So, yeah, hi. After Stained Glass saints, I realized I had to continue. That was just the start of her story… You aren't required to read that to understand this, and actually, as it's got a boat load of triggers and stuff that I really don't recommend to children. I'll be certain to let everyone know what exactly happened, throughout the oneshot. So, if you want to know specifics, go for it, but it's not a necessary prerequisite to this. It's also not something I'm terribly proud of.
Warnings: references to past abuse of all genres, murder, violence, psychological trauma—which has led to insanity, the really, really terrible relationship between Angelus and Dru (ranging for dubiously to non-consensual, though all of that is implied only, and not described. I'm not one to give gory details for that sort of thing.)
Real or not real
Every story starts somewhere. They never just spontaneously generate in the middle of the rising action. No, no story just forms out of nowhere. Drusilla's story was unique though, in that it started with an ending. In all the fairytales that she'd read as a child, the princess never died, least of all at the start, and the demon always died. No one told her what would happen if the demon killed princess. But she'd learned that, she still wore the scars from her own death. From her destruction. She was powerful, but she would never forget what it had cost her, as she looked around at the church, full of shattered stained-glass saints and the bodies of the nuns that had taken her in…
She was already quite far from the gruesome scene, her legs aching from the walking, and the rest of her aching from the abuses of the demon. She didn't want to think of it, but her stars through the images at her, the damning things he told her as she hurt, the bitter taste of demon blood at her lips. She couldn't think of it. It happened to the other Drusilla, a young Drusilla with a soul that looked like a pretty birdie, and flew away like one.
She tripped on the big, grassy hill she'd climbed, and seeing the sun starting to rise. Drusilla had always liked the sunrise; it meant the demon had left her window. A part of her screamed that she was in danger, to get out of the sun. No, the sun wouldn't hurt her. She liked the sun. That's when the searing sensation started. She looked down at her exposed hand, screaming as it was set ablaze. A couple of the stars, the ones that always seemed to tell her the same thing, told her that was an affront to the lord, like mummy had said, and that she should stand there and burn. The rest of them screamed at her to get into the shadows. She ran for cover, for a house nearby, her legs aching from the strain, her face red and her hands burning. Drusilla, had she not just been sired by Angelus, would never have known anything could have hurt like that.
That didn't mean it didn't hurt, as she sprinted for the nearest house, ripping the door open and being thrown back by an invisible force. The lord clearly didn't welcome her in anywhere where the people believed in him. She shrieked for help, being carried in by a kind-looking woman who reminded her of mummy. But Angelus killed mummy. Maybe this woman would be her mummy. The woman first put her burned hands in cold water, and then asked who she was. Drusilla was tempted to lie, and lying was a sin, but there was no soul-birdie to stop her. She stammered around a little debating about telling the truth versus lying. In the end, she realized how suspicious this was going to look. Her family was dead, the nuns were dead, and somehow, she was still alive, and damned. "C-Catherine," she stammered out, "Catherine. My name is Catherine," she said, whimpering from the feel of cold water on her burned hands.
The woman smiled warmly, "my daughter is named Catherine. Poor girl, she's at the funeral today," the woman said softly, sadness creeping into her tone as she checked on Drusilla's hands, not noticing the bloodstains on her body. "The sisters of Mercy were attacked, only two of them escaped. One of them mentioned that there was a demon, looking for one of their newer nuns. Would you believe that, Catherine? Poor girl, she can't have been much older than you." Drusilla tensed at the mention, seeing a quick flash of Angelus's face above her, growling as he tormented her. She clenched her legs together, feeling a surge of pain. Becoming a demon had taken away a lot of the pain, but she wasn't even sure that could heal. She couldn't hear Catherine's mum's continuous chatter through her own screams, as she repeated softly, "no, no please." She didn't realize that her voice had reached a hysterical screaming until the woman started to back away.
Catherine's mum looked at her confusedly, taking a hand out of the bucket of water and sighing. Clearly, she thought that Drusilla had had a sister there, perhaps. She did look so frail, perhaps it was just fear of the demon. She added softly, "me, I reckon there was no demon. The girl's family had also been killed, only nine days prior, and they didn't find her body. She used to be friends with my Catherine, actually. Never quite right in the head. It really is a pity when they snap, innit?" If Drusilla had been tense before the woman spoke, that was nothing compared to now. Something in her was screaming to kill, to make this woman pay for giving her the blame. Her soul had been a pretty white little birdie, blameless. Who did this woman think she was, saying that she'd killed them. Drusilla had tried to save them, but the demon with the face of an angel—Angelus, hadn't let her. She stood up abruptly, letting the poultice that the woman had been applying fall off her burned hands.
