Author's Note:
This is my first fanfic. If you count this as a fanfic.
Um...I loosely set this in Betrayals, after Dru gets the copy of the transcript and is thinking of her dad. She's in her bedroom, and she has her dad's blanket with her (I wanted to add that in XD)
I hadn't read any Strange Angels stories about the relationship between Dru and her parents, so I decided to do one. Not very realistic, but I had the idea for a while and wanted it out, ya know?
WARNING: Since Dru is a person who cusses a lot, I have speckled some cuss words into this short story (you know, get 'in character'). No F bombs were used. If you cannot tolerate some profanity, then do not read.
Disclaimer: I am not Lili St. Crow, so I do NOT own any of the characters at all. The zombie memory and the Mom memory are from Strange Angels, by Lilith Saintcrow (Lili St. Crow).
Don't aim for the head if you've got a choice. Don't pull. Squeeze the trigger, sweetheart. Dad's voice, in my head. With the never-ending refrain repeated so many times, I could have said it in my sleep: Don't point that thing at something you don't intend to kill.
I thrashed wildly, smashing the thing on the head with the gun, hammering on it and struggling free of dead-weight. Still making that high, whining sound, I crawled fast as I could across the living room until I reached a corner farthest away from the zombie. My left hand got rug burn. My right was full of empty gun.
I put my back in the corner and heard myself babbling. Weak, incoherent sounds bounced off the empty white walls. I was cold and covered in stinking, burning goo.
The zombie lay face-down. Runnels of filth caved through its rotting skin. The smell was unbelievable. It wore Dad's jacket and Dad's jeans. Once you've taken the heart out, a zombie rots real quick. Even the skeleton decomposes into dust.
I started to cry.
The babbling turned into one word, over and over again. "Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?"
He just lay there.
The zombie just lay there.
I was screaming, bolting like an arrow to the sitting position I was in now. Dad's—Oh dear God, Daddy—scratchy and soft Army blanket bunched around my waist. Scorching tears dripped down my face as my hysterical cries faded away. Oh God. My hands rubbed my wet eyes and I started snivelling.
I killed him. I shot Dad. I shot my Dad.
And he's gone. No more passing ammo through the window, or navigating him through labyrinths of unfamiliar roads whenever we moved. No more of the 20-Questions guessing game, or him teaching me how to jiggle my spatula just right for his eggs. And no more reassurance. All I had were memories and nightmares.
This particular nightmare has haunted me for the whole month—ever since Dad died. The nightmares vary though. In some of them, Dad busts through the door; in others, he busts through the window. But they all end the same. With Daddy decomposing.
I should just forget it. I'm trying to forget it. Forget his death, and the nightmares would be gone. Everything would be gone. It's all logical, right? Why waste time mopping over the past? I know I should get over his death—I mean, I shouldn't, but...
I just can't forget.
"He's gone now." I whispered those words, those repulsive, plague-like words. They cut through the air like stones dropping in a still lake. And that still lake was my whole life. Daddy was my support: he was like my own two legs." He left me." My tone was accusing, almost bruised.
"He's gone now." They sounded even worse when I repeated them, and guilt lanced through my emotions. Oh, why didn't I just tell him about Gran's owl? If I had, maybe he wouldn't be dead. If I had, maybe everything would be back to normal.
Here I sat, trying to forget the zombie's revolting decomposing skin. Trying to forget everything. But I couldn't allow myself to forget, could I? But I wanted to forget. Hell with that, Dru! You're Dad was killed by a freakin' sucker! Instead of crying your guts out like some sappy girl, you should be doing what you were trained to do: go avenge him and kick some sucker butt!
I now know that the nosferatu are much more powerful than the 'un-bloomed' me. And I was basically a toddler, with lots of tasty blood for them to feed on. I didn't feel like kicking any sucker's butt, even if it was a big butt that the normal me would kick. But I'm not the normal me anymore. Not after my Dad came back as a zombie. Not after those 'undead bastards' nearly ripped me apart limb to limb. And most definitely not after finding out someone—probably another bastard—wanted me dead. The only thing I felt like doing was sitting here, crying.
