THE MOUTHS OF BABES
Disclaimer: I don't own Darla. I don't even know if I wish I did. Do you really want to sue this mixed up a person? Go sue Joss. He's the picture of sanity.
Rating: PG, with violence warnings.
Summary: Darla gets asked a question - and answers it.
Distribution: not without prior permission.
Feedback: gives me a happy.
The first person I ever killed was my mother. I didn't even have to try very hard - out I went, and she just screamed, and was gone. I don't even remember her – I guess I didn't know her enough to remember her. And it's not like we had photographs in those days. I've seen a painting of course - the one painting my bastard of a father had made of her before she died. He was the second person I killed.
But - she was the first. You're always meant to remember your first kill, or so my sire told me later. Well, I don't. Does that make me a bad person?
Naaaah, I think it might be the hundreds killed after that that makes me evil. Doesn't matter, really. I was just curious, for a long while. It seemed that I *should* remember it - remember her screams, and the blood - because it was so special to me. It made me who I am.
Not everyone gets born a killer, after all.
No matter. I practised enough on my father. Now, *he* took a long time to die. Not as long as my mother, unfortunately, and not as long as my other relatives. I made my aunt last nearly a week.... well, *I* thought that was impressive! Now, of course, I can make a kill last for a month, if I want.... but my father only lasted a day. A pity, but what can you do?
It was fun, though. I wanted this kill to be perfect. See, my childer, afterwards, they killed their families quickly. Ripped their throats and danced on their graves, all that nonsense. No, my father had to suffer, because he didn't save my mother from me. What kind of husband did that make him? What kind of *father*?
So, I took a knife, and asked my sire to leave me all night for this kill. I'd hunt for food in the morning. So I went back home, armed with just a small knife - useless to cut throats with effectively, and I found my father in bed. Again. With another woman.
Her, I let go. It didn't matter to me - it's not like she was related to me. I'd become used to the various women he had here after my mother died - not that I'd known any different, of course. It seemed to me that it was a pity we were always short on money, when he would give a great deal of it to these ladies.
But they were just earning a living. Who was I to preach? I let her go.
Then I stood there, watching him. His hair was grey, a little longer than it should be, but he was still an attractive man. All the more pity that he should feel the need to pay for this brief coupling.
He was scared, though. Fun to watch him being scared - to watch his skin whiten in the semi-darkness of the room; to feel his pulse quicken. He couldn't see me - not properly, because it was dark - but I could see him perfectly. I think my eyes must have been glowing slightly, like cat's eyes do.
There wasn't a lot of screaming, though, which was a pity. I'd been looking forward to the screaming. I think that, in the end, he bit his tongue off to keep silent. I couldn't figure out why, at first, but then it hit me - it would have been demeaning for him to scream. Demeaning to be brought to such an undignified end by his own child.
Well, it was good enough for my mother, wasn't it?
Anyway, he's dead now. Dead and gone. They buried him - or what was left of him. I don't think they were entirely sure that it *was* him, in the end. I mean, I flayed him, first off. Took that knife and snaked it under his skin, slowing peeling it off. It was like peeling a fruit - an apple perhaps, with the think sweet-smelling juice reddening your fingers.
It took me several hours to finish him off. I had to tie him down, in the end, because he kept trying to run. I could have stopped him - that wasn't a problem - but I didn't want to risk accidentally breaking his neck. So I tied him down, spread-eagled on the bed, and I went on with my business.
When I had all the skin off, I did another layer. This was tissue and muscle, and was easier to do. Of course, by then he'd already passed out. It got boring after a little while, so in the end I just slit his throat and cut him up into little pieces.
I bet you didn't want to know all that..... actually, I wasn't going to talk about my mother. I understand the importance of the first kill; I really do. It's just that....
Well, I don't actually remember it. And it's the memories you were after, really, wasn't it?
I guess you should speak to one of my childe about that. Charlotte, maybe, or Angelus - yes, Angelus would be more than happy to speak to you. He'd love to tell you all about the innocents he's killed, and how it cuts him up inside. How he gave up his humanity on the night of his first kill.
Me? I was born a killer. What'd you expect?
*****
The End
