AUTHOR: Ragna (Obsessive-Compulsive Spike)
DISTRIBUTION: Sure, just keep my name on it and let me know.
ARCHIVED AT: Welcome to Hellmouth Fan-Fiction
DISCLAIMER: I own only the plot and the characters not on BtVS. Everything else is Joss Whedon's and Mutant Enemy's.
FEEDBACK: Y'all know I thrive on it!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the final part, Dru's part. I know I'm only supposed to post 3 parts a day, but, since the list is so slow... Please don't hurt me!
"Miss Edith doesn't like her."
"Who's Miss Edith?"
"My friend. My only friend."
"Is she that doll I've heard about?"
"Well, why doesn't Miss Edith like her?"
"She took my Spike away."
He was my world, Spike was. I lived for him. Well, not lived, but I loved him. And then, my dark Angel came back, and I thought we'd be a happy family again. Seems my Spike and my dark Angel didn't like each other. Not at all. And he went to the Slayer. He went to her, and he made a deal. Miss Edith was very put out with him. And so was I.
So, when we got to...Brazil, I think, I made him jealous. I made him see red, blood red. And he left. And went back to Sunnydale. And he found her. But she rejected him, and he came back. And he tortured me, like he used to. And I loved him again. But something wasn't right. Something was gone. And then, Miss Edith told me he was falling in love. With the Slayer. And I wanted to kill her.
Before, when we were happy, he'd have other lovers. And after a while, I'd kill them. It was easy. But if I fought the Slayer, I'd die. And my Spike would be miserable. He still called me his Princess, and that was enough. So, I went away again. I wasn't surprised he didn't try to find me. My dark Angel was gone, my Spike was gone, and I was alone. But, they were happy. I still want to kill her, though. Tear her limb from limb, and hurt her the way I was hurt. But I won't. Miss Edith says if I do that, then Spike will not be here anymore. She says he'll watch the sun rise, and I don't want that.
Because I know she'll die. And he'll be mine again.
She stopped the tape and rewound it, listening to the four stories. Writing in her journal she sighed. Her colleagues were never going to believe this. She smiled at the thought of being the first psychologist to have three dead patients, willing to open up to her. That was the last thought that went through her head as she walked out of the office, locking the door behind her. The stories, they were safe. And they were told. And the sun could stop envying the moon, and the moon could stop wanting the day.
Because they already had what they wanted.