Mice
I have a plan.
A good plan. Smart. Carefully laid out.
I'm gonna get bombed.
It's not a particularly difficult plan. Not even a very smart one, still, it's a plan.
It took careful planning, since I tend to talk to myself even when I'm sober. When I'm drunk I tend to sing Sex Pistols' songs off-key and the aim of the game is to get drunk, not to scare the crap out of Niblet. I also tend to pass out and not notice the sunrise until it's flambéd me. So I planned. I bought a lot of booze. I closed every set of curtains in the house and I arranged for Dawn to stay the night with Willow and Tara. This gives me an entire night to seek oblivion.
I need a little oblivion right now. A nice little alcohol induced blackout to take my mind off the pain in my leg that flares up every time I put my weight on it. The pain in my head every time I accidentally shove somebody. The pain in my heart every time I stop concentrating very hard on other things and realise that she's really truly gone.
Okay, I really need a drink.
Vodka. It's cheap. It's less likely to leave you with a hangover than most liquors. It's Russian, but we can overlook that. Most of all it's 40 per cent proof.
I uncap the Smirnoff and drink way too much. It's good job I'm already dead. If I weren't, then chugging that much straight vodka would probably kill me.
Working our way down the list we have tequila.
Tequila unaccompanied, is a fickle bitch.
I head to the kitchen in search of salt.
Damn protocol.
Damn vampire physiology for that matter.
This could take a while.
*
When did I get into the bathtub?
More to the point, why can I not get out of the bathtub?
My plaster cast's getting all soggy.
Got to get up.
Okay, cool. I'm standing up.
Now I'm falling.
Still, at least I'm out of the bath.
Ooh! Mirror!
Heh heh heh. It looks like the toothbrush is flying.
"Look out captain. There's a soap dish on a collision course. POW! KABOOM!"
Why don't my clothes show up anyway?
I take off my coat and hold it out beside me. It starts reflecting as I let go.
Weird.
I think the gods were drunk when they came up with this shit.
Gods.
No. Wrong. Bad focus.
Drunk.
That's better. Let's go get something else to drink. No need to think about...
Buffy.
I pass her room on the landing. Her stuff's all untouched, except the bed's crumpled, so I think Dawn's been lying on it.
I go in and lie on the bed myself.
It still smells of her.
Not as much as it would do if I hadn't let that stupid fucker tip me off the platform.
This is all my fault.
The first I killed and ate, the second I killed and stole from, the last I killed by falling off the devil's diving board.
Spike. Slayer of three slayers.
I inhale her scent on the pillows.
"Buffy, I'm so sorry."
And suddenly I'm lurching across the room. Desperate to put off the inevitable until I'm away from her things.
I manage to get into the hallway before I vomit all over the carpet.
Vodka, tequila, whiskey, pigs blood and a packet of cheese-ums.
Vampire puke is so disgusting.
This isn't going how I'd planned.
I'm not only still conscious, I'm crying. So much for cheering me up.
Hmm. I think there's some Bacardi downstairs.
Stairs.
How the fuck did I get upstairs?
Oh take them at a run. You're dead anyway, what's the worst that could happen?
"OW FUCK!"
That, probably.
Everything's going fuzzy. Like when I ran out of Cecily's party and Drusilla drank...
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