The Wolfkiller's Husband

My Father was cruel, horrific at times. He left nothing of me for the people I could grow up to love. He often beat me within an inch of my life, probably played a part in the sexuality I ended up feeling, and destroyed all of my Mother's hope

Gabrielle spent her days shoving visions of what could have been down Lestat's throat. She was vacant and conditioned to deal with everything handed to her with simple silence and later, a power trip that became devastating, all wrapped up in a layer of isolating love, curtain falling around a stage of neglect to keep the wood pretty.

What my father dished out behind closed doors, with threats and violence; She offered with tender promises and soothing trembling hands.

But, you already know all that.

Lestat's father, the Marquis of the estate, was useless. He had nothing to offer, no way to gain, he was only functioning for part of my life growing up. By the time I could remember his face properly without him standing there, he was old and his body was failing.

Yet he could only continue sitting on the throne of false promises, and stereotype titles of our time. What he couldn't do with his own hands, he sic'd starving dogs in the form of his children on eachother.

Maman wasn't a mother, she wasn't even herself. She was busying my sisters along, wanting them out of the house and away from Father. She liked me, she didn't love me. I have my Father's eyes, and her hopelessness. I am the very mirror of everything she couldn't stand. I am the product of when love was still there. A memory of something that had been grieved for so long.

We are failed affections and mourned love stories. I saw my mother brush my sisters hair, taking the time she used to use on my curls. I saw the Marquis once when we were very young children, extend a hand briefly to help Lestat off the ground where he'd been knocked over by a passing dog.

There were moments that my father would compliment my stitching to a customer while I rang up their order, and when a man would muse with pride about my leather work, there would be a hand on my shoulder as my Father explained how fast I picked up the skill. It was the only time the hand felt warm to me.

Moments of Gabrielle complimenting Lestat's strength when they'd carry baskets through the village, he would beam so bright there would be creases at the edges of his eyes.

We were starving.

Our stomachs were not the things being neglected, but hollow holes where our hearts once were.

We were children, begging for crumbs of hope.

I do not miss my parents, I can't speak for Lestat, but I doubt his opinion is any different.

When I see my descendents, children in my sisters family line all these years later, or envision any of my own, had I been able to overcome the vicious cycle; I couldn't imagine harming them, I couldn't imagine them going to bed a single night wondering if they were loved.

I have tended to wounds on Lestat, where he flinches from my hands, where he assures me he could handle it himself. All I can see in these moments is the child who was struggling to breathe after another brawl in the family home, while I worried for his ribs, he worried about how much I saw. Moments where He wiped blood off my skin, and off my Bible. While my hands shook and I begged for him to not tell anyone, not to do anything.

When I think of younger me, like visions before me, I couldn't imagine a single thing I could've done to not deserve the love of both parents. I should have been bringing children and grandchildren to them, I should be married and settled down, man or woman, with them at a table where we plan Sunday meals after mass.

Lestat should have sons running around that manor, helping his brothers repair things for his father, Gabrielle should be sitting in the sun, calling them in for stories.

Me and him should be in a home where the sun shines through the windows into the hallway every morning. We should be complaining about hunting trips and village visits for food and more medicines. Our most intimate moments should be interrupted by sleep coming for us after a long day, not staring at locked doors that have already been triple checked.

We know no home, besides the parlor in Paris, now tainted by Magnus.

We know no parents, no siblings with care and fond memories.

I have no more words for Father, none for Maman.

I have no more bitterness left on my tongue this morning for the Marquis, or for Gabrielle.

They don't know me, Lestat's parents don't know him.

They don't know our mornings or our nights, they don't know the grief we carry for lives we couldn't live, even taking vampirism off the table. They don't know my favorite color, they don't know his favorite time of day.

When I see me; I can finally, for a moment, see my talents. When they're draped in red on his shoulders, When I see the stacks of scores and the blunt nubs of what were once pencils.

When I see him asleep, with the blanket kicked half off his body, one arm draped dramatically to the side; or the way he sits in the moonlight, listening to the rustling leaves around us in the woods, eyes closed and entranced.

I can't imagine for a single moment what it would be like to torment the children we once were. I learned one thing, watching his family neglect him and let him down time and time again:

Loving him is the easiest thing in the world.

We are empty and destroyed, fragments we glued together with shaking hands and patience we were never taught , or gifted. My parents loved eachother at social events, with fancy clothes and titles, his family loved him when he tossed money to the table and offered strength to work. But I can love him in the nothingness, in the mundane, in the dazed madness, in all of it.