It’s been a week since she saw Angel. In the old days, she’d be replaying their conversation over and over in her head, trying to tease out meanings from his terse, cryptic statements.
But now what keeps turning over in her head is something left unsaid. She couldn’t talk to him about what happened two and a half years ago.
He stumbles into the room, and she follows.
“I won’t let you die. Drink!”
She punches him so hard he’s knocked backwards.
He faces her again gasping from the effort, and she punches him again.
This time, when he faces her, his face has morphed. That’s good. That means his fangs are out. She pulls him down to her neck, and his bite fills her with ecstasy and pain. Blood drips down her back as they fall to the floor, his weight crushing her.
Her hand reaches for the water pitcher, crushing the cool metal in her hand because it’s all too intense. The pain, the pleasure, and the certainty that this is working. He’ll take enough for the cure. She won’t have to watch him die again.
The pitcher grows warmer--no, that’s her. She’s getting colder. Maybe she miscalculated and he will kill her. She kicks wildly at the table, and there’s a crashing noise that seems far away. Finally she pushes him off, and the world fades out for a while.
All she can think now is that she had no idea what she was doing. She knew what it was like to die, but she didn’t know what it was like to want to die. She barely made it to nineteen before the world sapped her will to live.
He’d lived for centuries; he’d been dead for centuries. He knew the worst that life and death could throw at him, and he wanted to die. She could have respected that decision, but instead she’d beaten it out of him.
And that’s why she can’t tell her friends how badly they’d hurt her. She knows all too well what it’s like to love someone so much you can’t bear for them to die.
She has more in common with Angel now than she did before. But if she can’t feel, then she can’t feel closer to him.