Drusilla glared at the woman who'd judged her, anger seething, rising in her. "She killed them, did she?" she asked softly, "did she take her own soul?" she asked, taking a step towards the other woman, whose eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. "Did she do this?" She asked revealing a leg, slashed and scarred, blood caked on the inside of her thigh. She dropped the cloak, crumpling to the ground like a broken doll, "she lies, Miss Edith!" she cried, talking to her doll, "Mummy always told her that she was cursed, but it was a white birdie that flew away," she looked up at the woman, who was still pressed against the wall. "Everyone lies. Make it stop!" Then she succumbed to the influx of images that plagued her mind. Mummy telling her she was an affront to the lord, Angelus killing Miss Edith, her own screaming as he brutalized her.
The woman, Catherine's mother, approached her cautiously, recognising the no longer young friend of her daughter. If she was a murderer, Mrs. Dupuis didn't want her to kill her like she'd killed her own family, so brutally. If she was a victim, subjected to all the tortures that a demon would surely know, then she would need a lot of help. Mrs. Dupuis approached the sobbing girl cautiously, bending over to talk to her, to try to find out how much the demon had hurt her. All the slashes, the blood, particularly the blood on her thighs, surely she couldn't inflict all that on herself. The older woman knew it wouldn't matter, because whether or not it was a tragedy, whether or not she let the demon do it, the poor, addled girl will never marry. What man of any decency would marry someone whose innocence had been taken by a demon? And even before the demon, she wasn't ever quite right. No one would marry someone that addled anyways, poor girl, always talking about her stars.
Drusilla just perceived something above her, and did what came naturally; she struck, pushing the woman off of her. She just saw a person, not Catherine's mother, who'd brought their family cookies after George died. She could feel the sting of condescending thoughts, striking her like little knives. She didn't understand what Drusilla had lost. She felt a stinging and heard a crunch as her own demon came out and she felt sharp teeth—fangs prick her lower lip. The woman screamed, and it hurt her head, like the screaming was trapped in there, and she needed it out, needed it to stop! Stop! She sank her fangs into the screaming woman's throat, heeling the hunger start to fade as the blood entered her body. In that moment she just let the sinfully sweet taste of crimson life overtake her, force the thoughts away. Feeding, killing was power and peace; it made her strong, made the thoughts, the screaming stop.
Of course, that ended with the woman's blood as she dropped the body and flinched back, screaming as the body hit the ground with a sick thudding sound. She looked at her hands, stained by the bit of blood on them, and started to scream, whirling around. She touched her face, feeling the ridges on it, knowing that she wore the face of a demon, she had no soul. Queasy, she staggered up the stairs, falling into the bed that her friend Catherine had slept on and sobbed into the pillow, until sleep found her, and took her away. She looked around, seeing an unfamiliar room, feeling herself covered in a cloak. "I'm the sodding grim reaper," she muttered to herself, feeling the black cloak and the lack of soul and deciding it was what she deserved. The room seemed to be that of a child, with little wooden toys lying around, and a bed with sheets mussed. She hoped she wasn't going to kill the boy who inhabited it. She wouldn't kill him, wouldn't. Angelus had killed a child: the daughter of Anne and Christian. She wasn't him. She wasn't a monster like him, but what else could she be?
The boy walked in, golden hair messy, blue eyes filled with shock at the intrusion. Then, he looked at her suspiciously, "how did you get into my room?" he asked, "mummy told me not to let anyone into my room," he added as an afterthought. Carefully, Drusilla let herself into the child's thoughts, seeing the happy life of a sweet little seven year old boy. He was as she had been: innocent, naïve. He was just a sweet little thing with not a speck of darkness in his soul, not a bit of impurity to his mind. After all she'd been through, it was devastating to her to look at him and know that he would eventually lose that innocent quality he had, and the world would break him yet, as it did everyone. She would know, she had been like him once, and now she was nothing, she wasn't even human. Everything had been taken from her by that damned demon: life, soul, innocence, mind.
She looked up at him, hood still shrouding her face, "I'm not good," she said sadly, "the little birdie flew away and now you should run before the monsters catch you too," she told the child softly. She couldn't hurt him. That would make her just as evil as the demon who made her. She didn't feel the surge of power, anger that had accompanied her first attack, but why else would she be dreaming of such a child. It had to be the Lord showing her that she was a demon. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live… perhaps she should have thrown herself into the sunlight, stayed there as certain stars had ordered her to. She deserved to suffer and die. Then this child could live. Then, she could have died not yet a killer, not yet a demon in anything but body.
He shook his head and sat down beside her, "you are good, otherwise you'd not have warned me. And Peter had a bird once. His mummy told him not to let it out of its cage, but he did, and it escaped. Seems to me that birdies are meant to escape," he giggled a little, picturing another young child chasing a bright yellow bird. Drusilla shook her head. The child didn't get it. She was a demon, a killer. She'd killed Catherine's mum without even thinking about it, and drank her sweet crimson blood in some sort of demonic act of bloodlust. She wasn't good, not by a longshot. Drusilla looked at the boy and tried to see what he was thinking, wincing at how little resistance his mind offered to her. There was a demon in his head, she could tear it to shreds, but he just let her in. She wouldn't do it. But she could, and she hated that he couldn't accept that. She didn't deserve the friend.
