The silence within my waiting, the screaming in my head, I call out to you,
but you ignore me.
But it doesn't matter anyway. You were born to break, as I was born to
Slayers don't live long lives, and aren't meant to have relationships.
Buffy was lucky. She has everything. A family, friends, and now followers,
ready to do her bidding. Before you, I had nothing. My watcher had
chickenshit for empathy, and couldn't have cared less what happened to me,
except that it might reflect badly on her.
Before Sunnydale, I hated all people. Because of what I am to what I was,
because I am expected to give my life so the rest of the world can live in
ignorance. And mostly, I hated them just because. That night, when I faked
being ill, I never expected you to go along with the whole 'secret mission'
thing. I hoped, but hope was something I'd almost given up on, too.
I always assumed that I'd die at the hands of some nest of vamps that had
more then I could handle. Whether as a Slayer or Potential, it never
mattered one way or the other to me.
But as I die now, as some nameless Uber-Vamp wraps it's bastard ugly hands
around my head, instead of bitterness toward mankind, all I can think about
And as another nightmare passes with the knowledge that it's the last, all
I feel is love towards you, my Willow.