It's like an expansion set...
Aug. 11th, 2003 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darcydodoI've written two human!Drusilla drabbles, now, and I thought I'd try combining them into something slightly longer. So here is my effort at that.
***
The chapel is empty, but Drusilla remains, alone before the great carved crucifix, head bowed over her bent knees in pious attitude. She went to confession, she delivered up her sins, and they were thrown back at her. Penance can be delivered, but it will be no absolution. The Lord will never accept her for she is unworthy in His sight. Accursed.
There are seven candles that line the altar, fat and white, pooling sluggish wax beneath their steady flames. Drusilla watches them, mesmerized. Fire cleanses, like the brimstone of Hell, where she herself, cursed with unholy visions, is bound. The confession father told her this, carefully shaping the dreadful words, caressing them like precious jewels in his mouth. Only the truth.
And now, as so often before, the pictures appear, dancing in chaotic color before her eyes. Tragedy, happiness, it matters little, for every time she can hear the seductive voice of the devil slithering below their surface. She knows him for what he is, and yet she cannot shrug off his siren call, cannot banish the images that she sees. Stars are whirling in her mind, crystal bits of jagged light, weaving a scene in their silvery glow. Her fingers tighten on the white altar cloth, ragged nails biting into soft palms. When did she grasp its linen folds? Delicate knees, painful on the stone floor. But she deserves it, she deserves it, the more so because this vision is of herself, enacting things sinful beyond imagining, and a man with the face of an angel. They feast on each other's flesh, on innocents, reveling in the sick slickness of blood. There are carnal acts that go on and on, seemingly for an eternity, though how could this be? Only the Lord God, Jesus Christ, Savior of mankind is immortal, He and His eternal Adversary. What has she done? She has brought this on herself, she is certain. Devil child, the priest's words echo in her head. God is watching you.
Rosary beads slide through her fingers, Ave Maria gratia plena, tracing patterns that will never save her. Shamefully, the priest's voice made forbidden places tingle, further confirmation of her inner darkness. A door whispers shut behind her, air gusts across her cheek, and the candle flames flicker in offset unison. Fire cleanses...
Slowly, Drusilla snakes a tentative hand toward one candle. Waits to be struck down for impudence or sheer evilness of being. Imagines, almost desires, the sharp crack of divine lightning as it splits, sizzling, through the chapel's vaulted ceiling. But nothing stops her fingers from reaching that flame, and she feels its blistering heat. Smells an acrid tang and knows it for the odor of eternal damnation. All the Hail Marys and acts of contrition in the world will not save her soul, but the flame holds a brief catharsis that she longs for. It is a taste of Hell, and it feels like home.
***
OK, it needs a title and it needs more. But it also desperately needs a beta, or lots of them. So fire away. Oh, and the two original drabbles are here and here.
***
The chapel is empty, but Drusilla remains, alone before the great carved crucifix, head bowed over her bent knees in pious attitude. She went to confession, she delivered up her sins, and they were thrown back at her. Penance can be delivered, but it will be no absolution. The Lord will never accept her for she is unworthy in His sight. Accursed.
There are seven candles that line the altar, fat and white, pooling sluggish wax beneath their steady flames. Drusilla watches them, mesmerized. Fire cleanses, like the brimstone of Hell, where she herself, cursed with unholy visions, is bound. The confession father told her this, carefully shaping the dreadful words, caressing them like precious jewels in his mouth. Only the truth.
And now, as so often before, the pictures appear, dancing in chaotic color before her eyes. Tragedy, happiness, it matters little, for every time she can hear the seductive voice of the devil slithering below their surface. She knows him for what he is, and yet she cannot shrug off his siren call, cannot banish the images that she sees. Stars are whirling in her mind, crystal bits of jagged light, weaving a scene in their silvery glow. Her fingers tighten on the white altar cloth, ragged nails biting into soft palms. When did she grasp its linen folds? Delicate knees, painful on the stone floor. But she deserves it, she deserves it, the more so because this vision is of herself, enacting things sinful beyond imagining, and a man with the face of an angel. They feast on each other's flesh, on innocents, reveling in the sick slickness of blood. There are carnal acts that go on and on, seemingly for an eternity, though how could this be? Only the Lord God, Jesus Christ, Savior of mankind is immortal, He and His eternal Adversary. What has she done? She has brought this on herself, she is certain. Devil child, the priest's words echo in her head. God is watching you.
Rosary beads slide through her fingers, Ave Maria gratia plena, tracing patterns that will never save her. Shamefully, the priest's voice made forbidden places tingle, further confirmation of her inner darkness. A door whispers shut behind her, air gusts across her cheek, and the candle flames flicker in offset unison. Fire cleanses...
Slowly, Drusilla snakes a tentative hand toward one candle. Waits to be struck down for impudence or sheer evilness of being. Imagines, almost desires, the sharp crack of divine lightning as it splits, sizzling, through the chapel's vaulted ceiling. But nothing stops her fingers from reaching that flame, and she feels its blistering heat. Smells an acrid tang and knows it for the odor of eternal damnation. All the Hail Marys and acts of contrition in the world will not save her soul, but the flame holds a brief catharsis that she longs for. It is a taste of Hell, and it feels like home.
***
OK, it needs a title and it needs more. But it also desperately needs a beta, or lots of them. So fire away. Oh, and the two original drabbles are here and here.