William was his name. William Pratt. She wasn't sure if he was real or not, but he seemed like it, a sweet little seven year old boy, naïve still to the pain this world could bring. She'd been the same when she was seven. Then, two years later, it began. She curled up into a ball, sobbing slightly into her knees. Would the world break William as well as it did her? Oh, no. No, that was why the stars found him in her mind. They were giving her a choice, become the ultimate monster and kill him, or let the world break him down first. No. She couldn't! Couldn't! She started to make little muffled noises, rocking a little and pulling the hood of her cloak down lower so he didn't see the tears, or her face. William just sat beside her, and took her hand. "I know you're sad, but I didn't want you to be alone too," he explained, "that would be sadder." She didn't deserve this. One way she was condemning him, the other way she was ending him. She didn't deserve this.
William was like the little paper flowers that Cecelia used to make crowns out of. Miss Edith had found one of them once, and batted it around until it was in little white confetti shreds. Drusilla worried that she would be like Miss Edith. Miss Edith was good and she still couldn't help it. She looked sadly at William, hood still obscuring most of her face, tears streaking down. "Paper flowers, William," she said sadly, "paper flowers and Miss Edith," she looked back down at her hands, seeing blood on them. She curled up, "Miss Edith didn't mean to do it. And neither did I, but she never came home." Thinking about Miss Edith was like being winded and thrown into a dark room, fighting just to breathe so she could try to navigate a way out, and so betrayed, so blindsided. William just let the older vampire lean over, so her head rested on his leg, and a lock of ebony hair slid out of her hood.
"Was Miss Edith the birdie?" he asked softly, after a while. Miss Edith… a birdie? Drusilla was picturing her beloved kitten whizzing around the room with a pair of wings, and she found she was giggling from the visual that it gave her. William didn't understand her laughter, but he went along with it, knowing that it was better than her sobbing into the pillow he'd slipped under her head. Then, she remembered that Miss Edith was a pretty birdie now, she'd probably flown away like Drusilla's birdie had too. All the birdies had flown straight to heaven, and now she was alone, and she deserved this for letting them die, but her soul was a birdie. A white birdie, and that made her head hurt. Laughter became sobbing as she rolled over, sobbing into the pillow William had left under her head. This world hurt, and she deserved the hurt now, but she hadn't now.
William didn't understand it in the slightest. One moment, the woman was laughing, though he wasn't quite sure why, then suddenly, she'd resumed crying. When he cried though, his mum never left. His dad had always argued that it was going to make him a bloody ponce if mum didn't make him deal with his own problems. Mum told his dad to go deal with his own problem, whatever those were, and that had ended the conversation. Maybe this was what hysteria was like, the emotions going all haywire. Didn't that usually come after something bad happened? Maybe that was why she was in his room, she was upset and in pain and she needed someone to care. William could do that. He just hummed to her softly, taking her hand and trying to be her strength.
Drusilla hadn't been comforted in a long time. The last time she sought it was from her mummy and mummy had lied and told her that she was bad. She wasn't bad though. She was good then, and now she wasn't so she didn't deserve the comfort. She didn't care what she deserved. She was going to Hell, because she'd killed a woman, and she was scared and upset and she just wanted to feel some version of home. Even then, William was her home. She didn't understand how it was that she felt safe here, lying on a seven year old who would offer absolutely no resistance to any of the nastier things that could find her in her sleep or while awake. She just felt home.
When she woke up, she just felt very lost. She was sleeping in Catherine's bed, and the door opened. She screamed and rolled out of it, worried that perhaps Angelus had decided to come and find her, see if he could enjoy torturing her more when she was like him, a demon. No! No! She'd sooner step into the sunlight and let it kill her than be like Angelus. She wouldn't let it happen! Then, a shrill scream echoed from the kitchen, and Drusilla knew it wasn't Angelus. The only demon here was her. She was the one who had killed Mrs. Dupuis. Then, suddenly, there was someone rushing up the stairs, and she did the only thing she could think of to escape. She shoved herself into Catherine's closet, her body aching anew as she forced it into the confined space. Angelus really had spared no torment. "H-Hello?" She heard Catherine Dupuis ask, looking around. Drusilla could see her through the crack in the door, tears on her face like little trails of stardust. The stars were panicking again.
Some wanted her to reveal herself to the slightly younger girl, others screamed for her to stay there, hide. Then there was always that one star that told her to just bypass her friend and step into the sunlight, let it burn her until there was nothing left. She'd taken a life; she didn't deserve to keep hers. She knew that, but she wished that star would try to understand. It always condemned, just because the birdie had flown away. She could be a bleeding saint like she was as a human, and it would always want her dead. She tried not to cry, but a few tears came out, and she whimpered a little, forcing her eyes shut. Catherine could hear her; she carefully reached for the door. When she opened it, she gasped, blood running out of her face as though she'd seen a ghost. Drusilla could hear her heartbeat speeding up, see terror in her eyes. "D-Dru?" she asked, taking a step back, "Dru, remember Catherine, your friend Catherine?" then her eyes fell to Drusilla's leg, where from the knee down was exposed, bruises and cuts glaringly obvious. Catherine had just come from the funeral. She'd heard about the demon in the church, but she'd never thought her friend could have survived.
