by Samantha McCullah
Pairing: Just Dru
Summary: Insane ramblings in a midnight garden.
I can speak to the rain.
But it does not answer. Rude little drop like glass on my hand, leaving a tiny silver trail down my arm. Bad little bead.
The stars talk to me. They always have. Ever since the beginning, when Mummy told me that the angels lived in the stars, and I'd talk to the angels and sometimes the demons that lived in the grass. Naughty demons grabbing my ankles when I walked.
I begged the angels to come take me after the mine accident, when Da died, crushed by a rock and torn in two. Da never came home, and I was a demon for seeing it all in my pretty little head, behind my eyes. I spent more time in the grass after that. Demons in the grass, demons in my head, demons in the confessional booth.
Soon, demons in my angels.
The church was wrong. My Angels never wore white. They were always draped in black. Mourning clothes, for dear old Da, and for dear, dear Drusilla, mad, you know, possessed, talks to the grass.
My angels always wore black. And my own personal guardian, he wears leather and silk and hunts the night. Angel of Death. They never told me about him in Church. Angels were good and pure. Angels did not enter into a holy place and defile the sacred sisters. Angels did not rut like dogs in heat upon my lap.
But demons did. And do. And always will.
I died once. My angels finally came, but he wouldn't let me leave. No, I was his, marked in tiny daggers' blades across my breasts and stomach and buttocks and thighs. His and his alone. My dark, dark Angel, in silk and leather. It was fitting.
I became an Angel once, dark in silk and lace. I hunted the night with Daddy and Grandmum.
Then my William came to me. He stuttered. He sounded like the whispers of the moonlight. I liked him. He tasted like cranberry.
He was mine, marked across the stomach with thin, thin fingernails. Mine. I was a mother. I always wanted a child.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Minemineminemineminemineminemine—
The jasmine is hollow. It echoes across the garden. Squeaking, like a tiny mouse meaning to wander across my toes. Squeaking like… my Spike.
The rain is falling again; I can hear it whispering against my ear.
But they will not talk to me.
Naughty raindrops, ignoring me. I can't abide it.
The rain does not want me for a friend. It does not like me. I won't have that.
"Um, Dru, pet, what are you doing?"
My Spike, always so sensible. We used to dance. In Prague, we danced across rooftops. In New Orleans, through the graveyards. Now, we can't dance. Nasty blonde thing made sure of that. Now I dance with my Angel again. Nasty blonde thing helped with that too.
"I'm dancing for the rain."
I was a ballerina once. Hands over head, legs bent, twirling to music. But out here there is no music save the rain and the squeaking of my Spike's wheelchair.
I like quiet. It helps me think.
"Spike? Why won't the rain speak to me?"
- fin -