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Confessions of a Slayer
“It’ll never happen, Spike. We could never be together.”
Buffy paused, trying to find the best words. She tentatively laid a hand on the sleeve of the black t-shirt.
“I know you – care for me. And I guess I don’t really hate you. I hate the things you’ve done, and I don’t trust you. But I know you’ve helped me a few times.”
The expression on the ivory face didn’t change.
She shrugged. “Even without getting paid.”
Rubbing her eyes, she said reluctantly, “I never thought I’d be able to say this, but I think… if we’d only met a year ago… we might’ve had a chance.” She paced, unable to meet the dark eyes, then stopped. “I can’t love you. I’ve seen you hurt people, Spike. I’ve seen you try to hurt people I love. But if that had never happened…maybe I could’ve seen you differently. I guess we’ll never know.” Slowly, she reached out a hand and ran her fingers through the bleached blond hair.
The head fell off.
“Damn.” She picked it up and adjusted the wig, licking her finger absently to wipe away a smudge of the black pen she’d used for the eyes. A few inches of duct tape and –presto! – the head was fastened back on the torso.
She straightened the t-shirt, and took the mannequin off her desk, replacing it in her closet. The photo on the inside of the door seemed to be laughing at her. “I know, I know,” she muttered. “I could never admit that to your face.”
She locked the closet, and went to bed.
