Archive ~ Writing ~ Links ~ Extras ~  Site ~ Home

Title: Actus Contritionis
Author: utopianbabie
Feedback: Yes, please. Here or at utopianbabie@hotmail.com
Characters:: Human!Drusilla, Angelus.
Rating:: PG-13/R…I don’t know. :/
Category: Pre-series, character study, horror.
Spoilers: Becoming, part one, but only for part which relates to Drusilla and Angelus’ past.
Summary: One evening, at church, a young girl meets her "maker".
Distribution: If you’re crazy enough to want to archive it, just ask and I’m sure I’ll say yes.
Betas: melpemone and velvetandlace. Thanks so much guys!
A/N: Prayers used are The Our Father (The Lord’s Prayer)*, Act of Contrition, and The Hail Mary. I’ve avoided using the name ‘Drusilla’ on purpose, this is because I don’t believe that she was called Drusilla when she was a human. Set soon after .

London, 1860

“Ten Our Fathers and an Act of Contrition. Does that sound good?”

It did. It sounded wonderful, and as she trudges through the town square, desperate and unchaperoned towards the church, she knows she needs it, needs the solace of penance, now (Pray for us sinners now…) more than ever.

Across the road, the church is warm (brown stone and silence) and slipping into it is like coming home. She’s not sure if it’s because she feels safe here, or that she feels drawn here. But, whichever it is, it eases her heart when she slips inside and slides into the first row of pews, and her turmoil lessens as she glances at the crucifix. Her mother’s voice chimes in her head: You’re an affront to the Lord. She looks quickly away from the figure pinned to the cross as if it were the Lord Himself that spoke the words, and begins.

Kneel.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost…

Darkness.

Begin.

Our Father…

“Ten Our Fathers and an Act of Contrition…does that sound…”

Concentrate! Forgive us our trespasses…

“…good?”

…deliver us from evil and lead us not…

“…does that sound good?”

…lead us not…lead us not into…

And oh, she’s trying! Trying so desperately hard to hang onto the last threads of the prayer, stay true to the intention of it all but she can’t keep her mind from going back there, and hearing those words over and over.

“Does that sound good?”

And then it’s as if a thick vine of frosted ivy is snaking its way up her spine, its leaves brushing the hairs at the back of her neck and making them stiffen and crackle. Her stomach drops and her heart lurches. No, no please…not again…I don’t want to see anything else…I don’t want to be evil (spawn of Satan) Oh, Merciful Father, I am guilty of sin. I confess my sins before you and I am sorry for them… But as fast as it arrives the sensation is gone, and once again the warm silence swathes and her body relaxes. She forces her eyes open and lets them slide directly up to the crucifix, (seeking comfort), but once again, the image only adds more sickly weight to the ball of guilt rotting in her belly. He doesn’t want you, The Voice scolds, and so she turns from its heavy gaze to peer into the gloom at the back of the church.
Nothing.
Doors shut up tight, just as she left them after they whooshed closed behind her.

Just a draught, you silly girl (Devil Child), she admonishes herself. Now do what you came here to do! And she turns back to face the altar. She will, too, she’ll do more than ten, she’ll do twenty, fifty. She’ll stay here all night if that’s what God wants.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those…

*clack*

The sound incises the silence and her eyes fly open, head snapping around to seek out the source of the new reverberation. The back of the church is still all murky darkness and furrows, but again she sees nothing. But this absence of origin doesn’t calm her; it makes her anxious. Alert. Aware of everything around her; the air, the silence, the dull throbbing of her palms. She opens her hands, a row of crescent moons are dug into each one. She fights the urge to press her fingernails back into the sticky flesh and make them deeper. Prove that she was willing to pay. To suffer. To be pure. She closes her eyes against the compulsion and it’s as if her new sightlessness brings with it a new clarity, because it’s then that she hears them. Soft, (a doe on turf), but she hears them.

Her breathing stops and the silence widens, lengthens, until the swimming in her head forces her to inhale.

Footsteps. Soft. Regular. Close.

