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Giles, post-The Gift
Standing Too Close
This is how I see the world. Every time that I look, every time that I turn around, I can feel that last shuddering gasp for air. That twitch, that squirm, that struggle as life wriggles beneath my hand. One breath expelled, when another cannot be sucked in. All for the girl.
I've done it before. I've made sacrifices, not of flesh and blood but of soul. Tearing off the soul to sacrifice another's flesh and blood? to let somebody else pay for the bad in the world. That is my burden. I feel the weight of the world, and all I have to do is pass it on to another, and let it crush them. Like he was crushed, like she was crushed. When she let herself be crushed. It was my fault. I'd put responsibility on her, and she could not be Atlas. She was tired.
I'm tired. Another soldier lost, another victim murdered, and another old man who stands too close and loses perspective. Thinks he can balance it out, thinks just because he did what was "right", he can live with himself. Old man thinks too much. Or not enough. My brain was meant to train her, meant to prepare her, meant to keep her alive. And not, not meant to kill instead of her. All heart, no brain. Is it better then all brain and no heart?
Why am I still here? The girl is dead, the job is done, the battle, well, the battle's won. How I can say that I don't know, but by standards it's finished. We won. She won, even if she died for it. Why do I stay here when all I can think is the fall that let her colossal burden finally crush her, and the last quivering breath that tore off another piece of my soul.
I'm standing too close, but there's nowhere in the world where an old man can escape his guilt. My mind tells me what I did was right, but every other nerve screams against the feeling of hot breath against my palm. That makes me a murderer.
There's a reason she's dead. And I'm a murderer already, so why don't I take the blame.
Standing Too Close
This is how I see the world. Every time that I look, every time that I turn around, I can feel that last shuddering gasp for air. That twitch, that squirm, that struggle as life wriggles beneath my hand. One breath expelled, when another cannot be sucked in. All for the girl.
I've done it before. I've made sacrifices, not of flesh and blood but of soul. Tearing off the soul to sacrifice another's flesh and blood? to let somebody else pay for the bad in the world. That is my burden. I feel the weight of the world, and all I have to do is pass it on to another, and let it crush them. Like he was crushed, like she was crushed. When she let herself be crushed. It was my fault. I'd put responsibility on her, and she could not be Atlas. She was tired.
I'm tired. Another soldier lost, another victim murdered, and another old man who stands too close and loses perspective. Thinks he can balance it out, thinks just because he did what was "right", he can live with himself. Old man thinks too much. Or not enough. My brain was meant to train her, meant to prepare her, meant to keep her alive. And not, not meant to kill instead of her. All heart, no brain. Is it better then all brain and no heart?
Why am I still here? The girl is dead, the job is done, the battle, well, the battle's won. How I can say that I don't know, but by standards it's finished. We won. She won, even if she died for it. Why do I stay here when all I can think is the fall that let her colossal burden finally crush her, and the last quivering breath that tore off another piece of my soul.
I'm standing too close, but there's nowhere in the world where an old man can escape his guilt. My mind tells me what I did was right, but every other nerve screams against the feeling of hot breath against my palm. That makes me a murderer.
There's a reason she's dead. And I'm a murderer already, so why don't I take the blame.