New Year's Resolutions: part two

New Year's Resolutions: part two
by Josie_h
Notes

25 Dec

Spike

It was Christmas Day though nothing in his immediate surroundings gave any indication of the same. Vampire hours were now but a formality, it was always dark in his ‘cellar’, his demon’s ‘clock’ and changing sounds from apartments above, being the only things to denote the passing of another sunrise.

He was writing again, strange really, and a significant effort for an individual so well ensconced in the ‘dark end’ of existence, but it passed the time. The writing was new, and had begun as yet another way of expunging the oppressive loneliness he lived with nightly, providing some form of catharsis for the guilt and devastation plaguing his dreams in the day.

It had begun with the simple act of reading - a method of filling meaningless days. After the ‘big battle’ he’d begun reading aloud to Angel, distraction for them both and using Angel’s own collection ‘classic’ books. He was ‘out and about’ enough to keep it replenished when they had worked their way through all the favorites, but after the demise of … everyone… frequenting book shops or public libraries really was out of the question.

It was inevitable then, five years ago a computer had been procured – traveling with him as he moved basement to basement, the then ‘state of the art’ monstrosity, now replaced by a sleek laptop with ‘hyped’ hard drive and *all* the add-ons. No longer in need of lights to read, his blacked out abode shrunk even further to the nineteen inches of dancing text on screen, and that suited him fine. The surprisingly web savvy, former poet recognized and grasped onto the anonymity and near limitless source of text the medium offered. He had latched on to a few favored sites, joined a couple of writers’ lists and proceeded to bury himself in cyberspace whenever possible.

It wasn’t about connecting with anyone. It was about losing himself in stories, much as he did when still a mortal – but rather than the romantic fluff of the past, they were now extremely dark, torturous and harsh. The literature was generally chosen for the similar plot path, starting at unhappiness and difficulty, a meeting of friends and building of relationships, love blossoming, and more often than not, ending in disappointment and sadness, and only occasionally in a place of peace. Stories that made Dickens, Hardy, even Shakespeare, look like poster children for the joy and light of relationships!

Inevitably, he imagined himself as one of the characters, most often the ‘taken’ one, sometimes buoyed up by ‘being’ the favored slave, the beloved consort, even daring at times to relate to the role of the cherished mate and ‘equal’ partner in the plot. At other times he read of violence and being violated, picturing himself the recipient of torture and humiliating training, and wallowing in the desperation and pain of the character with whom he identified.

One bored, freezing evening in January he had begun writing. Initially it was a short if somewhat obscure lament to his sire. But the result was mildly satisfying and other longer essays followed, more historical documents than fiction, but inevitably any ‘outside’ reader would not see it that way. Posting the works on one of the writer’s websites as a ‘Bugger this, just let ‘em know what pain is.’ moments, he was utterly unprepared for the enthusiastic feedback his prose attracted.

Nineteen stories on, and Spike rarely responded to the notes of praise, even when he did, it was with a word or three at most: “Taa pet”; “Life s’all ”; or “Appreciated”.

History and fantasy were his forte, coupled with sex, violence, love, hate, gender and preferences varied, graphic detail enjoyed, and his most favorite stories always long and full of angst. The common threads of his writing were the themes - love, pain and disappointment.

He logged on – it was Christmas night after all, surely some other sad ‘wanker’ had nothing better to do than look at a screen.

“FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Hey NonPerson,

Loved your story… really struck a chord. (No accounting huh!)

Lovely Christmas gift!

*Please* write sequel.

Regards

Xanman”

Spike took an unneeded breath, re-reading the pseudonym, and then kicked himself. There was *no* reason to assume this was the friend he had lost on the night of his own ‘obliteration’. Still… he wrote back an uncharacteristically long response.

“Re: FB: Re: Manifest Spirits and Talisman

Cheers for the thoughts,

Spark for Ch. 2 welcome.

Muse is dead.

NonPerson”

Spike then hit send, logged off, and retreated to the furthest dark corner of his ‘home’. He curled into a ball on the floor, and stroked his own hair in a vain attempt to make old memories of his boy and sadness and loss disappear.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Xander

It was Christmas Day. There was no-one to comment and nowhere to go until noon when he would head for the Sacramento airport and fly to the east coast for a five day break. He was heading for Boston. His favorite Aunt Agnes had been buried in Boston. He ‘owed her’ a graveside visit at least, and besides it was the only reason he could muster for choosing anywhere in particular to visit, and spending holidays at home had definitely lost their appeal.

He pushed the bed covers back, though there was no imperative to rise early. No children to calm or family to visit, no partner to greet or party to attend. Work colleagues had been gracious and thoughtful, but he had politely declined all offers, thereby successfully avoided the ‘sympathy luncheons’ apparently on offer that day. Xander really could not face another ‘day full of cheer’ as the ‘extra wheel’.

He remembered with regret, his own Christmas promise that was made to a friend years before, and wondered, as he did at this time every year, if there might have been some other way things could have ‘played out’. He twisted the rings twice, then tugged the covers up again and attempted to find solace in unconsciousness for a few more hours. Sleep eluded him. It seemed obvious that there was to be no relief from those thoughts without distraction.

He hauled the laptop from the side table onto the bed. Reading in bed (online) a habit developed after the super light piece of digital mastery was foisted upon him as part of his latest ‘work package’. The whole transferable workplace, and need for top-of-the-line connections and max. capacity, simply feeding his already rather obsessive need to work.

The penchant for online literature had come later, ever the comic aficionado, he had never considered that reading more than a few hundred words without pictures of any interest.

His workplace role however, had ‘pushed the envelope’. Tenders, proposals, reports, Emails, customer documents, all had their place and Xander had mastered them as required, then moved on to enjoy the written word in the literary guise.

Additional to his newfound ‘love of the literary word’, he had kept up with Willow and the crew on and off through a generic Email, but was really introduced to the ‘joys of the net and downloads and literature’ by the dear, though fleeting relationship with ‘friend’ Neil. They’d met at a conference, connected, ‘danced’, spent the night then parted company with the obligatory though false, ‘I’ll call you’, the next morning. But Xander was still grateful for the time they had spent looking for ‘inspiration’ online and his partner-in-passing’s pointers regards websites for ‘good reading’.

So now it was December twenty fifth, and he was perched in the very middle of his own oversized bed. As was his habit, he’d propped the notebook computer up on the ‘V-pillow’, logged on and indulged in yet another story by a favorite author, NonPerson. *And may we all take a moment to thank the lord of wireless technology for the speedy connection*.

The last three or so years, had seen Xander read and dismiss hundreds of ‘wannabe Anne Rice’s. He’d actively reviewed and ignored similar numbers of ‘horror movie script-writer' creations, plus been truly amazed (but no less disappointed) by the plethora of budding ‘alternative writers’ whose claim on wiccan or vampiric lifestyle was ‘joke worthy’!

Over the next hour or so he worked his way through the new story. It was the third of NonPerson’s literature that Xander had read in the last month. His/her ‘account of the unusual’ read like the narrative in the style of Sleepy Hollow. Xander felt a strange sense of deja vous with some of the material but dismissed it as mere personal angst borne of his own misery and prompted by what he assumed was ‘some pretentious language arts student’s’ successful attempt at ‘disturbing’…. Yet he still reserved some right to feel a little ‘wigged’, formative years spent fighting evil at the side of the slayer on a ‘Hellmouth’ and subsequent experiences, had given him ample knowledge of all things ‘bump in the night’, and to recognize serendipity for its more freaky consequences.