ext_257908 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2011-07-17 09:07 pm
a-pretty-fire.livejournal.com) wrote in taxonomites2011-07-17 09:07 pm
Entry tags:
024: The Saints Can't Help Me Now [Location: Hyperion Hotel / Accidental Visual]
While Drusilla slept on the silk sheets that Angel had promised her, the figure reflected in her window pane - a girl who was both like and unlike the vampire - said her prayers.
Her lips barely moved as she murmured her supplications up to heaven. They were secrets, her prayers. Secrets that weren't for the ears of anyone but the Lord. (It was strange, wasn't it? The girl gave her heart and her trust to the same deity who had, in another life, abandoned her to the clutches of the devil.) The rosary clutched in her pale hand was worn with use and with piety.
The Drusilla on the bed wore red. In the right light, it looked as if she was a corpse in a pool of fresh blood, stark against the snowy sheets.
The Drusilla in the glass wore a coarse nun's habit. In any light, she glowed with virtue.
It was the life that she could have lived. The person that she could have been. She rarely dreamed of such things - the pixies whispered of the future, not the futures that had never been able to come to pass - and, when the sudden sharpness of the reflection pierced her head, Drusilla woke with a start. For a moment, she gazed - wide eyed and unblinking - at the window.
"No."
She snatched up the lamp that stood on the table next to her new bed, throwing it without hesitation. The glass shattered and the girl disappeared before she'd had a chance to ask for forgiveness for the sins that her other self had committed.
"I'm not sorry," she snarled, addressing the broken window and the shadow that had stood there, "I'm not sorry."
Her lips barely moved as she murmured her supplications up to heaven. They were secrets, her prayers. Secrets that weren't for the ears of anyone but the Lord. (It was strange, wasn't it? The girl gave her heart and her trust to the same deity who had, in another life, abandoned her to the clutches of the devil.) The rosary clutched in her pale hand was worn with use and with piety.
The Drusilla on the bed wore red. In the right light, it looked as if she was a corpse in a pool of fresh blood, stark against the snowy sheets.
The Drusilla in the glass wore a coarse nun's habit. In any light, she glowed with virtue.
It was the life that she could have lived. The person that she could have been. She rarely dreamed of such things - the pixies whispered of the future, not the futures that had never been able to come to pass - and, when the sudden sharpness of the reflection pierced her head, Drusilla woke with a start. For a moment, she gazed - wide eyed and unblinking - at the window.
"No."
She snatched up the lamp that stood on the table next to her new bed, throwing it without hesitation. The glass shattered and the girl disappeared before she'd had a chance to ask for forgiveness for the sins that her other self had committed.
"I'm not sorry," she snarled, addressing the broken window and the shadow that had stood there, "I'm not sorry."
[Visual]
Willow just fixed Drusilla with a look of complete incredulity. Her mind was much more far gone than the witch had anticipated somehow. And this clearly eclipsed everything else the vampire had said, including the bit about the stars. She could keep her stars anyway.
[Visual]
"It's a secret," she said, pressing her finger to her lips, "She isn't for you. Maybe she'll rip your throat out and give me your insides as a posy."