I don’t like being alone. But I’ve done it so well for so long.

What would they think if they knew the truth? That I would rather be listening to Cordelia chatter on about nothing. Or everything. Mocking my clothes, my silence, and my sometimes-archaic use of language.

Or Wes. Wes rambling on about some fascinating-only-to-him tome of ancient demonology. His words even more stiff and stilted than my own. He’s an old man in that young skin.

Even watching Fred scritch and scratch her mindful musings on the walls of her room. I enjoy her quiet madness… it’s a little like my own.

I’d take Gunn’s silent accusing regard over this emptiness right now.

I’m Angel. I brood. Alone. It’s defined me for so long, I’m not sure how to change it, and I’m not convinced it’s worth the effort. I don’t like being alone. But I do it so well.

Sitting here in my space. Surrounded by the past. I always do that. I welcome the ghosts in like a good innkeeper. Make a comfortable home for them. Pull up a seat, please, remind me of what I’ve lost. What I’ve given up.

The black leather chair there. That’s Spike. Relaxed. Perfect. Daring me to do the same. There’s a soft white blanket tossed over the chair. I can see Dru. Draped over her boy. They are together. Without me. Watching me with silent regard.

The ghosts are always silent. They don’t need to speak; I do that for them. They are; after all, just hollow shades that my memories, my guilt, give life to. Since I gave them death, it’s the least I can do.

So I sit here alone with the death I’ve created. I let them talk in my head. Tell me things I already know.

There’s a lush, rather decadent red cover across my bed. Screams of Darla. Her screams. The color of that thing, the lavish texture… I know without touching how it feels, and my body aches to wrap it around me. That’s not something for sleeping. That keeps you awake and feels like a wicked whisper on naked skin. That is Darla.

In the low light from my reading lamp, there’s a slice of silver that cuts across my vision. Just a letter opener, but I see it in the palm of his hand, caressing the blade as he carves. Color of his eyes matching the metal as he regards me with disdain. Penn.

I’ve become so good at this. Adept. Bringing them all with me wherever I go. But the room could be blank. Bare. Stripped. And still crowded, because they’re in my head.

And that pale statue? Marble head bent, slender fingers grasping the sword? Timeless justice, warrior from some culture older than me. That’s her. She never says anything. She just watches. I can never get her lips to move. In my mind, she is silent. It’s not fair. She’s the one I most crave haunting from. It’s cruel that she’s even here at all. And I could pretend that her silence is accusing, but it’s not. She’s just there. And if I broke that small statue and shattered it into a million bits… she’d still be there. My shadow.

I can hear my living human friends moving around now. In the lobby below. I can feel their concern. They’re waiting for me to come down. Another apocalypse, a vision. They need me, and I’ll be there. In a few minutes.

I really hate being alone. But I’ve gotten so damn good at it.