Disclaimer: I don't own any characters in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sunnydale, or anything that has to do with that show. I'm just a fan, and this is just fanfiction. Please don't sue.

Author's Note: A piece from Drusilla's point of view. We can never have enough of them.

The leaves look gray to me now.

Everything looks colorless and dead, even in the most vibrant of the sun's hughes. Carefully crafted clouds have not spread their tone across the land, just my eyes. Just my heart.

Footsteps burn themselves into memory as I walk down the road, headed for the quiet cemetery. It's gates have long since rusted with age, the result of time's abrasive cruelty - a mockery of the immortal life. They're forced to stand tall outside of their rotting occupants, strong and everlasting but without emotion, and fading vivacity. Your body may not wither, but your sense of longing and direction fades from view, disappears with the centuries in short gasps of light. I can't seem to find where I'm headed, yet I know exactly where I am.

Two raven's sit on top of a stone angel, black wings above her own pale ones. An omen. Why else would God allow these shadowy messengers to rise above his own servant? Their eyes glitter with magic that I know is reflected in my own, a deep sense of wonder that stirs my heart, as if to fly away with it.

What scares me most; I know I wouldn't mind.

Eternal life means never dying... how wrong they are to think that. A piece of my heart wilts away like a rose in December with every breath I draw inside. This perpetuity ceases to amuse me, everything I put in the ground withers and dies, except for the corpses who are already dead. And who put them there, I ask?

I often pause to think: what are ones final moments like? Do they really flash before your eyes like a cinematic film, a bright flicker in a dark room? Is that all life's about, is it simply pantomime? As they take the razors to their wrists, a smile creases my features for they understand my longing. My boredom with the world, and I want them to share that moment with me like a breath of fresh air.

However I understand now that their moment's not mine to have. I will never have my own.

A dark blue scarf is wrapped around my head as if to keep my thoughts from spilling out, polluting the world. However these bird's never blinked as they stared at me, a thought that may frighten but is otherwise intriguing. Did they see only shades of gray too?

However they answer me silently, in their own haunting tongue: "We are not granted that privilege," I hear their thoughts. Poor things, even grayscale vision is precious to the blind, and it made me wonder exactly what their eyes beheld... my companions answered this also.

They did not see light. They did not see the sun. They never saw the children playing or the delicate flowers that graced the headstones. The only thing they saw was darkness, bleeding from those black wings into their souls...

... Bleeding into the world.

... Bleeding into me.