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théâtre des vampires
Joined January 2026
I could have backed away. I didn’t. We held each other tight for a moment. The cold embracing the cold. The hard embracing the hard.
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“Now he looks beautiful again,” Armand said. Didn’t I always? I was born beautiful! What an annoyance.
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“No, no, my dearest one,” he was whispering, “nothing but peace and sweetness and your arms in mine.”
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The only thought in my mind, the only image, the only idea, was of Armand.
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He said, “Come to me. Come to me because only I, and my like, can end the loneliness you feel”. It touched a well of inexpressible sadness. It sounded the depth of sadness, and my throat went dry with a powerful little knot where my voice might have been, yet I held fast.
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God, Satan, Armand? Does it feel true? The Gods are us. You are the Gods.
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Was it sadness I saw in his face then? Surely it wasn’t triumph.
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I do know that as the months passed he was out there again. I heard him from time to time just walking those old Garden District streets. And I wanted to call to him, to tell him that it was a lie I’d spoken to him, that I did love him. I did.
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I knew it as if the substantial place was but a phantasm, for what was real was his blood. It was as thick as honey, deep and strong of taste, a syrup for the very angels. I groaned aloud drinking it, feeling the searing heat of it, so unlike to any human blood.
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Slowly, I brushed his hair more tenderly, and I saw to my own mute shock one of my tears fall right onto his face. It was red yet watery and transparent and it appeared to vanish as it moved down the curve of his cheekbone and into the natural hollow below.
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“Fool,” he said again. His voice was roughened now by emotion he couldn’t suppress. “I have always loved you” he said.
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