BtVS Drabbles Prompt: Dash
May. 8th, 2009 01:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
garnigalBuffy
At fifteen, life was a dash. She ran through every day and night, lighting briefly on the things she must do, touching down on the stuff she wanted. Her day was a blur of school and family. Her night was a blur of monsters and mayhem.
At twenty-one, life was a marathon. She plodded through days and nights, each blending into the last. She focused only on the things she must do, leaving the stuff she wanted by the wayside. Her life was a blur of responsibilities, battles and failure.
Life was a marathon – and she’d just hit the wall.
Drusilla
There was no stone, no dates to mark her life. No dash to represent a beloved family, a constant faith, a beautiful face. No mourners to cry over a Here Lies… No Requiescat in Pace for her.
She didn’t lie here. She didn’t requiescat anywhere. Pace was a fantasy.
Her life was forgotten, lost with her family’s extermination. Her death would linger forever.
Linger in the ruins of an abbey that the locals avoided thinking about.
Linger in the long memories of the Rom caravans.
Linger in the libraries of those who recorded such things.
In death, she truly lived.
At fifteen, life was a dash. She ran through every day and night, lighting briefly on the things she must do, touching down on the stuff she wanted. Her day was a blur of school and family. Her night was a blur of monsters and mayhem.
At twenty-one, life was a marathon. She plodded through days and nights, each blending into the last. She focused only on the things she must do, leaving the stuff she wanted by the wayside. Her life was a blur of responsibilities, battles and failure.
Life was a marathon – and she’d just hit the wall.
Drusilla
There was no stone, no dates to mark her life. No dash to represent a beloved family, a constant faith, a beautiful face. No mourners to cry over a Here Lies… No Requiescat in Pace for her.
She didn’t lie here. She didn’t requiescat anywhere. Pace was a fantasy.
Her life was forgotten, lost with her family’s extermination. Her death would linger forever.
Linger in the ruins of an abbey that the locals avoided thinking about.
Linger in the long memories of the Rom caravans.
Linger in the libraries of those who recorded such things.
In death, she truly lived.
