writers_muses Prompt 71
Drusilla has always wanted a daughter. Or another sister. Maybe the girl can be both, she hasn’t decided yet?
She doesn’t need to, either. Vampiric families don’t work like that. Darla is more than her grandmother. Spike has never been a son alone. And how could anyone try to label her dear bad daddy?
There’s no need to get caught up in details. Details fog the mind, and her own thoughts twist and wind enough as it is. They race through the corridors of her skull without giving people a chance to catch up. Hopping and skipping and laughing at jokes only Drusilla can understand.
The Master isn’t really a great-grandfather, either. He likes to keep her close, but he never lets her call him that. She doesn’t know what he is. Her jokes don’t make him laugh, but her secrets do. She’s useful, so he indulges her. Not like he indulges Darla, though. Never. She is allowed to play with Angel, who lives in the coal cellar with chains around his ankles, and no soot to keep him company. Drusilla is only allowed to watch. She used to slip him sweetmeats through the bars of his cage and giggled when he tasted the holy water. He burned so easily, for such a good little boy. Darla put a stop to that. He was hers, and she liked to push him and push him until she could see a glimmer of Angelus in Angel’s eyes. Glimmer, glitter, shattered stars. They could have seen Daddy again, but the compass turned. Darla lived, Daddy didn’t, and the Hellmouth gaped, letting fury spill out into the world.
Her daughter will have bright eyes and a clever mouth. Or should it be the other way around? A mouth full of secrets and eyes full of whispers. White skin, like a china doll come to life. She’d be a good girl, too. Not like Miss Edith. She’d love her mummy, and wear pretty dresses, and drink from all the best people.
There are too many choices here. Sunnydale is full of frightened people, and Drusilla doesn’t want someone who’s frightened. She wants someone who can blaze and burn. Maybe she should have red hair. Like a tiger. Fire, fire, burning bright. That’s not how it goes, but Drusilla likes the song all the same. She likes all the new songs she finds here, even if the music sheet doesn’t make any sense.
Sometimes she dreams of a Slayer with a family and a Dawn that will no longer come. She always wakes up, though, and kisses Spike as if she’s trying to breathe in every part of him. They nearly lost each other. He’ll make a good daddy. They need a little girl who tastes of a lost Slayer and a lost chance. Magic fizzing in her blood.
Yes.
A willow tree with slender branches, stretching up to the sky. Red Willow, White Willow, Black Willow. Drusilla can maker one all of her own, picking up the nicest parts from the broken futures and piecing them together again. Uprooting travellers who don’t pay attention.
Yes.
Prompt: ‘Different’
Word Count: 517
She doesn’t need to, either. Vampiric families don’t work like that. Darla is more than her grandmother. Spike has never been a son alone. And how could anyone try to label her dear bad daddy?
There’s no need to get caught up in details. Details fog the mind, and her own thoughts twist and wind enough as it is. They race through the corridors of her skull without giving people a chance to catch up. Hopping and skipping and laughing at jokes only Drusilla can understand.
The Master isn’t really a great-grandfather, either. He likes to keep her close, but he never lets her call him that. She doesn’t know what he is. Her jokes don’t make him laugh, but her secrets do. She’s useful, so he indulges her. Not like he indulges Darla, though. Never. She is allowed to play with Angel, who lives in the coal cellar with chains around his ankles, and no soot to keep him company. Drusilla is only allowed to watch. She used to slip him sweetmeats through the bars of his cage and giggled when he tasted the holy water. He burned so easily, for such a good little boy. Darla put a stop to that. He was hers, and she liked to push him and push him until she could see a glimmer of Angelus in Angel’s eyes. Glimmer, glitter, shattered stars. They could have seen Daddy again, but the compass turned. Darla lived, Daddy didn’t, and the Hellmouth gaped, letting fury spill out into the world.
Her daughter will have bright eyes and a clever mouth. Or should it be the other way around? A mouth full of secrets and eyes full of whispers. White skin, like a china doll come to life. She’d be a good girl, too. Not like Miss Edith. She’d love her mummy, and wear pretty dresses, and drink from all the best people.
There are too many choices here. Sunnydale is full of frightened people, and Drusilla doesn’t want someone who’s frightened. She wants someone who can blaze and burn. Maybe she should have red hair. Like a tiger. Fire, fire, burning bright. That’s not how it goes, but Drusilla likes the song all the same. She likes all the new songs she finds here, even if the music sheet doesn’t make any sense.
Sometimes she dreams of a Slayer with a family and a Dawn that will no longer come. She always wakes up, though, and kisses Spike as if she’s trying to breathe in every part of him. They nearly lost each other. He’ll make a good daddy. They need a little girl who tastes of a lost Slayer and a lost chance. Magic fizzing in her blood.
Yes.
A willow tree with slender branches, stretching up to the sky. Red Willow, White Willow, Black Willow. Drusilla can maker one all of her own, picking up the nicest parts from the broken futures and piecing them together again. Uprooting travellers who don’t pay attention.
Yes.
Prompt: ‘Different’
Word Count: 517