A hiss of breath and her eyes fly open as she turns to face the sound (the side of the church).They are footsteps…yes, but, but there’s something else too…below the sound of boots on wood there’s a dragging. Soft, yet heavy, (a sack being rasped across the boards.)

*creek*

It comes from the back of the pews this time, and her blood rushes, cold, towards her feet. Her hands tingle and her body jolts with the too-hard thumping of her heart. She clutches at her breast and she can’t for the life of her understand why she’s so scared. “Hullo?” she calls, the high quaver cutting into the sweet, musty air, and suddenly the place seems far emptier and colder than ever before. “Is someone...?” and in a smaller voice, timid even, “Father?” No one answers. And she’s glad because she doesn’t want it to be him, not the new Father; not that she’d know it was him. She never saw him, only talked to him, but there was something about him. The things he made her tell him (just give in.), the things he said. No, she didn’t want to see him. Not tonight, maybe not ever, because the thought of seeing his face (those who trespass against us…) does things to her stomach. Or maybe it’s the thought of him seeing hers, because he already seems to know her insides.

Even though the thundering in her chest has subsided, the blood still roars in her ears. She slumps forward on her knees, wrapping her arms around herself and digging her trembling fingers through the fabric into the soft flesh of her upper arms. Nothing there, just noises, the wind perhaps. You were always fretful and scared at night, of all the same noises, remember? When you were a child? Remember? Just the house settling for the night, mummy used to say. But when she was a child, it was easy to believe. This time though, her mind whispers things to her, when you turn around, when you peek out… then it will be there, and although she knows it’s wrong, she listens to the voices. An affront to the Lord once again. Gives in and turns, all shaking limbs and jerking movements, back to the front of the pews.

And it’s as if time becomes thick like honey for a moment - she can’t move, she wants to recoil, she tries to move sideways, but movement, along with breath and thought and sense… has stopped. And all she can do is look at it.

HailMaryfullofgrace (Drink this for this is my…somebody’s been here) theLordiswith theeblessed (rightnexttoyou)…

And she’s scrambling sideways, trembling hands and knees clawing for purchase because she can’t seem to move fast enough…

artthouamongstwomen (still here…watching) andblessedisthfruitofthy (but how…where) wombJesusHolyMaryMother…

…And she can’t tear her eyes away from the hard wooden bench across from her. A high keening fills her ears and she slaps her hands over them to muffle, stop the noise, before realizing it’s coming from her.

…ofGodprayforussinnersnowanowatthe (hour of our death)...

The pews over the aisle offer refuge, and she huddles on the floor between them, squeezing her shut eyes tightly, not daring to look. When I open them, it won’t be there…won’t be there…prayforussinnersnowandatthehour… Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

But even in the blackness, hands over her ears, she can’t stop seeing it. Placed there on the bench, light (like a feather) and so pretty; elegant black marks spidered on thick cream paper. A portrait. Her. Drawn from the side while she was praying, while she was alone.

…blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death…

And then the cold is back, dripping down her neck like ice water. But this time it has form, mass. It grapples at her hands, wrenching them away from her ears and holding them firmly in her lap. Merciful Father, I am guilty of sin. (And this is how I shall pay for them) I confess my sins before you and I am sorry for them. She inhales sharply, feeling the cold moving over the small bloody furrows in her palms (like worms fresh from the cold earth.) She tries to jerk away, but the cold freezes her, locks her in place, its icy tendrils playing against her earlobe.

“You should just give in, my child,” it whispers smoothly, and she knows it’s him. “Your Mother thinks so too… and your sister.” A low chuckle…he’s not right… something… some… thing. “Now she’s a pretty one, all curls and smiles. I’m thinking of paying her another visit.”

So cold… like death (at the hour of our death) . Her body lurches, lungs filling with air readying for a scream, but the cold covers her mouth and presses wetly against her ear.

“What do you think?” A whisper. “Does that sound good?”

End.

Fics by author ~ Fics by rating ~ Fic by pairing