So, consider this more of an ongoing drabble project. It's something to fill the time until I'm done with DUST anyway. Not sure when or how often I'll update.
Title: Silence Speaks
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters/Pairings: Drusilla (mainly Dru/Spike, with implied Buffy/Spike and some Buffy/Angel)
Season: Jumps around, but mainly Season 2, with flashbacks.
Warnings: Violence, Sexual Situations (including mentions of rape and non-con), Kinks, Insanity, Non-linear storytelling, POV fic
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
how does your garden grow?
With cockleshells and silver bells
and pretty maids all in a row?
“Whatever are you doing?”
“I’m planting a garden, mummy. Father said I might. See, here are the roses, and here are the violets, and here are the daisies. They are my favorites.”
“You’ve gotten your pretty frock all dirty. And your hands. Good girls should have clean, white hands. It’s almost time for supper. Go wash up and scrub beneath your nails, dear.”
“But the brush hurts, mummy. It makes my fingers bleed.”
“It’s only a bit of blood, and that’s a small price to pay to be perfect in God’s eyes. Now hurry up, or you’ll be late to table. Your father will be home any moment.”
“Father will be late tonight. A special order came in.”
“A moment ago.”
“How do you know that?... Drusilla! Answer me, how do you know that?”
“Oh, mummy! Stop. Ow! I don’t know! Please, mummy. I just...”
“How do you know?”
“The flowers! The fairies in the flowers!... NO! Mummy! No! Not the daisies. Please, mum---!”
“You’re lying. You can’t know these things. You shouldn’t make up such stories. Now go clean yourself up and go to bed. Lying little girls shall have no supper.”
The daisies lie, crushed in the dirt, like shattered bits of sunlight.
The first time I saw her, it was in a dream.
I lay on the floor and watched my sister’s life bleed from her, from betwixt her legs and her throat, and one mangled white breast. The wolf had been in the hen house, and he had left her in my bed, as a present, just for me.
I cried. Sobbed. Salt in rivers of pain down my face for my poor sister, Edith, who looked like a doll now because she was so very white and still.
And then she was there, standing in the sunlight beside the bed, tears tracking down her face, too. I'm sorry, she whispered without saying a word, and I knew that she was, because she was like me, only stronger.
The second time I saw her, it was in the fire. The wolf and the bitch lay in my lap, kissing and touching and rutting like beasts. There was blood on the floor, on their hands, in their hair, spattering the bitch’s silk gown like speckled eggs. The nuns were dead, gone. Through the open doorway I could see them. The wolf had taken them, one by one, while I watched, tearing their throats and their skirts and making them cry out to God for help.
But God didn’t listen. Not that day. Nor had he listened when the wolf came for mummy, or Edith or father or Sarah or me.
Especially not for me.
Because I was a thing unclean, and everything I touched turned to death.
And so they rutted, and he mounted her as she pawed at me, his eyes glittering hard and hungry into mine. I looked away, afraid, and there she stood in the doorway, in the light. A little golden thing, so bright, and she whispered: I’m sorry.
The third time I saw her, was in the sunlight.
“You are like us, now, darlin’.” The wolf held me against the window, in the cool shadows, and made me look down on the graveyard below bathed in the sunlight as they buried my sisters and my father and the nuns. “I’ll be your new daddy, and Darla is your new ma, and we’ll have your visions for all time. You’re the devil’s own gift to us.” I am naked and white, bloody as a new born babe and blinking against the harshness of the sun. Daddy presses me up against the glass and pushes my feet wide, then there is pain as he thrusts deep within me. “There are rules, sweetheart. You mustn’t go into the light. The light is for God’s creatures, and you’re mine, now.”
Below, the daisies are scattering to the winds, and the mourners black is blotting out the sunlight. Down there is death. And her, standing in the midst of it in a white gown, with her golden hair so bright, staring up at me.
I’m sorry, she whispers.
If I am a thing unclean, then she is the fire that cleanses. We are sisters, she and I, for all time.
And like all my other sisters, she too, will die.
Part III, IV, & V