viaticumforthemarquise:

Love. 

Especially for Lestat. How he must glow to read that. 

But, truly, had it not been for his arrival, I could have easily slipped into the monotony and everyday horrors that were life in the Auvergne, dying young and despising everything around me, the world painted grey. 

You’ve seen that film, The Wizard of Oz? When Dorothy walks from Kansas into Oz? It’s incredibly trite, but Lestat’s entry into my world was like that walk from the broken, tornado-wracked house onto the golden-paved streets of Oz. 

Ah, but he comes by hyperbole honestly, doesn’t he?

It wasn’t that my entire life had been grey up until him—but merely that the greyness cast upon it was so consuming as to kill me sooner rather than later. 

If it weren’t for Lestat, I could walk through my immortality without a care, without a thought, without another spoken word to another creature—yet he placed an ember in my heart when I thought it was ice, worked his way in when I wasn’t looking and settled himself there nicely. 

Hate me for his upbringing, the times I ignored him, the times I shut my door against him. Hate me for the times I’ve come too late to his pleas for help. 

But know that I love him. And he is what breaks me down when I might remain strong.