TITLE: Black like death.
AUTHOR: Mexx
DISCLAIMER: BtVS characters do not belong to me.
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: “I’m dark, I’m evil, I do bad things, and they try to excuse me for them.”
FEEDBACK: Would be much appreciated.

Dark slayer, black slayer, rogue slayer, stronger slayer. Me. Fast and furious and strong and dangerous and power.

They don’t understand what it’s like to be me, nobody does. They don’t understand the dark twines grappling at my feet, trying to pull me further and further beneath the surface, to twist around my neck and fasten tightly, strangling the life out of me.

They want to help, try to help me. Oh poor Faith, they say, Poor twisted Faith, she needs help. They feel sorry for me. Faith had a bad childhood, her Mommy didn’t care, her Daddy ran away, she needs out help, they tell themselves. What if I don’t want help?

Daddy left when I was eight. After that there were no more bruises on my chest that my teacher’s couldn’t see anyway, no more broken toys and no more cheap bear spilt on the couch. Only vodka spilt on the carpet from where Mom passed out, and take-out for most meals, no love or new toys and games at Christmas. Poor Faith, she was given a bad lot in life.

I don’t need their help, I don’t want it. They couldn’t give me help even if I let them. I’m dark. I’m evil. I’m wrong. They can’t help that.

They feel bad for me because they don’t think I’m truly evil, I just had it rough, they say, I just need some love. Screw them. They don’t know what it is to be evil, to have the darkness gnawing at what’s left of your soul night and day, to see the destruction it’s possible to create in every room you enter, how easily would the knife in your hand slip into the gut of the old lady standing next to you, how long would it take to smash that child’s head through that glass window and cut their throat with a shard of glass already stained with their blood. Would the mother of the child strike out, how much strength would it take to force her neck down onto an upturned shard of glass. Would the blood splatter on my hands?

I like to let the blood that splatters on my hands and clothes and face dry and go hard. So that my clothes are stiff as I move, and my hands and face are dark, dark red. Fresh blood is too vibrant in colour, too alive. I like it dark. I like it dead.

People I knew, or once knew anyway, fear death. It’s dark and bad and it’s away from loved ones. They’re right. It’s cold and all consuming and dark and painful. It’s death, slowly, painfully, eternally. It’s torture, like when a cold blade cuts into a warm, living body, like when blood slowly trickles out of the wound and down a hairless chest, pooling in the belly button, drying dark scarlet. Almost black. Blood seeping out of a wound, life seeping out of a body.

I’m dark, I’m evil, I do bad things, and they try to excuse me for them. There are no excuses, plausible ones anyway, that can make the dark, dirty things I’ve done forgivable.

I’ve spilt blood, dark blood. Black, like death.

-- finis