Darla dreams of possession, a way to reclaim what was lost.

 

Hand picked from the worst and tutored to be the best, she dreams of her boy who she’s damned. The gypsy bitch lasted but briefly, snuffed out like a withering flame. But a soul burns forever, she knows, an eternal, disgraceful stain. She brandished a stake, frantic, bereaved by her error. What had she done to well up his doubt and bring about his every relived terror? No trifle step, she berates her poor judgment, striding forward to bring about his destruction. Instead of a triumphant kill, she got a sniveling, scared stranger, his repentant tears an abomination. And still she cannot help but silently admonish herself, this pitiable turn of events having occurred by her orchestration. She rallies her thoughts; a solution can be found, there’s nothing that can stop her from finding a way. Failure is not an option. An eternity without Angelus… she must ride to the gypsy camp without delay.

 

Darla dreams of possession, to bring home her boy who was lost. To tether him fast, score his flesh til he burns and remind him what a vicious, beast he still is. The children wander without his guidance, their family breaking apart. She dreams of his face, his leonine smirk, and worries what her celebratory gift will have cost. 

 

Laying amidst a sea of baby doll eyes, a princess to her unerringly loyal, porcelain subjects, she dreams of a man to keep her from drowning. Daddy likes to hold her head under water, to cloud her thoughts and make her weak. The pain he concocts causes bright sparks to burn, makes her twist and cower in fear. He likes to watch her smolder and crumble, a single, dying star in his bevy of victims, always the brightest one. So she becomes a monument to his pain, his sacrificial altar, an immodest display of his craft. When she opens her eyes, blood pours from her breasts in a spray, each suspended limb statuesque and well-placed. He makes her his ablution, his public bath, like the pigeons that crowd the fountain in the square. He goads her to cry tears of blood, his impure Madonna, his baby girl whore.

 

Drusilla dreams of possession, a childe to call her own. Who’ll speak in rhymes, honest and true, and let her, at last, cut deep and mold. Her fires of creativity circulate and stew, a well-versed mistress to pain. She dreams of a knight to make hers alone, at last someone to scream her name.