I write a soap opera based off my life. I laughed at that idea, even though I knew it was perfectly true; I'd had a lifetime's worth of drama compressed into about a week of pure action. Maybe it wasn't exactly a week. But it sure felt like one.
I was still in the sitting position, feeling like crap and crying like an idiot in the empty room. I hastily swallowed my hiccups, and suppressed another urge to laugh. My room actually felt pretty toasty, like I was sleeping next to a campfire surrounded by friends who were roasting marshmallows to make s'mores. Like the blush I felt crawling through my veins when Christophe hugged me back at the boathouse, or when I kissed Graves on the cheek. Graves. Christophe. Graves is always there for me. Christophe will always save me. Graves and the freedom he shares with his pointing-fingers-at-me friends. And Christophe, with his cryptic-ness and his annoying, 'Oh, I'll pick you up soon milna, just wait a little bit more!' attitude. Waiting for Christophe is wearing me down 'til I go insane. And Graves's friends with all their stereotypes already drive me insane. Assholes.
My laughs died, and along with it went the warmth of my room. It was freezing. Goosebumps popped up all over my arms, and my hair was standing on ends like a surprised cat in a cartoon. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic, surrounded by swarms of blue wallpaper and knickknacks that weren't mine. Nothing here was mine. Even my truck was gone. Christophe took it.
My eyes found their way to the iron-shuttered windows; they showed me that the outside was still covered in an icy blanket of frost and yesterday's blasted wind was still roaring past the Schola. The trees were bare; their naked limbs dancing. The palette of color outside was gray. Everything here was shaded in hues of dark gray. The stones of the Schola was gray. The barks of the trees were gray. Even the sky was a pan of flat and dark aluminum. Nature was kindly disregarding the fact that it was daytime. The scenery was very intimidating, to tell you so. The outside reminded me of the cliché "Oh shit, something bad's gonna happen" scene in movies.
And it reminded me of the day I met Sergej, face-to-face.
The day I almost died.
Christophe, fighting his father and looking a hell of a lot like a bloody guardian angel the whole time...
Graves and I, shivering and hugging each other for strength and support...
The snow smothering everything in its wake with lethal kisses...
I can't forget that.
I shuddered, begging my mind to think of some other thought to ponder about. I didn't want to think about the fight with Sergej. "I really should get some damn sleep. Gotta get up early and train tonight." I amended my words aloud. "Scratch that. They don't even train me anyway." My voice was harsh, and scared. But it was lanced with familiar anger. I liked that. I let that thought linger on, pulling me down into unconsciousness...
"Daddy?"
"Yes dear?" Dad was covered in something stinky, but I didn't mind. I just wanted him to carry me like the little kid I was.
"I love you Daddy." I meant it too. With Mommy off somewhere, I needed him. He was my Daddy.
"I love you too." He ruffled my soft brown hair, laughing.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, my 'lil princess?"
"Where did you go, all this time? Where did Mommy go?" I felt him stiffen at the word 'Mommy'. Even at this age, my kiddy brain knew that something was up. The problem was, my kiddy brain couldn't figure out exactly what was up.
"Mommy," his voice was hoarse, whether from pain or his sore throat, I couldn't tell, "went for a nice...vacation."
"Oh. Where did you go, then?" My high-pitched voice sounded very, very small. And very insecure.
"I went...on a mission." He paused, a goofy smile stretching across his face. I liked Daddy's goofy smiles. "I'm a ninja." I couldn't tell whether he was joking or not. Maybe he wasn't joking at all.
"Really? What's a ninja?"
"It's someone who...specializes in...certain tactics."
"Uh huh." I didn't know what the word tactics was, so I just played along. I wanted to be Daddy's smart little girl. I wanted to make him proud. I squirmed around in his arms; my pajamas soft and warm against my skin. "Is that why you make me do that...pie cheese thing?"
He laughed. We were going up the stairs now. "Sweetheart, it's tai chi. And it'll save your life." I didn't understand what he meant by that. Daddy must have seen my confused expression, because then he added, "What I mean is, it's good exercise. Builds flexibility, brings some good posture, refines your muscles...you name it."
"Do ninjas like you use it?" He flashed me a smile, and hugged my tiny body. He was carrying me to my bedroom, so I could go to sleep. Gran was watching us both make it up the stairs, a not-so-suppressed laugh at her lips.
