Here's the second ending to "True Love", which is a bit sadder than the first. Don't worry, it's supposed to be the same up to a certain point. And I don't own these boys, Anne Rice (who prolly didn't even write the books) "owns" them. I don't know why I have to say thing alll the time! I'm not making any money off this...
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. For a moment, I did not believe what I saw; I did not want to believe what I saw. My canvas was black. It was black as night. I shook with fear for once in my life, I shook with fear. I have no perfect lover, no soul to comfort me. Only myself, myself and the night. I feel to my knees and wept bitterly. My old heart was breaking inside of me, but I didn’t care. Nothing matters now anyway. There is no one to love me because I am a monster, a soulless, hideous monster, which should be as ugly on the outside as he is on the inside. A monster should not have a face like mine. I no longer wish to be beautiful. My beauty only serves to taunt me. I must destroy all the mirrors in this house, for I do not want to look on my own face ever again. Fini