She wondered if it was the demon who killed her mum, and she felt sick again. Oh, god. Oh, god. There was so much blood on Drusilla. She wondered for a moment if the demon had… oh, no. A proper lady mustn't think that way. Mum would certainly not approve. "Dru, oh lord. What's happened to you?" she asked softly, eyes gaping. Catherine's pity was noxious. It was like a toxic gas, invading Drusilla's mind. Where the screaming was stabbing, at least honest in its deadliness, this was a slow, deceptive end. It numbed then silenced the mind. Drusilla got up slowly, smoothing the cloak over her leg, wincing when she was forced to look at herself again. She would never be able to look at her body, she realized with a sick lurch of the stomach. She was tainted in ways that weren't meant to heal. Her only friends were Miss Edith, (the doll, because the kitten had been taken from her) and William Pratt, who she wasn't certain existed. What did she have that was worth living for? She was a monster, a demon, no one she cared about was still alive—except possibly the child from her dream.
She shook her head and sat at the foot of Catherine's bed, tears already streaming. What happened? "There was a demon with the face of an angel, and everyone's sleeping, and now princess's crown is broken and the world is in ashes," she tried to explain, the mixed metaphors lost on the slightly younger girl. Catherine had gotten as far as realizing that by sleeping, Drusilla meant dead, and hoping "broke her crown" was a metaphor for her friend's sanity, and not… well, not anything that could be more literally broken. She took another look at her friend, assuming the blood smeared at her lips was her own. Drusilla rocked back and forth a little, looking sadly up at Catherine, "The birdie. The birdie's flown away, and I can never follow," she said softly, trying to stop the tears. She didn't deserve pity, empathy. She didn't she killed Catherine's mum, and now the birdie could never come back, white feathers stained blood red, dripping crimson. And when had blood seemed that appealing, except now, as a demon.
Catherine sat beside her friend, "stay here, I'll go get Aunt Martha. She's a right natural healer. Maybe she can…" Catherine didn't know what they could even hope for. Her entire family was dead, and she wasn't sure quite what the demon had done to the poor girl, but it looked… extensive. Oh, God. Perhaps she shouldn't leave. What if Drusilla died from blood loss, or simply from refusing to live on? "Aunt Martha, " she cried, sticking her head out the window, not noticing that way Drusilla cringed away from the sunshine. "Aunt Martha, come quick! There's an emergency!" she cried.
Drusilla lay back on the bed, looking up as Catherine wanly. "All the king's horses and all the king's men, and they can never put me back together again!" She stifled tears, feeling a surge of pain hit her as she tried to move her leg. The angle was terrible, and it made her hurt. It made the entire lower half of her hurt from the demon's abuse. Could she even heal there? Oh, no. She was told by mummy that that wasn't supposed to happen. Not a button on her dress was to come off until she was married—or, for her, she had suspected never, because she was becoming a nun. She didn't think any buttons had come off her dress, not because there was a sliver of innocence he'd left for her, but because he hadn't bothered with buttons, he'd just ripped her dress off and taken what he wanted.
An older-looking woman entered the room, seeing Drusilla curled up at the foot of the bed. She looked over at Catherine, and then looked down at the whimpering Drusilla, "she was there, wasn't she?" the woman asked. Drusilla probed her mind and saw sad blue fog in the Aunt's mind. Aunt Martha was sister Margaret's friend. "Isn't this the one the demon came for?" she asked bitterly. The blue fog started to sear Drusilla's mind like it was holy water. Drusilla recoiled, practically falling from the bed. She looked up at Aunt Martha, fear in her eyes, begging her not to keep burning her with her holy water-mind. It hurt, reminded her that she'd never be good again. It was like Aunt Martha could see that her birdie had flown away, saw the desecration. Could Aunt Martha call the birdie back? It was all Drusilla had left to hope for.
She looked up at Aunt Martha, a plea in her eyes. "The demon made pretty white birdies fly far away, but I wanted them to stay here with me. Is that dreadfully selfish?" she asked Aunt Martha once she was done convulsing from the pain of the Woman's holy water like thoughts. They still burned, struck her with the visuals of Sister Margaret as a child, and then her broken body, lying deathly still in a coffin. Drusilla sobbed. That was her fault, and oddly, the fault didn't hurt the sane now that she was a demon, but it still hurt, maybe more because her mind was killing her for not hurting more. It wasn't her fault though, or her soul would have been a big black raven, not such a sweet little glowing dove. Was it her fault? Oh, this was making her head hurt.
