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𝕠𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕡𝕦𝕤
 “YOU CAN'T LET GO OF ME EVEN NOW, CAN YOU?” His mother’s drawl crooned over the cacophony of voices ringing in his head. She towered over him, a fanged demon, as last he saw her—before the very end. He felt so small again. Just as he had when he was William. Meek, forgettable… unlovable…
beneath her.
“I was trying to save you…” Spike whispered. “You’re thankless, always thankless.”
“If you had any sense, you would have been waiting with bated breath to see me whither and die, boy!”
“I’m not a boy!” A sharp burst of anger, his fist beat a crack into the basement wall.
“And… not… yet a man…” Drusilla’s dreamy tone echoed through the room. “Always searching for a Mummy… a skirt to cower under…” she tilted her head. “A bosom to suckle.”
“I couldn’t leave her…”
“If you were half a man, you would have left!” His mother screamed. “What man wastes his life away scribbling poems and caring after a withering old lady? They all laughed at you. They still laugh.”
“I killed them all, tore them limb from limb.” Spike uttered, rocking forward on his tailbone.
“Painted the roses red… planted a garden for your mother in bloodied soil.” Drusilla sang. “Watered the thirsty little flowers with their blood.”
“Never done anything for yourself, have you?” said his mother. “You let everyone walk all over you. Wasted all your time on reasoning and reckoning, but it couldn’t fix what was wrong, could it? The sick little weakness…”
“I changed. Gone around the bend, yes, gone around the bend, but I got stronger.”
“And now you’re weak again,” said Buffy. “Got a soul like it makes any difference to me. You’ll never be the man I need.”
“You should have killed her when you had the chance,” said Drusilla. “Wrung her pretty little neck. But you never could make Mummy happy, could you?”
“No, could never make anyone happy. No one's happy, only hurt.”
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