"Of course, kiddo. All the time."
My eyes fluttered open.
6:00. The red LED lights on my clock told me so.
The dream—more like memory, my inner voice whispered—was just after Dad came back from his first 'ninja mission'. I was helping Gran around the house, waiting for my Mom's vacation to end. Except, now I know that my Dad wasn't a ninja, and that Mommy never went on vacation.
She was murdered.
I can't forget that.
And I never knew—but I probably suspected—that she was murdered until Christophe tramped up to the house in the Dakotas on that fateful winter day and told me. Well, not really tramped. More like came up and was tackled by a loup-garou and myself. And 'told me' is an under-exaggeration as well. It was more like he made the whole world as I knew it deflate under me like a fast-forwarded version of a balloon's air whooshing out. Christophe said I was a svetocha—Mom was one too—and that I didn't know the Real World as much as I thought I did. Or that I'd like too. Did Mom know about Sergej? I wonder how she found out she had vampire blood in her. Was she close to blooming when she was told, like me?
And how was she planning to tell me?
"Dru," she says, softly but urgently. "Get up."
I rub my eyes and yawn. "Mommy?" My voice is muffled. Sometimes it's the voice of a two-year-old, sometimes it's older. But always, it's wondering and quiet, sleepy.
"Come on, Dru. She puts her hands down and picks me up, with a slight oof!as if she can't believe how much I've grown. I'm a big girl now, and I don't need her to carry me, but I'm so tired I don't protest. I cuddle into her warmth and feel the hummingbird beat of her heart. "I love you, baby," she whispers into my hair. She smells of fresh cookies and warm perfume, and it is here the dream starts to fray. Because I hear something like footsteps, or a pulse. It is quiet at first, but it gets louder and more rapid with each beat. "I love you so much."
"Mommy..." I put my head on her shoulder. I know I am heavy, but she is carrying me, and when she sets me down to open a door I protest only a little.
It is the closet downstairs. Just how I know it's downstairs I'm not sure. There is something in the floor she pulls up, and some of my stuffed animals have been jammed into the square hole, along with blankets and a pillow from her and Daddy's bed. She scoops me up again and settles me in the hole, and I begin to feel faintly alarmed.
"Mommy?"
"We're going to play the game, Dry." You hide here and wait for Daddy to come home from work."
This is all wrong. Sometimes I hide in the closet to scare Daddy, but never in the middle of the night. And never in a hole in the floor—a hole I didn't even know was there. "I don't wanna," I say, and try to get up.
"Dru." She grabs my arm, and it hurts for a second before her grip gentles. "It's important, baby. This is a special game. Hide in the closet, and when Daddy comes home, he'll find you. Lie down now. Be a good girl."
I protest, I whine a little. "I don't wanna." But I am a good girl. I snuggle down into the hole, because it's dark and warm and I'm tired, and the shadow on Mommy's face gets deeper. Only her eyes glitter, glowing summer-blue. She covers me up with a blanket and smiles at me until I close my eyes. Sleep isn't far behind, but as I go down I hear something, and I understand she's fitted the cover over the hole, and I am in the dark. But it smells like her, and I am so tired.
I hear, very faint and very far away, the closet door close, and a scratching sound. And just before the dream ends, I hear a long, low, chilling laugh, like someone trying to speak with a mouthful of razor blades, and I know my mother is somewhere close, and she is desperate, and something very bad is about to happen.
I'm a good girl. And I liked that. But I was helpless.
Helpless.
Just like when Daddy died.
I can't forget that.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?" He didn't look up from the gun he was cradling.
"I'm a twelve-year old. Why would I need to use a gun?"
"You'll find out. Now, look at me. Never—do you hear me?—never, EVER, point that thing at something you don't intend to kill. Is that clear?"
"Clear."
"Okay, now lemme show you how to hold it." He took the pistol and flicked the safety off.
"What was that Dad?"
"What?"
"That thing." I pointed to the little black mechanism labeled 'SAFE' in raised letters.
