My daughter is dead.
She is not my daughter by blood, but blood, contrary to what certain people believe, is such an insignificant detail. She is the daughter of my heart. She is the daughter I should have had, had destiny and circumstance seen fit to permit me to live as a normal man, without the predetermination of my life’s calling. She is the daughter I should have had, had I married and conceived a family.
Instead, I was born to be a Watcher—just as she was born to be a Slayer, and to that end, Fate, cruel as it often is, smiled upon me and gave me the child I believed I’d never have. Gave me a child—a Slayer, true, but still a child—to educate and nurture, to raise and protect. And though I was never meant to love her—though it was a direct violation of my duties to love her—how could I not? How could I stand in the face of this child, with all her vulnerability and absolute inner strength, with all her intrinsic wisdom and pure innocence, and deny her my heart?
She is my daughter.
She was . . .
I can’t—not yet. Mentally, physically—my entire being rebels against thinking of her in the past tense. To acknowledge that I’ll never again see the light in her eyes, or the warmth of her smile, or stand close to the passion of her spirit. I’m not ready. I don’t suppose I ever will be.
Living on the Hellmouth, employed as the high school librarian, I had on several occasions during the course of my tenure the sad and unfortunate experience of meeting parents who’d lost a child. I gave them my sympathy, and, to the best of my ability, my empathy—or so I believed. I thought I did a rather fine job of being understanding and consoling.
I understood nothing.
There is no consolation for a parent who has lost a child. There are no words, or pats or embraces warm or large enough to even touch the surface of their grief. There is no filling the vast, tortured emptiness left by the ripping away of innumerable hopes and dreams, and the most precious of futures—not to mention the futures that one lost might have born.
Child of my heart, in her eyes, I see my immortality.
I did . . .that, of course, died with her.
Three days ago, I stood at a gravesite beside a gleaming mahogany box, and listened to a man drone on about the grace of a god I’ve never met. The only way I kept from going completely off-edge was to pretend the box was empty.
By the grace of God, he said. By the infinite mercy of the Lord.
If god—if indeed there is such an entity—were gracious, he would have seen Ben die long before I killed him. He would have drowned him in a swimming pool as a boy, or broken his neck in an auto accident. If the lord were merciful, he would have given me the strength and courage to kill Dawn when I discovered what she was, and understood the certain threat she posed. I damn myself for thinking it, I know. Because I love Dawn, it deepens my grief. But Dawn is not my child, and in a choice between the two, there is no consideration. And damn my hesitation. If I could turn back the clock, I would do what I had to, and make certain there’d be no need for my daughter’s sacrifice.
Of course, I understand why she did it. I understand, perhaps, better than anyone. I would have taken her place in a heartbeat, had I been able.
There is nothing left for me here. Certainly no opportunity for healing—not in the ever-deepening shadow of my inadequacies and inactions. Not in the face of my weakness and guilt. Of course, I’ll carry these with me wherever I go, and for the rest of my life. I only hope that perhaps, somewhere else, I might, at the very least, be able to breathe. With her death, the air here has become thick and heavy, leaden with the weight of what might have been.
I’ve decided to leave. Once I’m certain the others have recovered from the pain of her death sufficiently to carry on without me, I’ll return to England. Return to the place where, once upon a time, I believed in the future. Maybe, given enough time, I’ll be able to recover some semblance of a life, and perhaps even a little peace.
Perhaps. Though I’m not certain there’ll ever be a time when I’ll feel completely alive again.
My daughter is dead.
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