lestat and him are finished. it shouldn’t cut. and just as it shouldn’t, here it is, worse than before, an animalistic obsession with gutting his opponent in death, lust, in marriage.
marriage isn’t the word he was reaching for. loosely only. it’s a mental slip on the floorboards armand had laid over the wreckage that was the théâtre’s cremation. ‘sam’s weeps, the football roll of santiago’s head still satiate him across time. claudia’s beautiful face ashed halfway, about to flick off down the side like an ungroomed cigarette, momentarily shuts him up.
it’s felt so presently, his heart almost makes it to his mouth to ask for help. but no.
❛ all the literature in the world, and the best you can do is russian? you really can’t read, can you? ❜
daniel’s clipboard assessments, armand’s feverish distortions and inserts into louis’s mind, they paint him a fresh picture. lestat, as always, swirls a mop over the still-wet colors and smears one into the other before they’ve decided what they are.
then: armand down in the dust with half the penthouse dropped on him, willingly like a dog that done wrong. for this?
manic, for every depressed white wonder who had it hard, dime a fuckin’ dozen, louis plucks an eponymous book off the shelf, flinging them at lestat at vampire speed. and for every hardback lobbed, he recites its intellectual better—catch:
tolstoy. chekhov. ❛ jacobs. desdunes. ❜
that about covers the cyrillic greats. the upper shelf now, pages flapping.
kafka. salinger. shakespeare. ❛ dunbar-nelson. séjour. travis. do you know who any of them are? ❜
