*****

Dear Diary,

God...that sounds so...*girly*. But...I promised Willow I'd do this, so I will. How to start...hummm. Oh! I know...

It's Flag Day today, so I went with the gang to decorate Joyce's and Anya's graves with little American flags. We even took our picnic baskets to Spike's crypt to eat since he couldn't actually come out into the sunshine filled graveyard with us to pay our respects.

He appreciated the effort, even if he just can't come out and *say* it out loud. Well, not in so many words. He *did* mumble something about protecting their headstones from desecration a night or so ago...so I think that counts for Spike in the "I loved them and miss them" category.

I can understand and respect that. Spike's not talking about it, I mean. After all, *I* don't either.

Hence, the journal.

Willow's worried about me because I won't talk about it, them...*her*. I don't talk about it, I haven't cried over it, and I just...can't. Not yet. But, Willow thinks that it isn't *healthy* to "bottle it all up inside" so she bullied me into keeping a diary.

It's been a little over a month since Joyce died, three weeks since Spike was tortured, two and a half weeks since Tara was driven insane, one week since Anya was murdered...and three days since Glory was banished to Hell again.

It's...too soon to actually talk about it. Don't you think?

I mean...I just feel...*raw*. As if the top two layers of my skin was slowly peeled off of my body and so every touch, even the gentlest ones, *hurt*. Colors are too bright, noises are too loud, food is too spicy...the bed is too empty.

God, I *miss* her.

I want her *back*!

But I don't want to talk about it. Not like Willow and Buffy and Dawn. They are hurting too, I know that and I wish that they didn't have to suffer. I really do. But...they want to talk about it and rehash it, looking at each detail over and over and over again. I don't. I can't. I *won't*.

That's why I've been spending time with Spike. He doesn't want to talk about it either. Just drink some beer, watch some "telly" and slaughter the occasional demon that is stupid enough to get in our way. It's a more "guy-type" way of trauma/rage/depression-management I guess.

Speaking of which, I've got to go. Spike and I are going out tonight to stake fledglings. It's fun to pretend that they look just like Glory...right as they explode into a shower of dust.

Alexander L. Harris

END