A Night With Jerry Springer
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“He promised he
wouldn’t let it destroy me…”
Angel listened as
the Red Witch struggled for her last breath. The words were whispered in agony
and he bowed his head in shame. He
could smell the salty tear as it welled up in her eye and watched its silent
fall, spilling from the corner and trickling down her temple into the fiery
locks as the death rattle sounded.
It was the first
time the Witch had shed any tears in his presence since that night, so many
years ago, when he’d dragged her away from the LAPD, screaming and kicking.
They’d left alone, he’d refused to help her lover, told her it was best for all
concerned…believed it was best for all concerned. He’d taken her back to his apartment, waiting for the sun to do
its work, ignoring her tears and pleas, literally picking her up and holding
her down when she’d tried to run.
During those long hours, Angel could see the pain and hatred building,
bore the brunt of it as her bawled fists hit him and she screamed, crying and
hysterical. It was when she stopped
striking out, when she inverted the pain and fell silent, when it was too late
and the tears stilled, that Angel knew what he’d done was wrong. For hours, until the sunset, there was
nothing but silence, and the small apartment had been completely still until
she stood and walked to the stairs.
He’d called to her then, Willow, the name he’d always called her, the
girl he thought he knew and she’d stopped, but didn’t face him.
“I’ll see you in
hell.”
It wasn’t Willow
who’d answered him, but the Red Witch, the corpse that now lay cooling on his
bed. On that day, with those words, a
course of events had been set in motion that he would always regret. He had no
idea that Hell was a living, breathing girl who would haunt him through out his
plane of existence.
That was then,
nearly five years to the day, and now his rooms were too silent, too still,
leaving the way clear for unwanted memories of the past year to surge
forward. For four years guilt had been
Angel’s constant companion when he thought of the redhead. The moment she’d
left his apartment she’d disappeared, never returning to Sunnydale and although
he’d spent years trying to track her down, no one heard or saw her again…until
a year ago, when she’d casually strolled back into his life with long red hair
and that damnable leather duster that he should have ripped off her and
burnt. The duster that was now soaked
with her blood and cradled her dead body.
Standing, Angel
stumbled and turned, leaving the body as it was with her dead green eyes wide
open. There again was the silence, all
encompassing and daunting. Desperate to find a distraction, he fumbled with the
television remote, eventually the set blared into life.
“Today on Jerry
Springer, our guests share the ways they found their belief…”
Angel shook his head
and aimed the remote, sinking down into an overstuffed lounge chair, however
the channel didn’t change and the mindless chatter continued. It was noise, a distraction, but it didn’t
help. The guests rambled, their manic
chanting of love of some higher being meant nothing to the dark haired vampire,
his thoughts focused on another voice, one he’d learnt to fear…
“We use to play
games…”
That’s how it had
started, one night so long ago, a voice that held no emotions and was barely
more than a whisper.
“Who’s there?” he’d
been sleeping when he’d first heard her, hidden in the darkness of his bedroom,
she always seemed to be in the darkness, it surrounded her. Even when she’d stepped out of the shadows,
the darkness followed.
“Friend or foe?”
came the reply, she didn’t apply a name to herself, and it seemed an almost
childish response accompanied by the hint of a smile. “Tell me, Angel. You seem
to know.”
With trepidation,
he’d watched her move, slowly, gracefully, perching herself on the end of his
bed. Stunned, he couldn’t call her by the
name she once carried; she was no longer that girl. The creature before him was something much more, she was dark and
full of power, fueled by pain and loneliness.
Angel was struck dumb as he stared at the Witch, sitting on the end of
his bed waiting for an answer that he could not give, and he’d felt, in some
perverse way, he’d created her. Silence was their companion that day and he’d
woken hours later, disorientated, certain she’d been a dream.
A dream that soon
became a nightmare.
The visits, always
when Angel was truly alone, were sporadic at first. He’d wake to find her watching him, silent and still, her steady
heartbeat the only sound. When he’d ask
questions she’d remain silent, bringing a single finger to his lips to stop the
words. They were playing the game by
her rules and Angel wasn’t privy to them.
One day he’d woken, bound to the bed, and he discovered that her silence
was preferable to the words she spoke.
“Who are you?”
He’d been confused by
her question, by the cuffs that held him down.
Even now, he could feel the weight of those cuffs and he rubbed at his
wrists, the Witch’s blood coating his own hands.
