damnedest: (#17325211)
lestat de lioncourt. ([personal profile] damnedest) wrote 2024-08-08 12:09 am (UTC)

September 8th, 1973.

The date, scored into his consciousness. Clinging to it for another fifty years. Time progressing, slipping further away, threatening to, but Lestat, stubborn, claws in, repeating it to himself in the dark so that he wouldn't forget it while other memories slip, slide around, fade. September 8th, 1973, 11:07 a.m. in New Orleans, 9: 07 in San Francisco. Louis was in a dark way so he walked into the sun.

It's cold, the tide of understanding. Numbing, first. Barely feeling the cigarette between his fingers, barely conscious of the lavish room they are in. The wind, slamming the shutters of his hovel, the muffled sirens as the storm kicks up. Or, maybe, just the sound of an elevator moving through hotel levels, just the sirens in a city.

Lestat finds that the breaths he is pulling in are a little deeper and faster than before, and stems it by bringing his cigarette to his mouth. The smoke escaping him, fluttering. Eyes, watery.

"A week?" he repeats. Close to childish in tone, this confusion.

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