Aunt Martha just told Drusilla to lie down and sent Catherine out, not wanting the barely twenty year old to see this. Aunt Martha could tell what this girl had suffered. The part she was struggling with was why? Was it deserved? Did she end up indebted to a demon, and trying to run? Did he kill all of them in a quest to get to her? Perhaps not, perhaps there had just been a sinister attraction the demon had felt, and that had led to this atrocity. Aunt Martha could remember the girl as a child, just a sweet little thing, like Margaret had been. Then, at age ten, George was killed by an animal, and for some reason, Drusilla almost seemed to take it harder than Cecelia had. That was suspicious, to say the least, and while Cecelia was able to go back to living, her younger sister had just grown less and less sane. Was that perhaps a sign of guilt? Did Drusilla make a deal with a demon nine years ago when this madness had started? She looked down at the girl, "I'm going to take your cloak off now," she warned, "how about you tell me how this happened." The second sentence was not a suggestion, it was an order. This was her best friend, and she was going to know whether she was treating someone best left for dead. Since she had gone through the back door, and Catherine was still deeply in denial, she didn't yet know about the fate of her sister, or she wouldn't have done this.
When she opened the cloak and saw Drusilla's habit, which was torn open, she stifled a gasp. There was blood everywhere. It was streaked up her arms, from mostly-healing slashes that ran there, painted across her pale skin everywhere Martha could see it. The worst ones were ones she could see blood caked on the dress in certain spots where the demon had obviously wounded her, gravely. Martha would just start with what she could see, not yet looking at the worst of it, or where she suspected the worst of it was. Then, she noticed Drusilla's hands. The poor child's hands were burned. Her bitter, blaming thoughts vanished for a moment, knowing that no one this young could have done anything to deserve this. Actually, she had trouble working out what anyone could do to deserve this. It was one thing to kill someone, that ended. This was to destroy someone, leave them broken and never to be hwole again. Martha just started resolutely cleaning the blood from Drusilla.
Drusilla whimpered when Aunt Martha started to clean her. She was tracing along the wounds that a demon had left in his wake, and it hurt Drusilla at first, any sensation touching her. She wasn't going to kill another one though, she insisted on that. But the older woman above her, feeling something cold as the demon's hands had been, stroking along the wounds, causing little surges of pain, that wasn't pleasant for her. She could hear Angelus mocking her, asking her how holy she felt with his—stop! No! No, make it stop! And she mustn't think the word he'd used, a foul word for a foul, demonic- "Snake!" she shouted, "Snake! Snake in the woodshed!" she cried out, reliving tiny fragments of the encounter every time Martha dared move the white washcloth, now stained crimson. It was like Drusilla's little birdie soul, a pretty white birdie, doubtlessly blood-spattered.
Aunt Martha had finished her arms, still confused. Snake in the woodshed? What was that supposed to mean? Maybe she didn't want to hear the girl's story, she decided as she construed that as the girl's brutalized body suggested it be construed. Aunt Martha was in her forties, and this was making her feel sick. Drusilla hadn't even begun to tell her story, and she was feeling sick. She paused, looking down at the whimpering girl, deciding to wipe the blood off of her legs next, see if she could without causing her any more pain. Just the tiny bit of her ankles that the dress revealed were covered in blood, so she started there, humming a song as she went, trying to make the younger girl relax a little bit. "I'm going to open your dress now," she warned, "tell me to stop if you need."
Drusilla whimpered as the older woman gingerly opened the dress, she felt exposed, and she hated it. She wanted it to stop, but she knew this was for her own good. Still, she flinched at the first tentative swipe of the cloth, seeing it come away bloody. There had been more blood, but Angelus had tasted some. He bit her once with the face of an angel, then with his true face, the face of the demon who'd broken Drusilla and killed her family. The other face was another lie, like the ones Catherine's mummy liked to tell. Her mummy liked to lie too. Was it something everyone's mum did? She felt Martha move the cloth to the first bite mark, and she winced, gasping for air as she felt his mouth there, biting her there, hands roughly feeling their way around her body. "No!" she cried out, twisting away from the cloth. "Make it stop!" Aunt Martha removed the cloth, a tittle terrified by the look in the eyes of the younger girl. She had lost any small grip on reality that she'd ever had.
Aunt Martha tried to reassure the screaming girl that she was safe, but it took long minutes that felt like hours for her to calm down. Aunt Martha was certain now of what had happened to the poor girl. It was a shame too, because she would never marry now. No man worth marrying would want her after that. Perhaps they could find her another convent, if she wasn't afraid of them after this. It was a lot nicer than the other place women like her would seek employment. Perhaps they'd just buy her another cat and leave her to grow old, maybe that was the best she could hope for, Aunt Martha thought grimly. These were going to scar, and even if the demon hadn't—well, hadn't ruined her, it would be hard for a man to want someone so mutilated, wouldn't it? Women weren't supposed to wear scars from anything worse than the occasional cooking mishap and perhaps an accident curling their hair. But maybe if Aunt Martha could make sure they didn't get infected… at least they wouldn't hurt.
