



Then, I offer him a grin as if to say. . . see what I’m doing?



I’m sharing my light.



And each time I fight, I feel myself drawing closer. . .



. . . closer to finding him.





You must login (register) to review.