What did soul really define? Was it the embodiment of what a human being was supposed to be, or was it just the catalyst needed to convey emotions and determine what was right or wrong? It didn’t hurt so much as it confused. And it didn’t confuse so much as it ignored. He felt a roundness of shape, the loss of pain. Pain had been replaced by torment, and the torment had dissolved into a powerless tear at his head. Now he perceived it was all in his mind, stab upon lick of a shaking stage. Everyone was playing a part, walking on bare feet that cut easily on glass. It was humanity…and it was killing him. It was roping him to limitations and building grains of disdain within his chest. There was nothing left to feel, nothing left to hold onto.

“Thump-thump. Your chest talks to me now, Spike. Thump-thump against your bones. Does it feel good?”

Then there she was, a ruby haze to his twitching eyes. She appeared as an illusion of a Victorian doll, black eyes glinting on the surface of a destined disaster, her fragile body wrapped tight in red lace. Her raven ringlets hung like dying serpents at her face, a face covered in flesh too similar to ivory porcelain to be real.

No, not real. Nothing was real anymore. She was a figment of his pulsating head. She wasn’t really here. He was untouchable and she was just a vision of dust that would soon disappear and leave him to peace, the peace of contempt.

“Spike…” she called to him in a crazed singsong tone, orbiting him in maddening repetition.

Her name singed the tip of his tongue, but it only came as an afterthought.

“Where are you, Spike? Caged up like an angry lion, all alone, all alone.”

Answers made no sense, but the constant ringing of questions slaughtered his already deprived existence.

“Mommy is angry with you. You’ve been a very, very, naughty boy.”

The accented voice echoed through the extremities of his daunting mind until he cried out to her in a slurred voice. “Go away…please…away from here…away…”

“Enough!” she ordered with a demanding hand placed to his bared chest, ceasing all motion while attempting to still his inconsolable body out of its frantic convulsions.

“No…stop haunting me…stop bloody well killing me…Oh, God…no…”

“You make me sad…” she strayed, her small mouth poisoned with crimson; stains of blood. Oh, to taste that misery again.

“You’re not real…not real,” he convinced himself, huddled into a mess of broken skin and ragged clothing, fingertips embedded into his skull while he worried her with violent whispers.

There was a gracious pause in his head, perfect silence. Then in a sudden flash of pain, her scream exploded against his face with the accompanying jerk of her hand stunningly sharp against his bruised cheek. He moaned, breaking into choked sobs as he rocked back and forth more steadily, everything blurred and hazy. Colours – so blinding, he couldn’t see anything but terror. Her slap didn’t matter so much. It was the mental obstruction of what he was being punished for that he regarded so heavily.

Soon, dry lips showered his countenance with a hungry eagerness, preying on him. “Hush, hush,” she apologized guiltily to the frail thing she embraced. “I’ll sing you a song,” she cooed.

She started humming through his tears, sweet tenderness to a vampire who housed a fresh soul. It was lilting and gentle with innocence. Oh, innocence. He couldn’t stop shivering in the isolation of it. And how merciless her smell was; the perfumes of Christianity snuggling with the aromas of a dead forest.

He could feel the tips of her possessing fingertips marching over his head and neck, her nuzzling him through clothing until he was powerless to the two pinpricks of pleasure diving into his arteries. First there was the sun. No, it was just harsh light. Light that overwhelmed him with darkness until there was no more pain. No more.

He awoke with a startled gasp that sent his body upright and erect. The first thing he noticed was the odour of lavender lapping against his nostrils, intoxicating when it filled his empty thoughts. The second thing he noticed was her silhouette, cornered in the shadows watching him like some espionage.

“I pity you,” she remarked with glowing eyes.

“I’m aware,” he responded to her judgment like a willing slave, touching his fingers to the bite marks she left at his collarbone.

“Why did you let that wretched thing into your chest? Why?” she questioned sharply.

