This story is told from Lestats point of view, so it is a bit mellow dramatic. However, I liked it enough to actually post it on the net, so tell me what you think. And I don't own any of these characters. Anne Rice, the queen of fanfic haters, would probably have a hissy fit if she read this. HA HA!
imsoparanoid@over-the-rainbow.com
imsoparanoid@over-the-rainbow.com
I rubbed the pink handprint on my cheek. I wasn’t sure if I had left to quickly, but I was angry with him. It had been years since I had tried even to kiss him again; we had been on the rocks for the past few. This, this man had entered my life again, only to complicate it like he had so many centuries before. I wasn’t sure if I loved him even, and I was quite sure that he held no special place in his heart for me. His handprint had gone away now, but I was still stung with his rejection. I had done everything I could think of to win his heart, yet he would not have me! I had brought him roses today, a dozen of the reddest most beautiful roses, not to mention expensive, that I could find. He treated me with the same coldness he would have treated me with as if I had brought him a dead cat. I gave him clothes, I gave him anything anyone could have wanted, and still he rejects me! I suppose he found no soul in me, as I found so soul in myself. Even as a laughed, even as I spoke the language of the soul, I found myself without one. Surely, I over-exaggerate, but I cannot see a soul within myself, nor can I feel one. I wanted to drown my sorrows in something. Alcohol would do me no good, neither would sex, seeing as how there was one person I truly wanted above all else. I must find something to obsess me; completely take my attention. I sat down at an easel to paint. But what was my subject to be? I would paint myself my perfect lover. I would let my mind search into the very depths of my feelings, and find my perfect lover, for surly, I had not found them yet. I closed my eyes and began to drift, my body being powered by my mind. I drifted in and out of consciousness, but never allowing myself to see who or what had been painted. How long I sat at my easel, I know not, but I sat in a room with no windows and only one door. After what was perhaps weeks, I was told I was finished, and I opened my eyes. I stared a few moments, afraid to really see it or move. I stared into green eyes. The same green eyes that were always so cold to me, but in my painting, they shone with love. I began to weep softly, and I feel to my knees in front this painting of my perfect lover. I wept because I knew who it was, and I knew I had forever wronged that person. Staring back at me, with soft eyes and tender lips, was the one person that would never love me, the one person who would never forgive me. I wept for him and for his beauty because my painting was not someone who would ever love me, it was Louis de Pointe de Luc. My sweet Louis who hated me for making him what he was and twisting his life into something terrible, but mostly for not killing him as I should have, not releasing his soul from his tortured existence, but making live forever.