Drusilla could hear her thoughts, and it hurt, knowing the man she'd imagined at the door, the poet, the sun to her moon would never even be able to see her that way. She knew he wouldn't say it outright, he wasn't cruel, but he'd see her as she was, tainted, damaged. Perhaps he'd see her as being in a million bloody pieces, some of which were missing or just so shattered that she could never go back together properly. She knew she'd never be whole, but what was she supposed to do, knowing that no one would ever love her after her tragedy. That wasn't her choice. She didn't want it, but everyone seemed to think you needed a birdie to love, a pretty white birdie and all of your buttons still done. She had neither of those things. Did that mean that since her soul had flown away, she wouldn't be able to love anyways? Perhaps that was the Lord's punishment for her, but she didn't think so. This world was too bleak, too empty and broken for there to be a god, anything divine at all. The only angel she'd ever seen was a demon, and the saints only condemned. No saviour died that she could live in heaven. How could any of that be true?
Aunt Martha resumed her attempts at cleaning the wounds, starting with the ones farthest from anywhere sensitive, personal. She knew that those scars would hurt most, on a lot of levels, so she left them well enough alone until everything else was clean. Finally, she couldn't put it off any longer, so she started just wiping at the blood that was caked on Drusilla's legs. Drusilla tensed, her newfound strength screaming at her to make the woman stop, trust no one and no one could ever hurt her. She didn't move, but the way she tensed caused more pain. She wasn't going to let her guard down though. That's when the screaming came from downstairs, Catherine coming out of denial. Drusilla knew the feeling. Her mummy was dead too. It was like being hit in the lungs, so you couldn't breathe and being thrown into the dark. But Drusilla didn't need to breathe anymore, did she? But the screaming, it echoed in her head, a symphony of pain. She dug her nails into Aunt Martha's arms, adding her own screams to the mix, as she heard the nuns all over again, some begging him for mercy, some screaming in agony.
Aunt Martha handed her the cloth and told her that she was going to make sure Catherine was alright. Drusilla tried to tune out the hysterical screaming by singing, letting her own shaky hands run the wet cloth over her skin, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at herself. The one time she did open her eyes, she was almost sick. Would she never be able to look at herself after this, without just seeing the church around her? Or feeling the demon, hearing her own screams, and his degrading words, mixed into the song of pain, of desecration? She kept her eyes closed, carefully, slowly getting the blood off of her. Once she was done, she sighed, risking a look down. She was a mess. Her body still looked just as ruined as she knew herself to be. She could wash the blood away, but it would always be there, mocking her in the form of little scars flicking up and down her body. She threw the cloth away, seeing that it was stained crimson. That's when Aunt Martha got back, crucifix in hand.
Drusilla winced away from it, slipping into one of Catherine' dresses that had been lying on the floor. She didn't care of her friend had already worn it; she just wanted to cover herself so she wouldn't have to see it again. Then, she threw on her cloak, holding Miss Edith close, closing her eyes and whimpering. She knew the cross would bring pain, just as the holy water had. Perhaps there was a god, one that protected his people from demons. Aunt Martha pulled her up roughly, no longer the motherly healer, grief and rage burning in her thoughts. She jerked Drusilla's ebony hair away from her neck as Drusilla finally lost control, crying, begging her for mercy already. Mocking her from the girl's neck were two punctures, the mark of a demon. She'd yet to see anger, Aunt Martha thought angrily. She was a monster, and she took advantage of her kindness, killed her sister and took advantage of her kindness. She wanted the demon dead.
Drusilla just flailed, sobbing as the healer manhandled her, "but I was good! I was a good girl!" she shrieked, "the birdie was white! If you're going to kill me just bloody do it!" She insisted, fear striking her, this close to death, she didn't want it, part of Drusilla would always fight for I, even as Aunt Martha pressed the crucifix to Drusilla's neck, and she felt the burn start, promising her oblivion. She wanted oblivion. She couldn't take it. Some part of her would never let her take it. She killed Aunt Martha quickly, snapping her neck, letting the crucifix fall to the floor. Part of her screamed in horror, but most of her just sighed in relief, because the burning was gone, and Catherine's screams had faded into sobbing. Drusilla knew what she would have to do. It was cruel to leave survivors, make someone try to function in the wake of such a tragedy. Catherine's dad had left her family when she was young, and Aunt Martha was unmarried. That meant that Catherine was alone in the world. Drusilla could make that suffering stop.
She walked down the stairs, hood up, looking and feeling like a grim reaper, a harbinger of death. Catherine was sobbing there, so she looked at one of the only people she'd ever considered a friend, said she was sorry, and then sank her fangs gently, painlessly into Catherine's neck. She didn't have to suffer like Drusilla had. Now Drusilla had set the birdie free, instead of leaving it trapped and alone. That wasn't cruel. Cruelty was leaving one survivor, alone and broken. Cruelty was that she was still alive. But she wasn't going to live. She left the house as it was, walking outside, knowing what she should do. She should lie and wait for the sun to take her. Instead, she lingered in the shady part of the doorway, never having the courage to throw herself into the sunlight. It was on the third night of trying to talk herself into it that she had the vision. Angelus was finishing what he'd started, coming for one of the two surviving nuns, trapped in a hospital. Drusilla wouldn't let him. There was nothing left for her to lose. She would have to face her fear.