He eyed the concrete walls, covered in the accentuated light of candles. Skittering off the bed in alarm, he asked, “Where are we?”

“That’s no way to growl at me.” There was a hindrance to permit a small smile. “Don’t you remember your old playpen?”

“My crypt.” He stared back at her unreadable eyes with a wild sense of unease, flooded by memories when he finally stood on two feet. “You’re not real,” he persisted. “I’ve gone mental.”

“Can you hear the walls chattering?” she meowed with amusement. “I can…”

He clutched to the bedpost, splintering his sweaty palms to reassure himself this place was solid. “Drusilla,” he at last addressed her. “Please, stop this. Stop punishing me.”

“Can you hear them?” she continued with wide eyes on the brink of excitement.

He sighed. “No. No I can’t. I--”

She erupted with chaotic giggles. “They laugh at you,” she declared, passing him a cat-like grin as her delicate hand came up to catch the laughter coming from her parted mouth. “Spikey has a soul now. Angel of hell…”

There was burning at his chest, tears gorgeous in his salted eyes. “You’re not real,” he murmured.

Her expression rapidly slackened. “I am,” she attacked coolly. “More real than you and what you’ve got inside of you, twisting…and grinding,” she finished seductively, sinking lower into her chair as her head fell back to expose the creamy flesh of her neck and cleavage.

His saliva thickened. Hunger overtook him. He wanted to taste her, eat her alive, melt into her core as he savagely spent himself upon her. He couldn’t take his eyes off the way her sharp tongue flicked out to lick her swollen lips, how her hands slipped beneath her red dress to grip at her thighs. He fell to the beckoning rubble beneath him, staring idly into the space between them.

“I love secrets,” she whispered to the ceiling. “If the Slayer knew you had a soul, she would rip out your throat and watch your pretty blood spill.”

“Rip…rip out my heart,” he asked of her.

She laughed. “Rip out your heart?” Her head elevated once more to exchange silent words with him. “You don’t have one. Only a troubled moon that screams inside of you, telling you to kiss it. Can’t you hear it?”

His eyes finally resorted to scrutinizing her form with an eerie uncertainty, determined to detect a characteristic that would make her seem less real. “Where is she?”

“Who?” she purred, rising from her seat and approaching him with a sensual fluidity to her strides and gestures.

“Bu--”

In a moment she was close enough to touch, her fingertip redirecting the confirmation into his throat by its simple placement on his lips. “I ate him for you,” she notified. Her silent eyes were warning, encaging the very substance of evil and mayhem.

“Who…who Dru? Tell me, pet,” he said under the weight of her contented gaze, holding her elbows against his body.

She lost eye contact with him, distracted by the glistening of a cobweb overhead. “He tasted terrible, but his thoughts were very curious.”

“Who, Dru?” he insisted patiently.

“The one sitting in your chair.”

He turned to follow her hinting eyes, seeing nothing but a fleshy earlobe peeking out from the back of the cushioning chair, the television raging with an unfamiliar talk show. “Clem…” he strayed with a gruff choke, running to the aid of the long dead bugger.

There was no doubt in his mind. He loved his wicked sire, from the texture of her skin to the ecstasy of her ancient blood. He figured one way or another she would always be part of his existence, overpowering him only to prevail and return to wreak havoc in all kinds of pretty shapes and sizes. He would’ve loved every second of it. He would’ve marinated in the blood she shed. He would have. Now all he could do was weaken to the salvation of his soul, pent up frustrations and sorrows leaving him crisp and alive in death.

“You killed him…you killed him.” He gyrated slowly to face her expressionless face, tracks of tears stinging his cheeks as they rolled to the dip of his chin.

“Aren’t you satisfied? I didn’t let him leak,” she compromised, folding her hands together in front of her stomach.

“He was my friend!” he roared, emphasizing the unique circumstances with fierce eyes that were maddened by insanity.

“I’ll get you another one,” she reassured.

