Butterfly
Everything's just scantimetres from comprehension.
Lingering at her fingertips like candy, sticky sweet knowledge she can feel but
when she licks her fingers, running her tongue along her sharp nails, she can't
taste it. Sometimes, she gets an edge of it. Just enough to give her a
fractured glimpse. And when she tries to tell of it, of the burning sweetness
of the knowledge chasing helterskelter through her veins, it comes out even
more broken.
She spins, dancing in the moonlight. Miss Edith had been whispering, whispering
all night long. The wonderful little doll had pointed out the perfect, perfect
present for her Spike. A little blond haired, blue eyed girl. Sweet and soft,
mouth candy pink and oooooh. Pretty. Dressed up in a skirt, showing far too much
skin, and wouldn't Drusilla whip her and whip her for being such a naughty
girl? There was something about these blond little girls. Daddy loved them.
And he loved Drusilla. His dark little changeling.
Drusilla turned her hands over and blew on them, sending the butterflies
fluttering into the air. When she left, her antique heeled shoes crunched over
the fragile little bodies. Painting fairy dust onto her in streaks of faded
colour.