"I have been enduring intense conversations with myself in the three years since our companionship ended. And as part of that journey, I wish to say something from the deepest regions of my soul.
Two grievous lies, gross betrayals. The first is a well trod pit of hot coals I blistered my feet on for 77 years. I chose my coven over you, lured you into a production of a play in which your death would act as the grotesque climax. The coven was twisting my arm, but... I took aesthetic pleasure in making your death visually exhilarating. All of which was made worse by our heady lovemaking throughout this period of betrayal, and...
The second. I shamefully took credit when Lestat saved your life. That lie bound you to me, and it lay like a corpse in the boiler room of our companionship. Many times, I told myself the lie did not matter because what we had built, a love that served as a bunker against time, was weightier and more consequential than the lie, but it wasn't true. The lie did matter because the corpse was there, calling forth the facts.
And, as for the many boys you drugged. drained, and lay with, I feigned resentment when, in fact, I welcomed your straying because your guilt in their aftermath bound you to me all the more tightly and allowed me my hours of observation with Daniel.
I told you I loved you, but did I? Hm? Did I? Or was it a clinging to the underside of anyone who would help me survive? And when I look back on who I've deceived, how I've deceived, how easy it was for me to lead a cult for 400 years, to burn in ritual any who broke the archaic laws we lived by, I- I think I might be a room without walls, floors, a ceiling. An infinite nothing.
Also yes. I put the Fred Steins in your photo collection just to fuck with your head.
And that is my full and heartfelt 'Armends'. And now, it's your turn.
[It's a Saturday morning] which means we won't be disturbed, as it's an observant butchery, and it's their Shabbos. All the shops along this avenue are closed. I was hoping time and perspective would have made you eager to repent. My blunder. I haven't properly laid our your predicament.
This is your sundered head. And this is your petulant body. And this is the glorious air between on which the two of you still manage to communicate a good 2 hours and 12 minutes since uncoupling. If you weren't Lestat's progeny, this would not be happening. You would be dead. Which is why this is being live-cast to a very important room gathered in Budapest. You are special, Louis.
Yes, our former doctor, back in research where he thrives, studying us, analysing us. But was he doing that all along? Hm? In Dubai? In Lestat's bus? He will say he was not here. And, if you reconsider your amends and survive, you most probably won't remember him.
Or this. Don't print the obituary just yet. Getting some much needed rest before the big concert, aren't we? I backdoored myself into his band, enjoyed ruining for the sake of ruining. Where is his- where is his head? It's with my companion.
I think you know you've wronged me. And I think you know the specific ways in which you've done it. Yes, you seem to be caught in that sentiment. Regrettably, your maker's body has not induced you to own it. So one additional motivation.
We broke in yesterday afternoon, glamoured a kindly brisket-carving butcher early home to Shabbos. We owe him new knives and a deep clean. You may own the night, Louis, but you're as kosher as clams casino.
Also, we brought her. Waitress, sister, daughter. None of those things."
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