Hooks

By Olwen

Despair is hooks.

Really.

Despair is short and grossly fat, her pale skin the color of bones burned to ash. She is naked, as are all who despair, and she carries jagged hooks with which she snags the flesh of her patrons.

Neil Gaiman is a genius, and I'm not just saying that because he's one of my countrymen. Years it's been, since I picked up a "Sandman" comicbook, and the images and perceptions I gleaned have never left me. Death will always be a black haired, fey lass, a gleam of humor in her eye, and compassion in her hand. Dream, he sulks, and rages, and is kind at the most unexpected of moments. Delerium was once Delight, and one can never tell if the feathers in her hair are growing there or from her most recent pillowfight. Desire wears red like the heart, like blood. Destiny is quiet, bound to his tome as we are bound to our fates. Destruction is hearty, loud and boisterous, and would be lots of fun at a party, if he'd only show up. And Despair has her hooks.

That's how I know I'm not despairing.

No hooks.

I'll admit I've not been the most cheerful company of late. What with Cordelia's incessant griping, Gunn's infinite disdain, and now Angel's distraction and bizzare sleeping patterns, there's been enough stress around Angel Investigations for a small herd of Ex- Watchers, for a medium sized flock of Rogue Demon Hunters. More than enough for little me.

And all right, working in a place inhabited by a Thesulac Demon for seventy years isn't helping much either. I know it was cast out, perhaps even killed by that bolt of electricity Angel sent through him. But I wonder.... Sometimes, walking the halls at night, I hear that old familiar whisper... //you're not good enough, never was, never will be, you worthless piece of shit//

And perhaps all this makes me a little irritable, a touch more tightly wound.

But I'm not despairing, there's not a hook in sight.

I know the Thesulac is gone, that any whispers I hear now are merely the product of my past. The past I cannot let go, no matter how many doctors I speak to, how many cups of St John's Wort tea I drink. My father is dead. It's been twenty years since anyone locked me in a small dark place for buttering his toast wrong. I'm not that small, frightened child anymore.

My father is dead. The Thesulac is gone. Yet still the whispers are there. Every time Angel has to save me again, each time he pats me on the shoulder after weapons practice with a hearty, "That was good, Wes, much better." Every time the echoes of those whispers are there, not heard as much as felt through the soles of my shoes. //weak, failure, helpless stupid baby//

Every time Gunn dismisses me from serious consideration with barely a thought, every time Cordelia casts aspersions on my manhood; the whispers are there.

Not all the time of course. They do shut up after the fourth or fifth drink. Sometimes the seventh. I'm not counting them, you understand. Only alcoholics count their drinks. And it's not like I have a drink (or two) every night, not like I need the alcohol, not like I have any sort of problem... it's just easier to sleep with the voices quiet.

My father is dead.

The Thesulac is gone.

There are no hooks.

I'm not despairing.... really, I'm fine. Just fine.

~end