Death is her curse.
She leaves bloody kisses in her wake and everyone loses their breath. All she can do is dance, dance, dance. Dance until the sun comes up and shoos away the night.
He got her dancing in the dark.
The silence is gratifying. No voices, no blood rushing through vibrant veins, no whimpering sounds coming from crushed throats. She relishes in these moments, after death has ripped its way through fragile bodies, spilling their insides out to lay open the shredded, red remains of life. Blank eyes are staring up, but see nothing. Stars reflect in their eyes and she drinks in the universe.
Angelus didn't make her skin thicker with all the twisted fantasies he put on her – he broke it. And some nights the shell of her is slipping through the tiny cracks in her shattered bones, closing in on him when he's at his weakest, strangling him in her cold embrace and burying him in her dead body to wither away.
„I still remember, Daddy. You pushed the swing too high and I fell. I was a fallen angel, long gone before we met. Wanna catch me?"
He entertains the wishful thought she would forget, someday, but she remembers with crystalline clarity that sents violent shivers down his spine. She wasn't supposed to remember. Not like this. But back then he didn't care much about how Drusilla would turn out. She was his most cruel obsession, another lamb to the slaughter.
Except, the slaughter didn't kill her.
And he watches in horror as she tortures every little sin out of him, oblivious to the fact that her innocence turned to malice and fallen angels don't cry in heaven.
She became an everhaunting nightmare in human disguise, a reminder of all his failings.