“No!” he screamed, arms flung out hopelessly. “You don’t get it. I’m different now, Dru.” The realization suddenly hit him as he looked down to where his bare chest advertised his trademark scratches. “I’ve been…altered,” he softened. “And you are not real,” he finalized, turning from her with rejection.

The image of her surfaced in his mind as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He watched her shiver as if a winter breeze had claimed her, body red with veins of disbelief. Suddenly he couldn’t take it. Suddenly hurting her mattered to an extent he had never felt the authority of.

“I came for you, Spike,” she spoke to his back. “I saved you. I heard your soul whispering to me. It was telling me to return, telling me to come to you. And now, now you are just like Angelus. You don’t recognize family,” she marveled.

His body hardened, mouth bent out of shape as he bowed his head to the ground. “Forgive me, Dru. Nothing makes sense right now. Nothing.”

“No,” she halted him. “The voices in my head said you wouldn’t understand. They said you shall die soon…and they can’t wait.”

Drusilla was no more. Like a fleeting hallucination, she had found him where the Slayer had left him, dragged him back to his practically untouched crypt, had his lone friend for dinner and then left with nothing more than a promise of death, a shameful reprimand, and a furious ripple of her thick eyelashes. Confusion came even more easily now. The pain of emotions hadn’t lessened any. Tears smudged his face in a soft red, giving evidence that without hesitation, he would rip himself apart if given the chance, just to salvage what was left of him.

He stood in the shadows of candlelight, watching the clothing on the corpse of his lost friend move slightly from the breeze blowing through his open door, as if still animated. He hadn’t touched him; scared the coldness of a dead body would tear the flesh from his insides until he was sick with despair.

But he hadn’t lost everything. His senses had remained intact, perhaps even accented. However, when small footsteps approached, imprinted with the scent of morning dew, he didn’t acknowledge them. He waited not because he wanted to, but because he was dazed at the sight of death before him. Death was a man that possessed uncountable souls. Souls really couldn’t protect anyone in the end.

“Are you going to pretend I’m not here?” came the tragic voice.

The small figure moved in the darkness, gradually pivoting to face him. He found the frailty of adolescent eyes aimed at his in confrontation. She had him where she wanted him, breaking his heart and peeling the very strength from his tense muscles with the sky carved in her eyes.

“You look like you crawled out of hell,” was all she said.

“I’m still here,” he indicated, his gaze lost in the space over her shoulder.

She reacted slightly when she saw the source of his hypnosis, the dead body of Clem. Then she gave her full attention to him as if the world was not completely out of shape. Her eyes fell to the healing wounds on his chest, his gaze following hers. Her pale hand rose cautiously; face distraught with worried creases when he winced at the agonizing bliss of her heated fingertips making contact with his sensitive flesh.

Slowly, with the blushing hands of a virgin, she tenderly stroked his blistered chest with rare intimacy until he finally shook in his own skin and clamped to her wandering hands with pleading eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here, Dawn. Go--”

She interrupted him with the clinging strength of her arms, falling into him with furious determination and ignoring his attack of terrified shivers when she hugged him so tightly. “Buffy told me you were back. She told me everything. I looked for you at the school, in the basement like she said…but you were gone. This was the only place I could think of.”

He noticed her subconscious sniffles, a telltale signal she was crying. His entire body had numbed to an unbearable state of ecstasy, so much he couldn’t stand the heartfelt emotions she inflicted upon him.

Spontaneously, he jerked away from her, forcing her apart from his quivering body with saddened eyes as she made a feeble attempt to grasp onto his flailing arms. “Leave…now…please, Dawn,” he instructed quietly.

There was a frown and a suggestive quirk of her thin brow before he saw the protest playing in her glare. Uncharacteristically, she sent a solid fist against his jaw line only to receive a responsive grunt of surprise from him. His eyes twisted back to her solemnly.

“For what you did to Buffy,” she explained.

