Mirror
by SwaySlayer
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ability to exterminate love.
Author’s Notes: Considering that Miss K’s taking over the happy stuff with
SDV, I thought I’d tread angsty waters once more.
Dedication: Vamp Faith. We all wish for ‘Another Life’.
Feedback: If you want to chance my eight page manifesto replies, feel free.
I look at myself in the mirror and every demon that I’ve ever killed comes back to haunt me. They slap me in the face, taunting me with their jeers and their catcalls, telling me that while I may possess the strength of ten men, I’m still human in the way that I hurt people. So much for my fucking obligation to society – I must send my congratulations to The Powers That Be. “Nice job people, or whatever the hell you are, you managed to call up a Slayer whose greatest strength is hurting other people. Fan-fucking-tastic job. Do I get my gold watch now?” I’m laughing at myself now. Looking in the mirror and smirking at the image I see in front of me. No. Not smirking. Smirking involves some measure of enjoyment and this is the worst moment of my entire life. I just realised that I’m a monster. I’m worse than any demon that the Hellmouth could ever unleash. I suck the life out of people without so much as blinking. I cause unfathomable amounts of pain by merely remaining silent. I kill people by moving my head left, right, up or down. I am unstoppable. Undefeated. Unchallenged. Then why are there streaks of dirt tainting my perfect visage? Streaks that feel as warm as the blood in my veins and taste as salty as the sweat of a lover? Could it be that I still possess at least some modicum of humanity?
I take my thumb to my mouth and drag my incisor across it, slicing it open and marvelling as my warm blood trickles out. I never knew my teeth were so sharp. I never knew my blood was so thick. I raise my hand up to the mirror and touch the face that I see reflected in it, in awe of every feature as it decorates the glass. I look into green eyes. Eyes that are available to everyone, everyday at any time, yet they are hidden from me. I now know why. I can see how evil they are and it scares me so much that I close them, pitching myself into darkness and hoping that when I resurface, the evil will be gone. I hold my breath, feeling the cold sting of the mirror beneath my hand and slowly open my eyes again. I can see golden flecks in my iris’s twinkling at me like a sky full of a thousand stars, and there, just beyond the minute galaxy, I see it. It’s still there and it’s enjoying every moment of my misery. Evil. Pure, beautiful, sad, fucking pathetic evil, and it’s all my own making. I definitely deserve a gold watch. I wonder if I can get the Watcher’s Council to engrave it? Yeah. I’m sure that would go down really well.
“To Buffy. Slayer/Hypocrite Extraordinaire. See You in Hell. The Watcher’s Council.” It has a nice ring to it. Not exactly the most poetic choice of words, but I reckon they’d go for something similar. No hearts and flowers for me. I laugh again and the rumbling in my chest feels unnatural. I surmise it’s for two reasons, the first being that laughter should not come from the chest. It should come from the gut. I know someone who laughs like that. The second reason is that any act of joy is immediately expelled from my body, either by the force of my mind or by sheer physicality. I used to be all hearts and flowers. Hell, my one purpose in life seemed to be the propagation of pastels. But that’s what everyone else thought. I knew it wasn’t true. Just like I know that my purpose now is something completely different. My purpose is to leave. My purpose is to take myself out of this world with as little fuss as possible. No great battle, no poignant death scene, just an easy out to exterminate this community of hypocrisy that has become my life. And you know, I’m still looking in the mirror, but I can swear that my face is disappearing. Slowly, but surely, it’s fading into the background and all I’m being exposed to is a blank sheet of glass. I expel a short burst of air from my mouth and watch as it fogs up the mirror. It’s obviously cold in here. Either that or I died without my knowledge. Not a bad idea. Saves me the trouble.
Hypocrite. The word smashes into every crevice of my brain and I resist the urge to reach up and hold my head. I deserve this. I need to feel just how much pain I caused in the hearts of those who love me. I remember someone telling me that they had been called an “ungrateful bitch” their whole life. I think that title was tailor-made for me. Ungrateful bitch. Heartless Bitch. Selfish Bitch. They all begin to ring their respective bells in my head and the cacophony drowns out the buzzing that has appeared from nowhere. It’s a noise that originates at the base of my spine and travels all the way up to my neck, resting there before moving onto the greater part of my brain. But it’s gone, and I can’t decide whether or not this is a good thing. Then again, what do I know of good? I only know about making myself feel good. Lying on my bed, letting my hand wander to down my stomach, cupping myself gently before fucking myself senseless, and all the while my mind is firmly locked on the one I deny. The one who I know loves me, but whom I cannot bring myself to love. And what do you know? Another title to add to the ever-growing list: Coward. Afraid of letting go and loving another person because it’s not the right thing to do. Fuck the right thing to do right?
I laugh again, emptier than the last time, and I can barely see myself in the mirror. The pounding in my head is unbearable and I fail in my resistance to ease the throbbing, reaching up to rest my hand against my temple. I massage my headache point softly and my fingernails catch strands of blonde hair beneath them, some tearing out as my hand moves while others remain, sticking into the skin under my nails like porcupine quills. Someone once told me I was soft. I’m not. Even my hair is brittle and punishing me for the wrongs that I have nonchalantly laid at the feet of innocents. I close my eyes again and try to envision what an innocent looks like. For all their vague references to my station in life, the one thing the Council maintained was that I was to protect the innocent. But I never knew what they looked like, so I ended up hurting them as well. And the worst ones were those who had been hurt before. They were expecting a warrior-saint, but they got me. A half-cracked, apathetic saviour with no fucking idea. I think they deserve an apology, but it’s one that I am not qualified to provide. I’m not so good at apologies. Someone once told me that too. I open my eyes.
The blood on my thumb is flowing freely through the open wound and I realise that it is because my hand is clenched in a fist and my own strength is pumping it out. I chuckle again. Nothing is funny but I need to hear something other than the beating of my heart. I bring my hand up to my face and run it through my hair, coating the blonde with streaks of red that stare at the mirror garishly. I finally look like what I am. A monster. Covered in the blood of the innocents. I’m tired of looking at my face. It’s a face that has grown weary with being responsible for hurt and it’s a face that I don’t want the world to see anymore. I lied earlier. I said that there wasn’t going to be a poignant death scene, but this is so contrived that I feel nauseous already. I open the cabinet and the face is gone, long enough for me to retrieve my razor but quick enough to be immediately re-acquainted with my demonic visage. I hold the razor in my hand and am drawn one more to the blood pooling around my thumb.
As if in a trance, my hand moves up and my thumb makes the shapes of some letters, leaving its thick, red penmanship on the mirror. I smile when I’m done and I know that the evil inside me is terrified. It knows it’s going to die and that sends my head into a spin of undeniable euphoria. I look down and within seconds there are two identical lines evident on my arms. They look pretty. They’re like the main roads of Los Angeles, full and thick with tons of tributaries. A thought. It’s a thought that I would never have acted upon, but I don’t have anyone to impress. I’m fucking invincible at this point. I bring my arm up to my mouth and let my tongue touch against the blood that is flowing out of it. It tastes salty. Like tears. Why does everything taste like tears? My head feels light. I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round and I want to get off because I’m feeling sick. I place the whole of my mouth over my arm and swallow heavily. I taste like copper now, with a hint of rust. I sound like I’m describing a cocktail. I giggle and my knees collapse. My arm brushes against the side of the basin and I decorate it with crimson streaks. I lie down and let my eyes roam up to where my blood adorns the mirror. My head gets dark but I fight to keep one image alive: the five letters that spell “Faith” and the woman I was never allowed to love.