"This is the safety." Dad raised the gun a bit, so I could see it in a better light. But he didn't have too. I already had what my Gran called the 'touch'; it made everything seem so sharp and clear. "This makes sure that this doesn't start firing when you accidentally touching the trigger. When you're not gonna shoot, always put the safety on. Clear?"
"Clear."
A deadly bullet of pain shot through me. "Clear?" sort of became like a catchphrase for Dad. I remembered Christophe saying that same word to me after the battle with Sergej. Christophe was driving me away to safety, Graves was comforting me, holding me close. Christophe driving me. Graves holding me.
That brought me to another memory, when I had to drive Dad to the hospital and lie about the big chunk taken out of his calf. Maybe in that moment, I was like safety to him. I liked that thought. Dad was always like safety to me. Dad would never let anything evil get to me.
"Dad? Stay alive, you'll be fine." I don't know how I sounded so sure—maybe willing that he would be fine made it seem like he was fine. Hell, he is going to be fine because Dad won't let any goddamn Real World shit take him down, I thought. Both of my hands gripped his tightly as he lay on the hospital cots. I saw the pain in his face, and silently cursed again."You'll make it, I know you will." I repeated those words, over and over. They had to be true.
He turned white for a few seconds, and I held my breath in worry. But Gran's owl wasn't here. That was a good sign. He'll be alive, I thought, I know it.
"I love you Dru." The comment startled me. I already knew that. Dad didn't have to tell me. All he ever did was for me. He's my Daddy—of course he loves me!
"I love you too, Daddy." Dad smiled, as color flooded back in him.
He was gonna be alright. Everything was gonna be just fine. Just fine...
And that was the last time I heard him say those four words.
I. Love. You. Dru.
And I would never hear those four words again.
The reason was another set of four simple words.
Because. They. Are. Gone.
And I knew, that no matter how I try, I would never forget all these sad, sad memories. Because I simply can't.
I. Can't. Forget. Them.
The scorching tears streaked down my face once more. I didn't bother to wipe them away.
"I don't wanna forget you." I whispered.
Deep down, I know they can hear me. Because they will always be there with me. Mom and Dad may be gone from this world, but they'll always be with me. They never left me. I knew this all along, except I was too foolish to believe it.
Four little words again, all in four phrases.
Daddy's in my heart.
Mommy's in my heart.
They always will be.
Believe and they will.
More tears flowed down, retracing the dried paths carved out by previous tears. But unlike their predecessors, these were tears of joy.
"Oh Mom, Dad. I love you. I truly do. I wish you were here to help me through this tangle of secrets and lies." I whispered again, my heart aching as I felt my numb fingers clumsily scrape my tears away. But I now have Christophe and Graves for that.
I smiled, one of the first true, genuine smiles I ever had at this Schola. I smiled, despite the ironic tears still splashing down. And this smile was for everyone I loved.
Mom.
Dad.
Gran.
Christophe.
Graves.
And anyone else who's willing to help me, I'll smile for them too.
And at that moment, I realized that everything was connected. Mom died. Dad wanted revenge. Dad tracked Sergej and moved us here. I met Graves. Dad died. I searched for help, and in came Christophe. I learned I was svetocha. We battled Sergej. Graves and I moved to this Schola. The traitor interfered. I received no training. I was attacked. I kissed Graves. Christophe hugged me. I ran with the wolves. Dylan gave me the transcript. I come to my room and think of memories. Then I end up here, coming to this conclusion.
I had a new determination engraved in my soul. I will train. I will fight. I will learn. And I will get my revenge. I won't be the helpless girl I was. Not anymore.
I laughed, and pulled up Dad's trusty Army blanket, the one that's always soft and scratchy, no matter what. It stilled smelled like him too. I liked that.
I fell asleep clutching it, a magical smile bestowed on my lips.
No nightmares haunted me during the nap.
I knew they wouldn't.
I am not helpless.
Author's Note again:
Anyway, I hope it wasn't too sappy. I wanted Dru to be [a bit] happy at the end. Originally, I was planning something else...but I thought it was too depressing. This sounded much brighter, lol.
Also...this seemed long. Did it seem to long?
Please, R&R! Criticism doesn't bother me at all, 'cause that's how I'll get better! So don't be afraid to criticize.