Thump, thump . . .
Thump, thump . . .
That noise, that feeling when she pressed her hand up against her chest, was her timer; a deep countdown that ticked away mercilessly without regard to what it was doing and who it was doing it to; it was poison.
Darla wondered if she was to stop that beating whether the timer would never hit zero – put it on pause. She knew better though; to stop the thump, thump, thump in her chest would immediately put her countdown on zero, immediately put an end to her game. So tricky it was – to leave it beating would mean to allow her life to slowly ebb away but to stop it in its course would do nothing but sever that life instantly. The outcome was certain – she would die one day.
Darla yearned for the quiet of an empty body, a hollow one with everything dead inside and without this incessant beating. If she was in a room full of people she could almost imagine that the pounding belonged to some other unfortunate soul but that still wasn't the quiet she hoped for.
Years ago, back when she was still a vampire, back before her lover, Angel (Angelus), staked her, back when she was without curse of this horrid thumping and maddening soul, the beating of a heart would have thrown her into a hungry frenzy, would have made her yearn for the blood that pulsed because of it. . .
Now it nearly drove her to insanity – craving for something that she could not, should not have and guilt ridden for ever wanting something so horrifying; slowly, slowly it pushed her towards that edge.
Desperation drove her to incredible lengths and it wasn't long before Darla found herself in the company of that whom she could not rid herself of – Angel. Her darling boy, her dear one, and the vampire with a soul she sired nigh on two and half centuries ago, he was her lifeline.
But he couldn't help her.
For over a hundred years she wreaked havoc on the human world with him, spread heartache and terror like a disease wherever they went and they would have continued to do so if not for that stupid gypsy clan that cursed him with a conscience. Darla would have laughed at the absurdity of it if the fact hadn't caused her such pain. Still, a hundred years and he refused to do this one, small favour for her. She made him!
Darla had found a loophole in her condition – a quick bite and it would all be over, all the suffering, all this beating; she'd be new again – but he'd refused, refused to give her this succulent gift and deliver her from evil . . . or perhaps to it.
Didn't he understand? Couldn't he see? He was supposed to understand!
This pain, this guilt, these terrible memories brought on by the thrumming in her chest – he was supposed to understand!
They did so many things, so many terrible things but she'd do them again if only to look at them in a new (old) light, to see them once again as intricate works of art and not feel the remorse she was feeling now.
To turn her back into a vampire, to take away this thumping and burn that guilt, was a beautiful gift, one she'd given him so long ago – the present of eternal life.
She knew what this life held – pain and suffering, and disease and death – she'd lived through it once before; four hundred years ago she'd lived through it. On the streets as a worthless prostitute then in the church dying of syphilis, she'd made her decision – a decision to leave that life behind and become something more, something greater, even if it had meant making a deal with the epitome of the devil. Why should she care about that? Why should she care when all along God had never done a thing for her but He had, her master, her savoir, her sire; dead now, his bones turned to powder by his last victim.
So why couldn't Angel see that? He had to.
But he didn't.
And as time progressed and the horrible truth of her disease was revealed (the same one she'd been dying of back in Virginia during the sixteen hundreds)and her boy fought for her, very nearly sacrificed his life for hers to make sure she'd live, her vision began to grow cloudy and colourless until it was almost just as bad as his was.
Maybe, just maybe, this life could be OK; maybe the ability to feel love hand in hand with remorse was a worthy trade; maybe with Angel by her side she would be able to see the light of the world. Maybe she was meant to die, the way she was supposed to die in the first place.
And perhaps this thrumming in her chest wasn't so bad; perhaps it had a purpose other than to eat away at her.
Only her revelation had come too late and this thrumming stopped it's beating, reached its zero. But she would continue to think, continue to walk and talk for the powers had heeded her wish but only when she no longer wished for it.
And as Drusilla's, her grandchilde's, teeth pierced her neck and the life was slowly sucked out of her she listened to the sound of a heart; her heart.
She listened to it slowly die.
Thump, thump . . .
Thump, thump . . .
Thump. Thump . . .
Thump. . . Thump . . .
Thump . . . . . . Thump . . .
Th-thump . . . . . . . . Th . . . . . . . Thump
Th-thump . . . . .
Th. . . . . . . . . . . . . .