Dying Flowers
By Bohemian Storm
Notes:
Dedicated
to Nita for giving me the words (burgundy, sigh, over) and for helping me with
the title.
He pushed open the bedroom window and crept into the room silently. She was
sleeping peacefully, her features softened in the moonlight. He went over to
the bed and crouched beside her, his face on her pillow. He was so close to
her. Close enough to lean forward and brush his lips against hers. Close enough
to draw his teeth along her throat until he found a vein, his tongue lapping at
her skin until he found the place he wanted.
The place that would kill her.
She sighed in her sleep, her breath washing over his face. He closed his eyes
against it, breathing in her scent. She smelled like dying flowers, sweet and
dark. Her smell had always captivated him, floating through his head like a
hazy smoke, cutting through his senses until it was the only thing he could
smell and hear and taste.
He wondered if Buffy had ever known how he thought about Joyce.
He pushed off the bed, pausing for a moment to straighten her burgundy
comforter. He liked the colour. It seemed like the kind of colour Buffy's mom
would have her in bedroom.
His picked up the charcoal, flattened out the yellowed parchment.
He drew her as she slept, sketching her profile in the dark room. She sighed
again, twisting within the confines of the blanket. Her neck arched; he drew
the sleek line of her throat. He wanted to draw her blood into his mouth, but
he resisted. It would be over before he knew it and there would be no satisfaction
in a rushed kill.
He wanted Buffy to realize what he would do to her.
He folded the parchment and slipped it into an envelope. He would not leave it here.
He would wait for another moment. A better moment.
He brushed his lips over Joyce's, tasting the remnants of toothpaste and
lipstick from earlier in the day. She tasted of normalcy.
He smiled.
Soon normalcy would be over. Soon the real Hell would begin.
End