All About Spike

Trauma Memory: A Life In Eight Parts
By amerella

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Like everyone, he didn't remember being born.

During his childhood, he sometimes thought that he did through something like trauma memory, though of course he didn't. Still, he felt the loss of his heartbeat acutely. He liked to rest his head upon girls' breasts and listen to the dim rattle of them, especially after Angelus had buggered off and such silly thrills were no longer denied to him. With Drusilla lost to herself, he'd sometimes fall into a rage, bleed a town dry. Never mind that that was exactly what had got 'ol Angelus into that whole mess; Angelus wasn't Spike. This was something that his dark lady reminded him of often.

Spike let this be. The fact remained that he was invincible and that Angelus, for all his purported mercilessness, was not. There was that.


William grew up old. Which is to say that he wasn't permitted to be a child. He was to be as an adult, to have proper manners and to keep himself from stuttering and to always refer to his father as 'sir,' and surely he didn't think he could earn his wages by writing, did he? How utterly preposterous.

His father passed on when his son was very young in years. William was the one to find him; his face was waxy and grey.

His mother had told him in secret of her brother, William's uncle, who lived very far away. He was a woodsman and a farmer. He had little to his name, but whistling, he could imitate any songbird. He worked with his hands in the earth. He had once killed a wolf that got in with the sheep, and with those same bare hands, the story went. It all seemed very primitive, perhaps even mythic.

What Spike came to understand much later is that we are primitive. We have bodies. We die. And what is death? Even in death, he still couldn't have said. He often recalled his father with that face made of wax, those clean, cold, calculative hands. "You must do right by this name," that man had told him once, and William thought of this as he made a name for himself, oh, yes he did.

At times he missed being a man, but another part of him didn't want to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. He wanted only to be the wolf. To get his hands dirty. He would have liked to have met this uncle of his, this man who was merely a man, but may have understood certain things nevertheless. To take such a man out of the equation would be something, all right. The best kind of rush, better than any spirit, certainly.

As Spike, William became as youthful as anyone through his very own vicious revolution of the heart.


Like that fiction of an uncle, Spike made himself into a myth.

They began calling him the Slayer of Slayers while Angelus watched on, at least for the first little while, unkempt, full of regrets and soul by then. He could kill anything with his bare hands, they said. That second Slayer, she had begged for her life, they said. Begged.

"No one worth anything begs for such things," Spike said. "Know that." Though he had, of course. Still, he drove a stake into the chest of the one who spoke such lies, only a minion with pale green eyes.

There was an uneasy lull. The rest of the underlings scattered. Spike took a stroll beneath the white eye of the moon, had himself a fag. A woman with her eyes like bruises grasped at him on a street-corner, but he kept up the pace and couldn't suss out why that was, no way, no how. Sod it. He went on back to Drusilla and fucked her silent.


Being with Dru wasn't like being with other women, he was certain. See, most women, they wanted you to make them scream. But Dru was constantly wailing away in her siren-like way of hers. He wished for her that she could lie quiet and sated in his arms, perhaps to smile.

It never quite happened that way, but there was blood, always, shared and otherwise, and he loved her so.


Once, he pressed his cheek to Buffy's breast. Something was beating inside of there as if it were angry-winged.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I like you to be so alive," he said, without thought. Belatedly, sickly, he realized that he meant it.

"Don't be stupid," she told him, though they both knew that he was just that.

"What a pretty little slice of sunshine," he continued, tracing her ribcage, though he was more mocking than reverent by then. He couldn't categorize what he felt for her and her vitality. The raw force of it staggered him. "Sharp as a morning sky, you are."

She found something within herself then and rolled out from under him.

They fought over who got to be on top, over everything. That night they fought about nothing in particular: Sharp as a morning sky, he said, and she struck out at him. She was that.

Being with her, he recalled the confusion that fathers wrought. Those cold, still hands. He wanted that for her less and less. For the first time he felt the weight of his own immortality.

And oh, how he loathed her, the stupid bitch. She'd put him at odds with himself. She'd died twice and she wouldn't stay in the ground. Well, that was all right, though. He knew how to remedy such a situation, you better believe it, mate.

It never quite happened that way, of course. There was only- something. He came to lose something.


Take this thing from me, she'd seemed to say, but he'd taken too much. Waded into her ocean, played the part of the undertow. But what part did she play?

The Barbie girl with the nonexistent waist and the lips painted pink.

The Slayer. Herself as her weapon.

The whore of Babylon, perhaps.

The one that visited him in this place, the one who smiled falsely and was false. The apparition.

He didn't know. He knew only that his sanity had fallen out of his breast pocket along with his notebook, his spectacles. And where was his own weapon? His heart wanted out of its confines.


In those last halcyon days, he came to accept something someone had said to him once. It wasn't a reckoning, but a realisation. It came on as slow as a pale dawn while a girl slept and breathed in his arms.

Although he dreamed of pinwheels and blood and her, he came to know that nothing could be done for it. He could only be what he was.

"The heart is unaccountable," Dru had said, and that it was.



sun stops sinking and hangs there suspended a puppet waiting for it's strings to be cut buffy thinks that's funny she laughs her body is alit from the inside he wants to own her let's invent the kiss he says she points at the sky and keeps laughing you'll never be able to go outside again she says


He leaves her then. There is only him and this


He briefly wonders if his shadow will be scorched into this mouth of hell, and rather hopes not.

He's older now. He won't serve as a myth, not for anyone, least of all himself.

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