It really is the armpit of town; foetid, too warm, always uncomfortably damp. It smells like trash too long uncollected, like inhabitants too long unwashed, and no one in their right mind would ever spend their time here.
Good thing no one’s ever thought Stiles was in his right mind.
Certain things just aren’t on the market any place else. If he wants to keep his dad safe from things that go bump in the night, and in the half light, and in the moonlight and the noonlight, then it’s to the square mile around the deteriorating warehouse district where he has to turn his steps. There’s not one bit of neon that doesn’t flicker, not one shabby storefront that’s not at least halfway lying about its wares, and Stiles isn’t the only one who’s declared this place a kind of neutral zone. If he tried to work around here no one would ever sell to him, and he’d be dead in under a week.
Stiles is too used to living to give it up any time soon.
He pushes through a bead curtain that hasn’t done much in its effort to keep off the flies. The woman behind the scarred counter lazily flicks them aside with a fan that could be horsehair, or kelpie, or something stranger. The walls are lined with things in jars and packets, rickety shelves labelled with crabbed writing that’s a struggle to read in the dim light from the kitchen behind the counter; someone out there is watching I Love Lucy and laughing with too much hiss to be human.
I want to be the mirror that reminds you to love yourself. . I want to be the air in your lungs that reminds you to breathe. . When the walls come down, when the thunder rumbles, when nobody else is home, hold my hand, and I promise I won’t let go. x
What would you say your top three favorite monologues are from BTVS? :)
Every day you wake up, it’s the same bloody question that haunts you: is today the day I die? Death is on your heels, baby, and sooner or later it’s gonna catch you. And part of you wants it. Not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you’re just a little bit in love with it. Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: What’s it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that’s the secret. Not the punch you didn’t throw or the kicks you didn’t land, she merely wanted it. Every Slayer… has a death wish. Even you.
Spike, Fool For Love.
Passion… it lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us… passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments; the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we’d be truly dead.
But I don’t understand! I don’t understand how this all happens, how we go through this, I mean I knew her and then she’s, there’s just a body. I don’t understand why she just can’t get back in it and not be dead anymore. It’s stupid, it’s mortal and stupid. And-and Xander’s crying and not talking and I was having fruit punch and I thought: Well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch ever, and she’d never have eggs, or yawn, or brush her hair, Not Ever. And no one will explain to me Why.
Anya, The Body.
This was really hard because I have like 20 I absolutely love. I am sad that none of Buffy’s made this particular cut, it would have if this was top 5. I think that the Fool For Love one might be my favorite in the entire show though. It’s such an amazing insight into Buffy’s suicidal tendencies, also some really cool parallels with Spuffy season 6 if you consider this:
“Buffy and Spike has always been strangely poetic. She’s life, he’s death. She’s the killer of his kind, and he’s the killer of hers. She’s human but can’t be a human, he’s a vampire but can’t be a vampire. They find comfort in each other because they’re both on the outside of the world they’re supposed to be a part of. They are alone, together. “It’s okay, I can be alone with you here.” In season 6 it reaches a new level of poetry. Because while Buffy can’t have her actual death, she settles for “the little death”, which Spike is able to give her. So they were always dancing the dance of death, no matter what they were doing.” - From this post.
Also considering that both Buffy and Spike are pretty suicidal all around, in the sense that they go knocking on deaths door constantly.