“Really, my sweet
Angel, who are you? A god perhaps? Some superior being who is infallible? You must be, considering you know what’s
right or wrong, what’s good or bad…”
Angel stared at the
television, memories of her words mixing with the words of worship that were
peppered with beeps by Jerry’s guests.
The words, the sounds did nothing to soothe him or drown out the soft
sound of the blood that was dripping from the Witch’s corpse onto his bedroom
floor, or the stench of death that seemed to envelop him. Pushing himself from the chair, he wandered
over to the small bar, he needed a drink, whiskey and ice, in a tall, lone
glass. The ice fell, clinking against
the cool glass.
“No, you’re just a
demon who wears the face of a man, who hides from what he is.”
Angel picked up the
bottle and took it back to the chair with him, attempting once more to change
channels, this time with his booted foot.
It only set the television rocking, the believers were still singing
their praises to all who would listen. His
eyes fell on the ice in the glass, cooling the whiskey. As the weeks wore on and her visits became
more regular, the words, in her quiet unemotional voice, were nothing compared
to what was to come.
“Who are you to say
with one brief glance at a person, whether they are good or bad? You don’t know them, you’ll never really
know them…” she’d tied him down again, heavy cuffs he wouldn’t be able to
break, only this time she sat astride him, her fingers exploring his naked
chest. “Just as I don’t know you and
you don’t know me.”
Angel took a deep
swig of his whiskey. He’d never told
anyone of the Witch, of her visits, her words, her actions. Maybe because what she said was true, too
many times he’d tried to make things black and white, bad and good, he’d
forgotten that most things were gray, tinged with both and never pure. She told him the things he’d tried to deny.
She became his soul, his guilt, his pain…
“I like pain, do
you? I never use to but it seems that
pain has become an old friend of mine.
Tell me, my sweet Angel…” she’d pressed her open palm down against his
chest, the pain exploding under the pressure of the crucifix cradled in her
small hand and she’d tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “Does it hurt?”
Angel rolled his
head back against the chair, the pain, so old and long forgotten, spilling
forth. He bit down on his inner cheek
to stop from screaming, just as he had so many nights ago when she’d sat
astride him, holding down the cross.
“Don’t hold back on
my account. I’ve told you, pain’s an old friend. Seems strange that me, all of 23 years, could say something like
that to a creature that’s roamed the earth for over two centuries. I guess it’s all relevant, though. Death is coming, sooner or later, I’m
betting that sooner will be the case, and if you rationalize the years we’ve
spent then we’d be pretty much on par,” she’d paused, her cold eyes looking
down at her hand that still firmly held the gold cross to his chest, sinking
into the burning flesh, the stench filling the air. “Different types of pain, of course. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it’s like to take a human life,
and you’ve taken so many, destroyed even more than you’ve out rightly
killed…even now, under the pretence of working for some sort of redemption, you
damage people.”
Redemption, there
was no way he could redeem himself to the corpse on his bed, the girl…the
Witch…he’d failed. She was dead and her dying words had been for those of a
demon lover she’d lost so long ago.
Angel refilled his empty glass, making the ice swirl about, and kicked at
the television set again. Still the garble
continued…people talking of visions of saints and bizarre happenings.
“Oh look,” she’d
pulled back the cross, her fingernails digging it from the melted flesh, and
leant over the mark, frowning. “Such a
nasty burn. We should put some ice on
it. The thing I’ve never understood is
why a vampire reacts so badly to holy items.
Take, for instance, holy water. It’s no different to normal water,
tapped or bottled, except some old man who smells of mothballs and holy
sacraments has said one or two words and waved his hand over it. The water doesn’t change, it is still water
with the same chemical properties, it can be frozen,” she’d picked up a block
of ice, warmed it in her hands, water saturating her fingers. “But the effect
is the same on vampires…it still burns.”
Angel stared blindly
at the television, they weren’t making sense, none of it made sense. He drained his glass and refilled it.
“What do you think
would happen if the blesser had lost his faith? Would the water still be holy or just masquerading as a gift from
god? I don’t believe in God, do
you? Silly question really, you must if
holy items can cause you so much pain,” he’d been screaming by then, pulling at
his restraints, his hips bucking under her as he’d tried to get away from the
holy water that dribbled down through his wound. “I believe in pain as you know.