She didn't think, didn't plan, she just found a knife in the drawer of Catherine's house, and ran for the hospital. Anyone still out at night thought they were having a dreadful nightmare, or seeing something, as they saw a cloaked figure with a knife running for the hospital. Drusilla ran for the door of the other nun's room, guarding it like an avenging angel, a serrated knife for her sword, a cloak for her wings. Sure enough, the demon came, him and his mate, the blond one. She sighed, "you were right," she whispered to Angelus, "I suppose that means you get the nun in the room," she pouted, leaning back against the wall. Angelus's eyes stayed on Drusilla's, that damning, predatory look smouldering in them. Drusilla forced herself to hold eye contact, but eventually caved, looking down in shame. Angelus's eyes swept over her cloaked body, that wicked smirk playing at his lips.
"So you came back?" he asked, taking a step towards the cloaked Drusilla, she cringed away, and he laughed, pulling her into his arms. She had to force herself not to cringe away. Maybe that was why he didn't hurt the other demon, she didn't fight him. Actually, if Drusilla recalled correctly what she'd seen, she wanted it. Drusilla could never go that far, but she'd gladly lie to save herself. She'd already committed the ultimate sin in letting him take her soul, how much more would a few lies damn her? If anything, what came after the lies would be more punishment than whatever Hell could give her now. He was her Hell, the things he did, the way she never could defend herself, he'd killed the martyr in her, and she tried to numb herself to the pain that she felt as he let his hands skate up her body. He did love the way she winced as her did this though, finding a particularly sensitive scar and pressing down on it.
Drusilla shrieked a little, cutting the sound off abruptly as Angelus laughed darkly, smirking at Darla, "she is a masterpiece, isn't she?" he asked, a wicked smirk twisting his lips. He let his hands roam lower, past the waist of her cloak, letting his tainting fingers stroke over her, smirking as she whimpered, trying to pull away this time. She was already damned, but he seemed to like reminding her of it, letting his hand explore the sensitive region he'd already hurt so much, jerking her back when she tried to pull away. Oh, no. She was his masterpiece. He would teach her to obey him. She just closed her eyes, forcing her lower body to still, letting him explore. If she fought him, she knew he would hurt her again, but maybe this way she'd just feel sickened. If she stood there stoically, not displaying pleasure and desire nor pain and revulsion, maybe he would grow bored of this and stop. Angelus removed his hands, smirking at her behavior, so she learned not to fight him. Perhaps soon he'd teach her to beg for him… "Darla, you'll have to get her something of yours for now. Demure doesn't suit her, now does it, Drusilla?"
Drusilla didn't know what to say. She wouldn't be comfortable around Angelus no matter how many layers she had on, but the part of her that had once been a nun, a religious little girl, she wouldn't let herself borrow anything from the older demon. Even now, Darla looked like a lovely streetwalker. Her dress was exquisitely made, her hair in a beautiful updo, but Drusilla could see… well, a lot of her. actually, Drusilla would be concerned that Darla would fall out of her dress, with how much of her breasts she'd exposed. She wasn't, because Darla had shown her no mercy, so she'd decided that she shouldn't care. Angelus prompted her for an answer, alcohol-soaked breath so close to her face that she could smell it. She had to say something that would be acceptable. "Snake," she choked out, "but there's no shed left," she said sadly, a bitter, mournful tone creeping into her voice. She wouldn't meet his eyes, keeping hers downcast. She knew that he would hurt her, but it would be less pain if she could pretend she didn't care. She couldn't lie with her eyes.
Angelus smirked at the way she lowered her eyes, construing the metaphor the most literal way he could, and letting his smirk grow. She didn't dare look him in the eyes. He loved that, knowing he'd finally broken the seer. "I'll be the judge of that," he remarked, Darla hissing at him. She wasn't normally possessive, but she didn't like his obsession with the seer. It frustrated her that the vampire she'd made had more interest in the girl he'd broken. Oh, she'd known that he would enjoy breaking the girl. He had always enjoyed it in the past, destruction. He just didn't seem to remember who'd enabled him, who'd given him this life. Ah, well. Eventually, he'd tire of the girl's screams and come back to her.
