The wind is kicking up her hair- that flaxen hair of hers. She’s so still, if it weren’t for the wind, I’d swear she was frozen, still life with Slayer. I want to laugh but the darkness around her makes me itch and ache. In the pit of my empty stomach I can feel the burn- the yearn to go to her and pull her back, take her in my arms and make it all be over. Once and for all.

I watch her there. Just standing there like the world will come to her if she insists. God I hate her… I hate myself. I am nothing.

Her arms are open as if the power she seeks will leap into her, give her the strength she needs to save us- again. I loathe myself for watching this, loathe that I actually want her to succeed.

Want her to jump- want her to freefall and smash into tiny bits on the concrete below (more like).

Want her to become the light that she is and cause a torrent of magic that frees this sodded place from hell.

If I have to see her look at me again with such contempt, such revulsion, I think I’ll burn from inside out. If only… if I could just find it- that thing that will let me do her in. The softness of her skin, her smell… her blood hot and coursing just under the surface. Why can’t I just take what I want- like I used to – like I always have until her. Until this one. This slayer. Why can’t I just sink into her heat and drain her from this world into my own. Not to keep but to kill. To suck dry then snap her pretty little head off. It’d be such a pretty sound… music to my ears.

But in this night breeze, with her standing at this precipice and her hair fallen down her back; all I can think of is stepping up behind her and wrapping myself around her. Maybe it would save me.

Maybe, just maybe she could.

Save me.

Or kill me. Just make it stop- I want to slam my own fist into my chest and hand over my long-dead heart. My offering- do it slayer… do it and be done. You know it and so do I- I am nothing- nothing if I can’t find the power and delight to wring your neck and bleed you dry.

So I stand here in the shadows, watching her summon her hunger, her will while my own withers into a love-sick drip, an IV push of nothing, emptiness. God this is too much. As I turn to leave I see her move. At last. She turns at the sound of my coat in mid-spin and shoots a glare at me that is as cutting as any of her marked quips. I’m not going to give her the chance to stab me with her hollow remarks, I’m not allowing it tonight- there will be no banter, no judgment.

A time will come… a time where she will hunger for me to the point of pain, when she’ll beg for that pain as if it were her last breath. Then… then I will let her inside- give it her good. She’ll be ready for me someday and I’ll revel in it before I sip her strength, drink her sweetness until she’s limp in my arms. With her last bat of a lash she’ll see my smile, my wickedness and she’ll know- she should have killed me years ago- years before I turned into this… tortured, love-sick... driven to madness ~ in love with the slayer.