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On Me - Chapter 6
And that’s how it begins. That’s how we fell into
this uneasy relationship based on common goals. Well, my goals to get fed, housed,
and paid, and his goals to fight the good fight and keep his hair intact. But
also based on that endless, sodding vampire need for fucking and release. We
work together during the night, going about the destruction of evil, but there’s
only one thing on both our minds. The minute we get alone in the apartment,
we come together in a mutual rage of need: hands, teeth, and cocks. But never
lips, soft touch, or words, and never looking at each other. It’s like mutual
masturbation without magazines. And it’s awful, and I hate it, but I need it,
and it does in the place of anything else. And, like the rest of my sorry, god-damned
life, I make do with what I’ve got. Like Dru with her insanity, like sodding
Harmony, I make do, cus I don’t have what I really need, what I really want.
I don’t have Angel’s love.
It’s like a frenzy. When I’m working with him, only half
my mind is on what I’m doing, the other half is on Spike. I watch his hands;
I watch his face; I watch his hair; I watch his crotch. I watch that a lot.
I think about his crotch even more. It’s like madness. I have imaginary conversations
with him in my head all night and then, as soon a day breaks and we go down
the elevator to the apartment, I let rip. I can’t help it. I tear at his clothes;
I swallow his cock, as though there is no tomorrow for us. But there is. Tomorrow
always comes, and then the obsession starts again. But it’s killing me, and
I don’t know how long I can go on like this. The release we get from jerking
each other off, or the blow jobs, is sometimes more like pain, than pleasure.
And still we don’t talk. Still we don’t look at each other; still we don’t kiss,
never that; never that intimate connection between his mouth and mine. Only
connections borne in hate and frenzy and lust.
The desperate physical acts seem to drive us further and further away from any
sort of real affection. But the really weird thing is that as we grow further
apart, strangely, in reverse proportion, Spike seems to grow closer to the others.
I often find him with Wesley, drinking tea together for Christ’s sake. They
found some shop in LA that sells stuff from England, and I walked in on them
drinking something called PG Tips. They spend hours talking about England, and
I never realised how much of an Ex-pat Spike really is. Sure, he tends to fit
in wherever he is. Moves right in and makes a home for himself. But, listening
to him talk with Wes, he clearly misses his own country, and its very different
way of life. But it’s actually quite funny listening to the two of them, because
they can’t find a single place in England that they have both been to.
'The Cotswolds, Spike, you must have been there.'
'Nah, mate, can’t say that I do recollect that pleasure.'
'Bath! Now, you must have seen the Pump Rooms in Bath, Spike? They are a marvel
of Georgian Architecture.'
Spike’s actually gone a little paler at that.
'Camden Market, pet, it’s the bloody bollocks for CDs; ya must have been there.'
'Gracious, Spike, I really don’t think....'
'Union Street in Plymouth, mate, now there’s a place for feeding and fuckin'.'
And so it goes on; they really seem to enjoy the sparring.
He spends a lot of time in Cordelia’s company, too, and I guess it was all that
practice listening to the Sunndydale girls, but they really seem to be becoming
friends. If I hadn’t have seen it, I would never have believed it. Of course,
they do have a lot in common: selfish, opinionated, vain, funny, beautiful,
and I can hear them now outside my office, laughing over something in one of
the movie magazines they pour over for hours on end. And I can’t believe it,
but I am jealous of Cordelia. I am jealous of this easy friendship of theirs.
Sure, I’ve just had Spike’s mouth round my cock, and I’ve just cum in his mouth,
and I’ve just seen his throat swallowing with a sense of urgency. But I want
that mouth smiling at me; I want that mouth laughing for me. I wander into the
office, and Cordelia looks up. Spike, as usual, totally ignores my presence.
'Hey, Angel. What’s up? We’re going to see Tomb Raider tonight, wanna come?’
'Err, and that is?'
'It’s a film, you fucking pillock.' I don’t look up, but I pitch my ‘tuning
into Angel’ senses even higher to see if I can sense his mood. I really want
him to come with us; I really want to try and work beyond this place we are
in now.
'Oh, well, I guess….'
But just then, the phone rings, and it’s another case,
another human in trouble, another demon in this endless redemption trail I am
following. So, I watch them go off together. Spike’s even changed into some
of the new clothes I bought him, and they could be two kids going out on a regular
date. And it breaks my heart for what I will never have.
I can’t take it any more tonight. I’ve blown him, and he’s brought me off and,
as usual, we immediately parted: him to his bedroom and me.. .well, I need to
get out of here, on my own for a while. Go somewhere where I can’t hear my own
screaming for affection, for connection. I grab my fags and duster, and head
off into the tunnels. I think I may go and dust out a vamp nest the Watcher
was rambling on about today. Feel like some action. Feel like killing something.
I head towards the old warehouse, and I’m feeling pretty good already. If ole
Wes is right and the bodies that have been found indicate vamps in this old
factory, I’ll be in for some fun tonight.
This is looking good. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, where ten is me getting
to spectacularly kick ass, I’ve just gone decimal. As I come up the stairs of
the abandoned factory, I can hear music and laugher, like vamps in party mode.