And maybe that was true. Maybe he didn't spend all of his time torturing Drusilla. But he spent a lot of his time like that, tormenting her. Particularly at first while she still screamed. Her only solace was the child she talked to in her dreams, and that was… well, he was precious, he read her poetry and told her about his friends, and his life, and things like that. He even held her when she cried, though she never took her cloak off. Her William was a star. Her star, and she wouldn't ruin him. Eventually, Angelus's abuses slowed as she started to learn not to react, to keep a straight face as he brutalized her, stifle the tears. She learned to lie with her eyes, and kill for food, though the screaming and the nightmares never went away. Nor did Angelus, but it was no longer daily that he would hurt her, just when she woke screaming, and sometimes months would pass between that and the next time, but never enough time. She'd started to kill, but only because she needed it. She would kill the ones alone, seeing in their minds that they had no one. It wasn't a mercy, not except in the few that had wanted it, because the death she gave was quick, almost painless. She didn't like it when they screamed, so she would make it quick, not wanting to remember her own screaming, or the screams of her family and the nuns. William was the only humanity that remained in her. All that was left.
She'd been having a nightmare, nine years after the fact, screaming and thrashing. Knowing that nothing good would come when she woke, she forced herself to keep sleeping. Drusilla found William's room in her next dream, not waiting for him to enter, just going to the corner of his bed, curling up into a ball and stifling bitter tears. Normally, she would wake before she'd relived most of it, but this night the stars had been cruel to her. They didn't like it when she started to forget, but she couldn't help it when William read her such beautiful words. The door creaked open, and she felt a reassuring presence beside her and warm, tentative hands reached out to her. "Are you alright, love?" he asked, seeing the way she was curled, almost into a shapeless ball in her cloak.
Drusilla knew it was just a pet name—she'd never told him her real name, but it helped, hearing his voice, feeling safe, for just these moment, she turned around and laid her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapping around him. She felt his warm, human hands stroking through her hair reassuringly, "did you have another nightmare?" he asked, just content to hold her. Drusilla could feel William's mind, and though she didn't pry into his thoughts, his mind was warm and sweet and comforting. She nodded against his shoulder, already damp from the tears that she could only be safe to cry here, with her William. William knew better than to ask what happened in it, or to tell her that it was only a dream. The one time he'd done that she'd started to shriek about how the snake lived, and he got the message. The nightmares were memories.
He just held her as she let it all out, uttering little things about how they were still sleeping and she was wide awake, or about how the birdie had forsaken her. She always returned to certain metaphors, eventually choking out something about the snake and a demon named for the angels. She told her story in poetry, beautiful but so twisted, the things she'd endured, but she never gave up. He admired that. It had kept him going through any adversity he encountered, knowing that she needed him, knowing if she could fight through all these terrible things she'd been through, his problems would seem like nothing. William wanted her to have something too though, a reason to go on. He knew she'd lost her family, and that they'd all died rather horrifically form the way she described it, but he wondered if there was anyone in this world that she could trust, anyone who cared. He wanted to be her sanctuary, someone who cared.
He was falling for her. She could feel something in his mind that she hadn't felt before. It was definitely invasive of her to know that, but she couldn't help but feel it. He was so close to her, and even if she wasn't a seer, he wouldn't be able to hide the look in her eyes, the way he held her. She didn't deserve his love, but she wouldn't hurt him telling him that. He'd blame himself, like she knew he always seemed to, and she'd hurt the only good that there was left in her world. She lay there, holding him until the tears faded, and he just stroked her back consolingly, humming a song under his breath.
William knew it was wrong for him to fall for someone who wasn't even real, but here she was, and he didn't want to be anywhere else. It was something in the way she spoke in poetry ,in metaphors that sometimes made sense, and other times left him confused but holding on, looking for more. He'd never seen her face, but he'd seen a hint of her lips, when the hood had crept up, soft and pink, and in that moment, it had been wrong, but he wanted it. He'd wanted to kiss her. He didn't. She'd been through enough, if the tears were any indication, and he would be her rock, her clam, her happy place. He wasn't going to complicate things more for her. Here she was, at her strongest and her weakest in his dreams, a goddess and a child. And he wished it could be real.
Drusilla could hear him thinking, and she wanted it to be real. William Pratt was a coping mechanism, she'd invented him to be her reason, and now she was falling for the one safety her mind provided. That was insanity, having a mind broken enough that she could fall in love with a part of it. She wasn't concerned about it. It was the only thing she could keep safe from her sire. He couldn't shatter her mind any more than he already had. But she knew it was the only way she could keep him. If William was real, and found out about what happened to her, he wouldn't say anything cruel, but he could never love her. She knew, Aunt Martha had even thought it, that she would never marry, never be able to love anyone like that. She knew that even her William wouldn't understand, and he was the kindest, sweetest poet she'd ever met.
But he was her dream, so she would pretend that he could. She could dream that she could tell him at any moment, and he would just hold her and tell her that she was so strong for not breaking. When she woke, she could feel a presence in the room, without even opening her eyes, so she just kept them closed, muttering words under her breath, sweet words that had gotten all mixed-up by her brain. Maybe she could fight on.
William awoke to the sounds of his mother clattering around in the kitchen, finding that his cheek was smeared with the ink from the page he'd been writing. Maybe the others would never have any respect for him, but the girl in his dreams, with her cloak and her poetic way of speaking, she needed him. Maybe he could go on.
Now that I have time, there will be a part three, which will hopefully be less dark.