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”One-hundred-and-twenty-seven.”
She started counting after the one hundred mark.
”Are you gonna clean it up, or will you leave that to him again? You know he will.”
He knows. He hates it, yet, he never does anything to protest when the cleaning crew of one shows up.
”I love him.”
Defensive.
”You keep saying that. Doing a piss-poor job of showing him, though.”
Agitation inside his skull, burnt flesh in his mouth. Number one-hundred-and-twenty-seven hits the floor, skin soft and uncharred.
”I’m your excuse for not being shitty. They loved you enough to burn me, even though you punished them for loving you. If you hadn’t made me a fucked up patron saint of self-pitying monsters, they wouldn’t have resented me! I probably wouldn’t have resented them. Maybe I wouldn’t have resented you either. You’re the common denominator in all of your unhappy homes, brother.”
One-hundred-and-twenty-seven hits the wall.
”Four hundred years unloved, Armand. Leading, protecting, never once being chosen. Like me, you know, only he had centuries to get truly fucked in the head from it.”
One-hundred-and-twenty-seven releases his bowels and empties his bladder. Armand will clean it up.
”I felt your rage when I told you about… him. Imagine that, for a child with only foreign words. For years. Think about it, being… what… eleven or twelve, thinking you’re gonna to die soon, crying, with a cock up your ass. You felt no outrage for him when he told you. He was afraid to share, but his heart and body had only gotten him public fucking humiliation, so he tried rolling over, trusting you with his dirtiest secrets. You thought about Lestat. He knows. Knew it even then.”
One-hundred-and-twenty-seven is pushed to the side as the door opens.
”Do you need my help, my love?”
”Thank you, Arun.”