the american vampiress.

"why?" dear diary, i don't mean for my voice to come out as it does -- suspicious, mistrustful. or maybe i do. maybe there aren't enough miles in the world that will ever put that last night in new orleans fully behind us. louis refusing to burn the body; louis' hand around my neck. i wish i could forget those parts -- that would make everything easier. even louis acts as though he's forgotten: you and me, he'd promised, as if i don't know better by now. you and me except when it's him and me, now armand and me, his latest fascination. maybe i should stop expecting something of him he'll never be able to give. or never want to.

and there is a part of me that wants his interest to be genuine; for this to be an attempt at correcting for his harsh words when he'd first seen madeleine and i together, rather than an interrogation. back in america, i'd said he wouldn't be my father anymore, but it's never been that easy. maybe there's a fantasy out there where louis could be my father, a proper one who can love a daughter more than anything, and he'd show real interest in madeleine, like a father should when vetting his daughter's suitor. (it's an amusing image: madeleine dressed up in a suit like a courting gentleman, coming to my door with flowers and that same sour expression.)

i'm smoking again to force my hands still. lestat gave the gift to louis, because he loved him. louis bade him give it to me, god knows why. if vampirism was good enough for me, some little girl he'd never met all burnt-up and dying in an apartment fire, he has no reason to complain about madeleine. "you want to know whether she's worthy of it?" i don't know what's in my eyes when i look at him. "she is."

visited the gallier house today! this seems like the appropriate blog to post my photos. please don’t repost or reblog.