A butterfly in winter.

This story is in no way intended to infringe on the rights of Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, other copyright holders which I have never heard of, or Anne Rice. It is merely a nonprofit, amateur effort at constructing a short story based around previously existing characters, because the author was too lazy to create her own.

        I awoke, gasping, from another wretched dream. Its flinty laugh mocked me as it danced into the wings, too swift for my sleep-weakened fingers to catch, to clutch tightly to my breast. Another dream of him, another vision, taunting glimpses of familiar blond hair and grey eyes. I blinked, a failed attempt at erasing his haughty face from my all too lucid mind. My fingers crept towards my face; touching moisture.
        Days, weeks had passed since Claudia killed him. “Him” — my creator, abuser, master, companion, he who endlessly left me unsatisfied and yet desirous of his company — Lestat. As the night air began to evaporate the scarlet-tinted tears, I tried to reason with myself. Surely I was over his death by now. He had been but a fleeting moment in my existence, a pretty plaything soon to be tossed, a rare flower soon to die. Why should I not be able to shrug him off, as a well-worn jacket?
        And yet…it was impossible. My mortal heart chained me to him, my memories of him, my first companion of this world of night. He had been my guide and mentor, however moronic, and too important to lose. Not like this. The memory of his scarred, sunken face, desperate eyes reaching for me, reaching, reaching —
        I shuddered and recoiled from the edge of the balcony, where my thoughts had been collecting. I wished to gather them into a neat, tidy pile and sweep them off the edge, let them scatter and float in the warm New Orleans air, let them land on someone else, burden someone else with my fractured sentimentality. I yearned for a heart of glass, as Claudia’s. But my human heart beat on.
        And now I closed my eyes, indulging myself for one secret moment. I imagined him back, eyes glinting, mouth set in a clever smirk. He would insult me, speak to me, laugh with me, watch me with a thoughtful air as I read. We would go to the theater to see Macbeth for the eighth time, Claudia gathered in my arms, Lestat’s cane tapping out a cheerful pattern. Or he would bend over the piano to unravel some new tune of that pianist of his, laying it out as an elegant jeweler’s case for all the world to hear.
        Such a tune lifted me gently out of my rumination. I listened to it, listless, content, for a moment — and then started, hand flashing out to grip the rail. I whirled, darting through the rooms, a name tasting so beautiful on my lips —
        But the taste fell away, the glimpse of a butterfly in winter. A different mass of blond hair was bent over the piano, intent on that young musician’s scrawl. A different head.
       Claudia looked up when I entered, a smile turning her freshly pink lips. But the smile faltered and died when she saw my apathetic stare, the way my hand hung lifeless on the doorframe. She ran her eyes over me once more before turning back to the piano, as if in defeat. The music slowly resumed. And I did not move. I stood as a stone, a monolith impervious to all the weather, the lifeless weight of granite in my veins. Had I expected him to be here? I would have ridiculed myself, but I lacked the emotion. There was no emotion. Emotion had died along with Lestat that night, in the rank, putrid swamp.