“Fair enough,” he admitted.

Immediately after, her knee met the soreness of his abdomen with brutal force, causing him to heave over. Bracing his fingertips on the cool ground beneath him, he struggled to regain his balance through a delirious choking spasm.

“For what you did to me,” she added condescendingly with beautiful, blaming eyes.

He buried his agitated face in the comfort of his folded arms, falling against the wall to his knees with ragged breaths while holding his stomach.

“I got stronger when you left,” she settled calmly, unaffected by his obvious pain. “I had to.”

He wasted no time drowning in the anger she had taken out on him, but rather met her expressive eyes with a stare of visible awe. “I’m sorry, Lil’ Bit.”

“So am I,” she apologized, lowering herself to his level and placing a meaningful kiss on his forehead before rising and turning to leave with a final look towards Clem’s smiling face. Even in the face of death, he still smiled.

“Dawn, I want you to know that I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to--”

“I missed you,” she cut in, tossing him a glance over her shoulder before her long hair covered her face once more and she left, shutting the crypt door behind her.

There were hands on his chest, crawling and scratching, itching and irritating. He opened his eyes gently, fathomed by the golden strands curtaining his face and the blurry identity of Buffy Summers. He almost had a chance to react before her lips were smothering his, lonely and desperate for his touch.

He thought for sure he had fallen to the greatest depths of his sick mind. She couldn’t be real. Her, loving him, was surely a trick his head was laughing at. But then he thought backwards.

Rain. That’s what she tasted like. Not strawberries or honey like he remembered. Nothing sweet. Simply aching rain, pelting his mouth with bolts of electricity that his entire body surrendered to, his taut muscles rippling helplessly at the intensity of sensation. It was uncontrollable, washing over him wave after wave like the desert storms of Africa.

“Spike?” her familiar voice inquired.

“Touching…touching me,” he mumbled throatily.

“Spike!”

The resonance of her voice hung in the air like a thick cloud, suffocating him. He opened his eyes to her, finding darkness all around them and cold flames of dim light.

“Are you okay?” she questioned with care not to make him unstable again, her startling emeralds piercing his statue form.

“Drusilla…” he mentioned offhandedly, clawing at the ground beneath him like a wild animal while staring off at the misplaced supplies scattering the high school basement.

“What?” Buffy countered unsurely, slipping closer.

He flinched, folding himself back against the cement wall. “Dawn…Dawn hurt me…Dawn,” he whispered hoarsely.

Buffy’s eyes fixed themselves on him momentarily. “That’s impossible, Spike. Dawn doesn’t even know you’re down here. And even if she did…she wouldn’t hurt--”

“Go!” he screamed into his own skin, standing up instinctively and rushing towards her with a flighty temper. “Leave…” he said to her face.

“What’s going on with you, Spike? What the hell has gotten into you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I said go!”

His hands pummeled into her shoulders, slamming her against a nearby desk before shaking his head violently and pulling at his hair. She expertly caught her balance before he came at her again, ignoring her pleas for him to stop as their arms eloped and they struggled for dominance, tugging and pushing. Finally, she regained the upper hand and sent him flying against the opposite wall into a stash of loosely folded papers and documents.

Her eyes got bigger and she sent her arms around herself protectively as she braced herself in the center of the disastrous basement. “What’s happened to you?” she whispered through unexpected tears. “Something is seriously wrong with you,” she snarled. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough, Spike. You know, I thought I’d give you a chance to explain yourself. That’s the only reason I came back here. I wanted to make sure you were okay. But now…now…I don’t even want to know what you did to yourself this summer.”

Tucking back the messy sides of her ponytail, she gave him one last clueless stare before hurriedly disappearing through the clamor of the exit door.

He lay in the bed of papers, rocking back and forth with disorientation. “Nothing’s real…nothing,” he whispered to himself in a panic, breaking into hysterical laughter the way Dru used to when she ate a child’s candy. “Not even me.”