Yeah, Spike’s just ready to party.
Oh, God. But not this kind of party.
As I come out of the shadows into the light of the fire they’ve built in the
middle of the floor, my borrowed blood runs cold, and my last rational thought
tonight is ‘trust the bleeding watcher to get this wrong’.
Cus instead of a nest of nice little easy-to-dust-vamps, I’m facing about eight,
very large, very mean looking humans, dressed in biker gear.
Oh shit - peroxide blond meets Hells Angels for a night of fun an’ games.
At first, they get their kicks from just pushin’ me around a bit, and that would
have been humiliating enough, but, OK, I’m the Big Bad, and I can take eight
fuckers and some shovin’. ‘Cept for the sodding chip, that is. Cus, of course,
the chip is meant to kick in and stop me hurting humans... so, I guess the theory
was I wouldn’t try. But no stinking, greasy, fat fuckers are gonna push me around
without some of them going down. That’s when the agony tears through my brain;
that’s when I almost black out, and that’s when I think I’m in real trouble
here. That’s when I want to go home. That’s when I want Angel.
So, I’m on my knees, screaming, when I see something guaranteed to make me shut
the fuck up. The leader of this sorry group is standing off to one side and,
when I look over at him, I swear I can hear duelling banjos in my head. Cus
he’s staring at me like I’m a bug on a pin, and he’s feeling himself through
his greasy, stinking jeans.
He’s been gone a couple of hours now; it’s a relief not
to know he’s sitting next door. A relief not to want to go out and sit with
him. A relief not to fear the rejection and hate. Because I so desperately want
to just sit with him sometimes and watch TV or read, while he listens to his
dreadful music, or have a drink together, anything but this constant silence
and unspoken words. But I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. He doesn’t
know LA, hasn’t been out on his own since we got here. And I’m afraid to admit
it to myself, but I’m worried about him, and I want him home, and I want him
safe.
I want to go home now.
I’ve been here six hours now, and I can smell the sun coming up. Well, I would
be able to, if my nose wasn’t smashed, and my face covered in cum. They’ve all
had a turn, share and share alike. Then, when they’d all had a go at both ends,
they started again, and again, and again. Even with my vamp healing powers,
I’ve injuries that’ll take days to heal. They tore me open fairly early on,
so, at least the rest have been lubricated with my blood. I haven’t vamped out
or gone into game face, cus I know for a fact they’d have staked me. But some
of the things they’ve done to me tonight would have killed me if I had been
human. Humans need to breath; humans tend to choke on pints of blood and cum
in their throats, but I guess these fuckers don’t care about killing me. My
throat is swollen, not only with the endless thrusting cocks, but from the number
of times I’ve vomited out their cum and piss. I keep repeating one thought in
my head ‘this will pass; this will pass; this is only pain, and it will be endured’.
But I don’t feel like the Big Bad anymore. I just want to go home. I just want
it to stop. And, for a moment, I think that it is over, that they are stopping,
cus the last few having their fun fall away from me and join the others sleeping
it off in the corner.
I curl up into a ball on the floor and wonder how I’m gonna survive this. I
can’t fight back; I can hardly walk, and I don’t think there’s much chance they
are gonna pick me up, wish me a good day, and let me go sometime soon. I lift
my head slightly and glance around with the one eye I can still see out of,
looking for any slim chance I might find a way to get out of here alive, well,
dead technically, but I reckon being technically dead is better than staying
here.
But as I glance over to the group, I have a sense of falling fast away from
all hope, away from the chance I might get home, away from the chance of seeing
Angel again. No chance to tell him that I am sorry, and that I love him, and
that I don’t ever want to be without him again, because over in the corner,
the leader of the group who opened up the celebrations is staring at me again.
And his dick is in his hand. But it’s flaccid and the desperate jerking he’s
givin’ it isn’t having any effect. But it’s not that, oh god, it’s not that
that terrifies me. It’s the thing in his other hand, the thing that he is bringing
towards me, and it’s the fury on his face that he can’t get his dick up again,
and it’s the fact that he is planning to use his alternative on me.
My worry has now turned into blind panic. It’s about an
hour from dawn and still no sign of Spike. I decide to take the car out and
circle around in the hope I might find him drunk in some gutter. It’s been so
long since we’ve shared the blood, that I can hardly sense him at all if he
gets too far away. But I have to try something. If I lost Spike now, I think
I would die because, as bad as it is between us, at least I get to touch someone
who understands me, at least I get to love someone, even if he doesn’t love
me back.
When he rammed the bottle in, I felt something rupture deep in my bowels, but
my screaming didn’t stop him. He just kept on ramming and viciously twisting
it: this glass substitute for the dick that wouldn’t work for him anymore. But
oh, God, even this is not the worst, cus just as I raise my head and howl at
the pain and the humiliation and the tears he can see on my shattered face,
the bottle snaps, and he pulls out the jagged end, leaving a large shard still
in me, piercing me and killing me. The blood loss seems to shock even this monster,
cus he backs off, grunting slightly. I can feel the piece of glass ripping what
is left of my bowel every time I try to move.
And that’s when they decide to kill me.
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4 | 5 | 6 |
7 | 8 | 9 |
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