One Hundred Strokes (The Out Of Hohenheim Remix)
Ages ago sunlight had reflected on her neatly brushed strands, making them glow and shimmer silkily. Ages ago mirrors had reflected her pretty porcelain face. These days heavy curtains guaranteed her existence, no mirror showed her beauty.
As the sun was rising, Drusilla brushed methodically through her long dark hair.
"One hundred strokes," she spoke aloud with no one listening. "No more and no less, always before bedtime. Good girls keep their hair clean and free of tangles. Not a good girl anymore, no. But one must keep up one's appearance."
And she did. If it was only about looks, X'lar had had no reason to leave. But he did, saying her constant gibbering over her so called visions drove him insane. She resented this idea. She was a lady. And a lady did not gibber. Furthermore what did he mean by "so called". Those pictures she sing-songed about came to her involuntarily. She couldn't help seeing things.
Sometimes she asked herself if those visions mattered. Especially since no one listened anymore.
"Not Spike crawling in the basement, not poor Darla, dust to dust and ashes in the mouth of the babe, not Daddy under the sea," Drusilla whispered pushing the brush through tangles in rhythm with her words.
Those were rare moments, when she stared into a vacant mirror and her mental derangements didn't protect her from seeing clearly. What came first were memories of her life and her half-life: When she was a little girl, her mother had combed her gently sloping waves every night. When she was grown up, her sisters had plaited her hair. When she was dead, Darla refused to brush it, saying she'd only tear it out and it'd never grow again. Angelus on the other hand loved running his hands greedily through her curls. But then came Spike and he called her his dark goddess, scarping the brush through her hair one hundred strokes, no more and no less, every day before bedtime. But Spike was dead to her. Dead like her mother, her sisters or Darla. What came next was recognition: She was alone. Heaven knew she was miserable now.
Happy in the haze of drunken hours she had created new children. Some fled the nest after a short while. Others had to be destroyed because they were naughty. None had ever freed her curls of dirt and dust. None had ever made her scalp tingle sensually. Not even with one single stroke.
"97... 98... 99... 100," she counted, then put her brush down. Exhausted, yet nervous she decided that she needed sleep before darkness fell again. She had lost family twice, but tonight would end her loneliness. Nights ago she had glanced through this window for the first time, carefully watching the mother brushing out her little girl's long dark hair, because one must keep up one's appearance.
Tonight, after many dark and longing hours of reconnaissance, Drusilla had finally killed the lady of the house. Her drained and stiff body laid on the bedside rug. The skin as white as the sheets Drusilla nestled under.
But father and daughter she had brought over. They waited for her under the garden. They waited to share with her those exciting times that were coming. The darkness was rising, the fire falling, and the blood would flow like a river. All those things she'd share with loved ones, with family - just like in the old days.
Outside behind the curtains the sun climbed higher and higher. Moments before she drifted off into a cold, dreamless sleep, Drusilla smiled imagining how she'd brush out her daughter's hair when she woke. With one hundred strokes, no more and no less.