Sometimes, it becomes unbearable, close to what you’re feeling now, and
I just want it to stop,” she’d pressed the melting ice down harder, the warmth
of his wound and her hands increasing the rate it melted. “But it doesn’t. No matter what I do, it’s a constant companion. And then…there are times when I long for it,
when I need more…”
The ice in his glass
was gone and Angel watched as the condensation started to drip down the
tumbler. It was nearly empty and soon
he’d have to fill it again. He never really understood her words, until it was
too late.
“I’ve got a secret…”
she’d whispered to him once, when the heavy shackles had been replaced by
flimsy silken cords. He’d known he
wouldn’t break the bonds, he deserved every piece of torture she could bestow
on him…or so he thought. “Souls are
nothing, they don’t make someone right or virtuous. Liars, thieves, murderers, rapists, child molesters, all the evil
that is mankind has a soul…doesn’t mean a thing, neither does conscience. Yet because you have this human aspect you
deem it enough…” she’d leant back, in her favorite position, sitting atop his
groin, and fixed her gaze on his brown eyes.
“I wonder what you’d do if it was taken from you?”
And with those few
words he’d felt his guilt, his only restraint, sinking and being devoured by
his true nature until it was obscured.
The demon had screamed at her, the air filling with threats of death and
torture, and broke free of the bonds that held him. Fury, indignation and blinding rage all focused on the fragile
mortal body of the Witch. When she was
badly hurt, her life threatened, almost extinguished, the magic retreated. The soul
swelled and caged the demon once more. He’d drop down to his knees, cradled his
head in bloodied hands and cried.
“My sweet Angel,”
she’d laughed at his weeping form, a sound of amusement, filled with pain, and
containing more than a little of the maniacal sounds of a lunatic. “You’re hiding again…”
Angel threw his
glass at the television and missed.
It was too late,
after that night, to help her. All the
words, generally whispered to him during bouts of pain, made sense, fell into
place. She was romancing death, trying
to find it and Angel had taken to fighting when she wouldn’t, protecting her
from the very thing she sought. And he
would bear the brunt of her fury with every act of protection, but still he
followed her, fought for her. Death was
a constant threat for the Witch, her prowess was renowned, feared and hated,
resulting in a contract for her life.
It was a life that could easily be taken, for she was still a mortal,
she still bled, she still breathed.
Until tonight, when a demons sword, coated in otherworldly poison,
slashed her, cutting deep and leaving a festering wound that would claim her
life.
Angel closed his
eyes, willing away the sight of one of Jerry’s guests displaying his gift from
god. Instead scenes from the fight
assaulted him, he could hear every grunt, every groan, the sickening zing of
the blade slashing the air and slicing through her flesh. The childlike cry that had left her lips as
her eyes grew wide with shock and fear.
Clutching at her gaping wound, she’d stumbled and fallen and he’d fought
on, making quick work of the demons.
She’d been crawling away when he’d picked her up, her hand clutching at
the gaping wound, not stilling the flow of her rich blood, and she’d struggled
against him, her words for him nothing more than curses and hatred. Carrying her through the dark tunnels he’d
listened and words failed him.
Just as they failed
him now, for there on Jerry Springer was some guy, the stereotypical
all-American bad boy, talking of how he found his faith…in the holding cells of
the LAPD as the sun rose some five years back...
“I swear man, this
guy, he was *beep*ing going insane. He
was cursing and *beep*ing destroying the cell and I swear, and I was *beep*ing
clean at the time, this guy, he got struck down by god. Started to *beep*ing burn, *beep* he was
*beep*ing roaring and then the *beep*er just turned to *beep*ing ashes right in
front of us and I *beep*ing thought that there was no *beep*ing way in hell that
I was *beep*ing well going out like that.
Put the *beep*ing fear of god into me…I swear on my mothers *beep*ing
grave man…”
Angel stared blindly
at the television, it was the last thing that he wanted to hear. With a feral roar of rage and agony, he
twisted about, picking up the chair as he stood, and threw it at the
television. The set fizzed and popped
as it shattered, but Angel didn’t hear it. The momentum of his movement coupled
with the consumption of a bottle of whiskey, sent him crashing into the wooden
coffee table, making it splinter and collapse under the weight of the
fall. As he sought to right himself, he
glanced down, rolling his eyes at the shard of wood that he was impaled on.
“Oh fuc…”
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