Angel
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    He told me to get dressed and get out, and I wanted to kill him for it. I should have killed him in Romania when he first came grovelling home to me with that filthy soul. Why am I so weak? Why do I let him treat me like his whore? I left with nothing but absent despair. I didn't feel loneliness anymore, just nothing, and I left.
    And that damn ring didn't work! Yeah, I wanted vengence, but I wanted to go home. I wanted to return to that blissful wicked limbo where my boy loved me every moment. Or maybe I really did just stop when he killed me, and I made my hell up, all up in my mind, because even in that serene hell he continued to mock me with love. Still, I wanted to go home, except this time I knew he wouldn't be there and I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all.
    He's the one who damned me! Cursing me with a child I couldn't get rid of, burdening me with haunting and torturous pounding that wouldn't stop, hunger that wouldn't rest, forcing me into motherhood. How very appalling and cruel. Forced to have the child of a man who doesn't love - won't love me, and never will love me. And perhaps the cruelest joke of all is on my baby, created from "perfect despair" and forced to live in this abominable world. At least my baby is a boy; that should make things easier for my little one.
    In the alley, in the rain, I told Angel I was sorry, admitting that I damned him, and even then he wouldn't love me. I told him what he wanted to hear, we have to do that for men sometimes, but I didn't believe it. I thought I did, but I was betraying myself again, playing docile again. And he said he wouldn't leave me, of course he wouldn't - he needed what was inside me, that's all. I wish the baby was Lindsey's because then Angel wouldn't have him. And if the baby was Lindsey's would me and the little one even have been given a chance at all? He couldn't, wouldn't even tell me that everything was all right. He was right about that, though, because everything wasn't all right. I had been screwed again, and I knew it so I did what I had to do. I knew he would never say "Thank You" to me for siring him, for Buffy, for making him a father, giving him a baby I wish I could still feel inside me.
    For a brief moment he almost had me again, when he told me I had to fight for my baby and added the "please" after. "Please," god, it was the only time he didn't try to take from me and I thought for a moment he saw the vulnerable Darla I always try to hide. Maybe he did, but he still said it for himself -  that I had to fight for my baby so he could have the baby, not I. As if I had control over the pain and the pounding. He assumed I was having the baby for him - I never had a choice in the matter, and in the end I had the baby for me, and mostly because it was a gift I could give to my baby, my son, only me and no one else.
    It's all because he thinks his soul is better than everyone else's. Only people who are "fighting the good" can feel and love and cry. Well, if that's what he believes then it must be true, hm.