As Spike waited for his keytag to be called, he felt a renewed sense of hope threatening to spill into his outlook on unlife. It was not more than three months ago that he had lain in a garbage dump sleeping on top of someone's fresh vomit, uncaring about the world around him. It was a miracle that he had survived at all; he hadn't cared whether he lived or died and had escaped the sun's rays by inches more than once.
"All right," the chairperson said, putting down the bright orange keytag before she reached into the black metal box and pulled out a cluster of pale green tags, separating one from the pack. "Is there anyone here with sixty days?" As the chairperson worked her way up to his color, he felt himself inch towards the edge of his chair. He knew his vampyric friends would consider it "uncool" to feel the excitement of managing to string together ninety days clean, that even the scooby gang would laugh at him for wanting something more than random nightly snacking on carelessly selected victims and living in filth.
Five months ago, he had appeared, at least on the surface, to have it all. His classic leather duster had become a legend in the vampyric and occult community. Everyone knew of mythic 'William the Bloody', who had risen through the ranks of the undead to become a master vampire, lost it all in a cut of the scalpel, and regained his freedom once more. Campfire stories were told to demonic children about the demon who had once been so impotent he had resorted to killing his own kind to satisfy his death lust, and who had then proceeded to add another Slayer to the list of his supernatural victims. When the children were sound asleep, the demon counsellors had gosipped about whether the Slayer had found his abilities in bed worth her life.
And then it had happened. Spike had been starving, craving anything that night. There had been an unwanted emptiness inside of him after two days of making love to twin Creonaths, and he sought to fill it with his fangs. He'd searched the alleys and found a young homeless man who would be easy to pick off. Usually, Spike liked to take some time in torturing his victims before killing them. However, that night his crotch throbbed painfully; he felt worn out near collapse and wanted a meal that wouldn't squirm. He should have know when the young man had not protested against being lifted from his slumber by the throat that something was up. Deep down, he had. He could have walked away and found another kill. Instead, he had brought the young man's throat to his lips and shifted into his demonic face before sinking his fangs into the semi-conscious victim's neck. Instantly he tasted it, the acrid flavour of horse tranquilizers and sugar causing him to choke for a moment. He had a choice. He could put down the street punk or feed on him and destroy what he had worked so hard to build over the last year. Spike chose to continue feeding.
His relapse had quickly led him down a long and slippery path of pain. It had taken him two moths to return to the rooms of Narcotics Anonymous, but when he had finally crawled back, he had known it was right for him. He felt at home, among other recovering addicts. Slowly he had gotten back into life and gotten a sponser, which was difficult since he had eaten his last one during his relapse. Most in the fellowship, while warm and caring, suspected a strange air about him and instinctively felt him connected to the younger man's disappearance. Tonight however, he was simply a child of Satan brimming was pride and gratitude for the life he had found once more.
"Is there anyone here tonight with ninety days?" Spike rose instantaneously, and the room erupted in clapping and cheers of encouragement as he bounded towards the front of the room. He engulfed Tammy, the chairperson, in a vice-like hug. It was all worth it to have her hug him back and whisper her congratulations to him. As she handed Spike the bloodred ninety day keytag, the room quieted down to hear his informal speech. "Um... right then," the blonde vampire said, suddenly nervous and self conscious. "You know it was really bad, out there, and no one ever goes out there and comes back in and says it was good. And I can't say that either. I'm just greatful to be back here with everyone again." As Spike walked back to his seat, his fellow addicts clapped.
Soon the meeting was over, and invitations for after-meeting coffee were being shouted out. He usually left early to find a nice, drug free child or housewife to snack on. Tonight, however, he felt the need to celebrate with his fellow addicts tugging at him. Why not, he thought to himself, and walked to the coffee shop across the street.