Prison Break
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” I paced the vast expanse of the library, running my fingers over rows of old books. “You know that as well as I do.”
“I know,” he replied, without looking up from the novel that consumed him.
“He’s made prisoners of us both,” I plucked a volume from the shelf and blew away a cloud of dust before flipping through the time-yellowed pages. Mon dieu, this was the dullest existence I could possibly imagine!
“Yes,” he spoke quietly, but without hesitation.
That was when I noticed that he was agreeing with me. I had expected a protest or even another lecture on why Lestat is doing the right thing, but his mood had changed recently. His apathy and bitterness mirrored my own.
Louis been on edge for a while and though I never asked him directly, I knew the cause.
A few nights ago, he had thrown his mobile phone against the wall in a fit of rage and stormed out of the château. I’d picked the device up, expecting it to be broken, but the ever-so-practical protective case had kept it intact.
When I held it up to inspect it, the screen had lit up. At first, I thought it odd that the poster boy for privacy wouldn’t have any security on his phone, but I soon realised that he did. The tiny silhouette at the top of the display confirmed my suspicions. The facial recognition software had mistaken my face for his and unlocked the phone the moment I looked at it.
My contemptuous laughter echoed through the room. I’d always known that Louis and I were similar in appearance, but this only confirmed the theory that he had been made in my image. A substandard replacement for what had been lost.
The source of his fury smiled seductively at me from the glowing screen. Lestat: a picture of immortal perfection. Heavy-lidded grey eyes gleamed with an almost palpable intensity. His skin was flushed as if hot from a kill and disheveled blond hair fanned out on the pillow beneath his head. The words I miss you had been scrawled across the top of the photograph in digital red. It only took a second for me to spot what had set Louis off. Right there, in the lower right corner of the image, almost as if it had been placed there deliberately, was a curl of auburn hair against the tanned flesh of Lestat’s shoulder. Armand.
That night, Louis and I had talked for the first time in years. And I mean really talked. We traded truth for truth, desire for desire and pain for pain.
Our relationship had altered during these past six months of playing prisoner and warden. What had begun as an obligation slowly grew into a mutual respect and, dare I say, a sense of camaraderie. While there would never again be any great love between us, the resentment of the past had been replaced by an understanding that could only come from the shared experiences that we had both been subjected to at the hands of one golden-haired fiend.
I moved behind the chair he was seated in and placed my hands on his shoulders, feeling the constant tension in his muscles. When I leaned in close, my lips brushed his ear in a way that caused a sharp intake of breath.
“Why are we still here, mon frère?”
He stiffened at this unwelcome familiarity and placed his book on the table. Rising to his feet, he turned to face me.
“That is an excellent question.”
One dark eyebrow raised. The corners of his lips twitched. Was that the beginning of a smile or had the incessant company of one who didn’t know the meaning of the word fun finally driven me mad? Pale fingers stroked his chin as if he were deep in thought then suddenly, he gestured for me to stay put and disappeared from the room like a man on a mission.
Moments later, he returned with a small object in his hand. He grasped my arm and pressed it into my palm. His touch was colder than the metal key he had given me.
“What is this?”
Louis has always been impossible to read. His neutral expression revealed nothing, but there was something behind that verdant gaze that told me to stop asking questions.
“The key to my Suzuki. The ride to Paris will take five or six hours and the road may be rough in some places, so I suggest that you leave now. If you think you won’t make it before dawn, stop in Clermont-Ferrand for the day. I trust that you have accommodations there?”
I stared at him with my mouth agape, turning the key over in my fingers to reassure myself that is was not a figment of my imagination.
“I wish I could say that it’s been a pleasure,” He continued, “but we both know that would be a lie.”
With that, he settled back into the chair and picked up his book again.
I left without another word. It was going to be a long, cold journey back to Paris and I was determined to be home before sunrise.
“I know,” he replied, without looking up from the novel that consumed him.
“He’s made prisoners of us both,” I plucked a volume from the shelf and blew away a cloud of dust before flipping through the time-yellowed pages. Mon dieu, this was the dullest existence I could possibly imagine!
“Yes,” he spoke quietly, but without hesitation.
That was when I noticed that he was agreeing with me. I had expected a protest or even another lecture on why Lestat is doing the right thing, but his mood had changed recently. His apathy and bitterness mirrored my own.
Louis been on edge for a while and though I never asked him directly, I knew the cause.
A few nights ago, he had thrown his mobile phone against the wall in a fit of rage and stormed out of the château. I’d picked the device up, expecting it to be broken, but the ever-so-practical protective case had kept it intact.
When I held it up to inspect it, the screen had lit up. At first, I thought it odd that the poster boy for privacy wouldn’t have any security on his phone, but I soon realised that he did. The tiny silhouette at the top of the display confirmed my suspicions. The facial recognition software had mistaken my face for his and unlocked the phone the moment I looked at it.
My contemptuous laughter echoed through the room. I’d always known that Louis and I were similar in appearance, but this only confirmed the theory that he had been made in my image. A substandard replacement for what had been lost.
The source of his fury smiled seductively at me from the glowing screen. Lestat: a picture of immortal perfection. Heavy-lidded grey eyes gleamed with an almost palpable intensity. His skin was flushed as if hot from a kill and disheveled blond hair fanned out on the pillow beneath his head. The words I miss you had been scrawled across the top of the photograph in digital red. It only took a second for me to spot what had set Louis off. Right there, in the lower right corner of the image, almost as if it had been placed there deliberately, was a curl of auburn hair against the tanned flesh of Lestat’s shoulder. Armand.
That night, Louis and I had talked for the first time in years. And I mean really talked. We traded truth for truth, desire for desire and pain for pain.
Our relationship had altered during these past six months of playing prisoner and warden. What had begun as an obligation slowly grew into a mutual respect and, dare I say, a sense of camaraderie. While there would never again be any great love between us, the resentment of the past had been replaced by an understanding that could only come from the shared experiences that we had both been subjected to at the hands of one golden-haired fiend.
I moved behind the chair he was seated in and placed my hands on his shoulders, feeling the constant tension in his muscles. When I leaned in close, my lips brushed his ear in a way that caused a sharp intake of breath.
“Why are we still here, mon frère?”
He stiffened at this unwelcome familiarity and placed his book on the table. Rising to his feet, he turned to face me.
“That is an excellent question.”
One dark eyebrow raised. The corners of his lips twitched. Was that the beginning of a smile or had the incessant company of one who didn’t know the meaning of the word fun finally driven me mad? Pale fingers stroked his chin as if he were deep in thought then suddenly, he gestured for me to stay put and disappeared from the room like a man on a mission.
Moments later, he returned with a small object in his hand. He grasped my arm and pressed it into my palm. His touch was colder than the metal key he had given me.
“What is this?”
Louis has always been impossible to read. His neutral expression revealed nothing, but there was something behind that verdant gaze that told me to stop asking questions.
“The key to my Suzuki. The ride to Paris will take five or six hours and the road may be rough in some places, so I suggest that you leave now. If you think you won’t make it before dawn, stop in Clermont-Ferrand for the day. I trust that you have accommodations there?”
I stared at him with my mouth agape, turning the key over in my fingers to reassure myself that is was not a figment of my imagination.
“I wish I could say that it’s been a pleasure,” He continued, “but we both know that would be a lie.”
With that, he settled back into the chair and picked up his book again.
I left without another word. It was going to be a long, cold journey back to Paris and I was determined to be home before sunrise.