if you're feeling like i'm feeling, might i suggest reading this biblically accurate loumand breakup to heal yourself
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"You could have told me anything you wanted about Paris, Armand," I said. "Long before now. It wouldn't have mattered."
"Even that it was I who...?"
I turned to him as he lay there looking at the sky. And I saw the extraordinary pain in his face, in his eyes. It seemed his eyes were huge, too huge, and the white face that framed them too gaunt.
"That it was you who killed her? Who forced her out into that yard and locked her there?" I asked. I smiled. "Don't tell me you have been feeling pain for it all these years, not you."
And then he closed his eyes and turned his face away, his hand resting on his chest as if I'd struck him an awful, sudden blow.
"You can't convince me you care about this," I said to him coldly. And I looked out towards the water, and again that feeling came over me... that I wished to be alone. In a little while I knew I would get up and go off by myself. That is, if he didn't leave me first. Because I would have liked to remain there actually. It was a quiet, secluded place.
"You care about nothing..." he was saying. And then he sat up slowly and turned to me so again I could see that dark fire in his eyes. "I thought you would at least care about that. I thought you would feel the old passion, the old anger if you were to see him again. I thought something would quicken and come alive in you if you saw him... if you returned to this place."
"That I would come back to life?" I said softly.
And I felt the cold metallic hardness of my words as I spoke, the modulation, the control. It was as if I were cold all over, made of metal, and he were fragile suddenly; fragile, as he had been, actually, for a long time.
"Yes!" he cried out. "Yes, back to life!" And then he seemed puzzled, positively confused. And a strange thing occurred. He bowed his head at that moment as if he were defeated. And something in the way that he felt that defeat, something in the way his smooth white face reflected it only for an instant, reminded me of someone else I'd seen defeated in just that way. And it was amazing to me that it took me such a long moment to see Claudia's face in that attitude; Claudia, as she stood by the bed in the room at the Hotel Saint-Gabriel pleading with me to transform Madeleine into one of us. That same helpless look, that defeat which seemed to be so heartfelt that everything beyond it was forgotten. And then he, like Claudia, seemed to rally, to pull on some reserve of strength. But he said softly to the air, "I am dying!"
And I, watching him, hearing him, the only creature under God who heard him, knowing completely that it was true, said nothing.
A long sigh escaped his lips. His head was bowed. His right hand lay limp beside him in the grass. "Hatred... that is passion," he said. "Revenge, that is passion..."
"Not from me..." I murmured softly. "Not now."
And then his eyes fixed on me and his face seemed very calm. "I used to believe you would get over it, that when the pain of all of it left you, you would grow warm again and filled with love, and filled with that wild and insatiable curiosity with which you first came to me, that inveterate conscience, and that hunger for knowledge that brought you all the way to Paris to my cell. I thought it was a part of you that couldn't die. And I thought that when the pain was gone you would forgive me for what part I played in her death. She never loved you, you know. Not in the way that I loved you, and the way that you loved us both. I knew this! I understood it! And I believed I would gather you to me and hold you. And time would open to us, and we would be the teachers of one another. All the things that gave you happiness would give me happiness; and I would be the protector of your pain. My power would be your power. My strength the same."
"But you're dead inside to me, you're cold and beyond my reach! It is as if I'm not here, beside you. And, not being here with you, I have the dreadful feeling that I don't exist at all. And you are as cold and distant from me as those strange modern paintings of lines and hard forms that I cannot love or comprehend, as alien as those hard mechanical sculptures of this age which have no human form. I shudder when I'm near you. I look into your eyes and my reflection isn't there...?"
"What you asked was impossible!" I said quickly. "Don't you see? What I asked was impossible, too, from the start."
He protested, the negation barely forming on his lips, his hand rising as if to thrust it away.
"I wanted love and goodness in this, which is living death," I said. "It was impossible from the beginning, because you cannot have love and goodness when you do what you know to be evil, what you know to be wrong. You can only have the desperate confusion and longing and the chasing of phantom goodness in its human form. I knew the real answer to my quest before I ever reached Paris. I knew it when I first took a human life to feed my craving. It was my death. And yet I would not accept it, could not accept it, because like all creatures I don't wish to die! And so I sought for other vampires, for God, for the devil, for a hundred things under a hundred names. And it was all the same, all evil. And all wrong. Because no one could in any guise convince me of what I myself knew to be true, that I was damned in my own mind and soul. And when I came to Paris I thought you were powerful and beautiful and without regret, and I wanted that desperately. But you were a destroyer just as I was a destroyer, more ruthless and cunning even than I. You showed me the only thing that I could really hope to become, what depth of evil, what degree of coldness I would have to attain to end my pain. And I accepted that. And so that passion, that love you saw in me, was extinguished. And you see now simply a mirror of yourself."
A very long time passed before he spoke. He'd risen to his feet, and he stood with his back to me looking down the river, head bowed as before, his hands at his sides. I was looking at the river also. I was thinking quietly, there is nothing more I can say, nothing more I can do.
"Louis," he said now, lifting his head, his voice very thick and unlike itself.
"Yes, Armand," I said.
"Is there anything else you want of me, anything else you require?"
"No," I said. "What do you mean?"
He didn’t answer this. He began to slowly walk away. I think at first I thought he only meant to walk a few paces, perhaps to wander by himself along the muddy beach below. And by the time I realized that he was leaving me, he was a mere speck down there against the occasional flickering in the water under the moon. I never saw him again.
Putting the term "Catholic guilt" on a high shelf where fandom can't reach it until everyone learns how to identify characters who are very very clearly coded as Protestant.
Lestat going through the extremely relatable situation where no one trains you for your new job and then you get in trouble for not knowing how to do the job
idk how they're gonna go about introducing a more sane version of Marius, but i kinda loved that our first impression of him was an isolated insane old man talking to himself in riddles with the only other soul he's been hanging out with for 2000 years refusing to interact with him lmao
and that his first characterisation was "say thank you for something you didn't ask for"
