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My first memory. I'm being run down by slavers in Delhi.
Your first memory. You are here, sitting on the ground, staining your dhoti with the mud as you peel a mango with your teeth. The juice runs down your chest and stickies your fingers. It's all over your mouth. The juice. Sun bright. Yellow. It drips down your chin and you dig your teeth into the flesh; more juice running from the side of your lips, down your chin. It falls down into the soil. The earth claims its own libation.
Your first memory. You are here, sitting on the ground, staining your dhoti with the mud as the sun shines on your face. The innards of the Dasheri are painted in the shape of the sun above you, painting you the same yellows as the rest of the world. Your world is this ground, the sitoliya stones abandoned in a corner, a tree bowing under the weight of engorged mangoes, your friends, and you, with your friends, bowed over the mangoes. The light makes itself known over the tree, slithers between the leaves' shade. The earth weaves itself a tapestry of sun and shade, mango juice and blood.
Your first memory. You are here, sitting on the ground, staining your dhoti with the mud as Ma calls you inside. The scrape on your knee has long since stopped bleeding but the ground is still tinged an ugly brown from where the blood had fallen onto the earth. The earth claims its own libation. You stand, your dhoti is the colour of the earth, and you walk to your house. Ma will scold you for being so careless and Ma will wash your knee and give you a ladoo to make up for the pain of the scrape.
Your second memory. You do not know what this place is. There are no more mangoes or sitoliya. No Ma to slip a ladoo into your hand and bandage your cuts. No pitaji to apply salve to your bruises and make you a gilli. You remember pain. You remember blood. You remember a lack of Dusheri aam. You remember patterned fabrics, nothing like the white dhotis you wore earlier.
Your second memory. You do not know what this place is. There is no more soft mitti for you to run on. The earth is ripe with engorged stones cutting into your feet. You remember running. You remember the lack of a sun, painted like the innards of a mango. You remember the blood from the soles of your feet weaving itself with the rocks and dirt. The earth claims its own libation.
Your second memory. You do not know what this place is. You are with the wind. You do not know anything. You know you need to outrun these men and their strange tongues. The taller one says something to the other. You try to make sense of it. You cannot. You fall down, palms and face bruising from the impact. You remember the dark. You remember red best of all. Colour of marriage, colour of your mother's sindoor and the fabric pitaji would get to decorate shrines with and the tika that they would place on your forehead. This red is nothing like that. There is nothing else this red could be like.
You remember being taught to read namaz, your one comfort in the alien place. It's hypnotic, it's calming. It keeps you alive: these prayers chanted in unison, the old rituals you follow religiously. You trace the words and the movements of the Imam. There is peace here, in the repetitive rituals. You treasure this time. You are allowed no other reprieve but this. It is precious. You walk from the brothel, wash yourself clean, put on the jama you save for the masjid, pray, spend hours gazing at the mihrab and the patterns etched on the domes until the Imam tells you that the mistress of the brothel requires you.
Your third memory. There is a man with a strange name and strange clothes who speaks in strange tongues. He is strange, you decree. He looks at you and you feel strangely shy. He asks you if you would like to travel with him. You do not say no. He calls himself Marius de Romanus. When he asks your name, you no longer know. The sound dies on your tongue, honey sweet syllables — Arun — wrap around your throat when you try to spit them out. He calls you Amadeo.
Your third memory. There is a man with a strange name and strange clothes who speaks in strange tongues. You are Amadeo, He decrees. He treats you kindly. You spend nights in His bed. You spend some other nights in His friends' beds. You do not say no. He praises you and pampers you. You bask in it as though you were under the mangoed light of the sun. You are not allowed to eat mangoes lest you spoil your skin. You do not disagree. He is kind and you wish be be worthy of that kindness.
Your third memory. There is a man with a strange name and strange clothes who speaks in strange tongues. He is His friend, you decree. He paints you a smidge too light. You are flattered all the same. You feel like one of the nobles who would sit and have their portraits made. Later, he takes you in the room he paints in. He spills on the floor. The earth claims its own libation. You slip away with honeyed footsteps when the moon shines over you, leaving the painter snoring lightly.
Your third memory. Third? Your fourth memory. Fourth? Your memory. Memory. It's hot. It hurts. It's cold. A cold hand. A cold hand on your forehead. Stickiness of sweat. Gentle shushing. Murmured gibberish. Ma? Pitaji? Is it Him?
You are this: inflamed, an extension of your pain, hot and then cold, blood and sweat. You are this: hurting hurting hurting. You are this: mouth forming words in the shape of your saviour. Footsteps follow the sound of your refrains. A cool hand on your forehead. He is here. He is here so you are all right. Pain, blinding pain and unimaginable ecstasy. You are free. You are crying. You are the cloying air of your room and the sunshine you engorge yourself on, when He allows you outside. Hunger, hunger, hunger. All consuming, omnipotent and omniscient. This hunger will eat you alive. You drink and drink and drink. It's like honey on your tongue, sweet. You're parched and then you're given something to drink and then it is wrenched away. It is as though you're seeing the world for the first time.
You feel as if you've lived your life in darkness and silence, and it is only now that the world greets you with open arms. You look to Him. He stands bowed above you, mouth and chin and shirt stained with blood — eyes clouded over and boring into you, all the same. It drips from his arm, too — the blood — and falls onto the ground. The earth claims its own libation. You've— you've drunk this? Blood. You've drunk blood. You've drunk blood. You feel sick. You feel drunk on it. You want— He holds you close, shushes you. Rocks you through your crying as thought you were but a child. Murmured gibberish, again. Nonetheless, these glossemes are their own comfort. There is peace in this. You treasure it.
Your first memory. You are here, kneeling on the ground, staining your hose as you dig your teeth into the man. The blood runs down and stains your fingers. It's all over your mouth. The blood. Red like the rouge you would sometimes put on your lips. It drips down your chin and you dig your teeth deeper into the flesh; more blood runs from the side of your lips, down your chin. It falls into the small fissure in the pavement beneath you. The earth claims its own libation.
Your first memory. You are here, kneeling on the ground, staining your hose with the dust as the moon shines above you. It is sly, the moon. It holds your secrets close as you keep close His secrets. Your world is Him bowed over you as a merciful shepherd over his injured sheep, your gnawing hunger, this aching desperation, singed glass-like awareness of the low thrum of the mango's heart beating like some desperate moth, your own suckling like a newborn infant, and your own self bowed over the man whose blood renews your life. The moonlight makes itself known, slithers between the crevices of your self, casting Him in the shape of a shadow falling over you and the man. When you look into the eyes of the man whose blood you've drank, you find your own face illuminated by the light of the moon as He praises you for a job well done. You hear none but the low ringing in your ears and the dogs howling five streets away. Nonetheless, these glossemes are their own comfort.
Your first memory. You are here, kneeling on the ground, as He guides you to stand tells you to not drink from the dead lest they take you with them into death. The man's neck has long since stopped bleeding but the pavement is still tinged a strange incarnadine where the blood had fallen onto the ground and slithered somewhere. You wonder if it has made its way to Jahannum to propitiate the soul you have taken. You stand, your hose is the colour of the pavement dirt, and you walk back with Him. He will wash you gently and speak to you in dulcet tones of the Gift He has given you, and He will teach you how to wield it as another one of your ornaments.
Your second memory. You do not know what this place is. There are no more patrons or paintings. No trace of Him who would hold you close, whisper saccharine words into your ears, whom you would serve with effrenated adoration. No brothers, no sisters whose screams echo in your ears, a dull pantomime of a heartbeat. You remember blood. You remember fire. You remember too much of your hunger and porcelain awareness of His absence.
Your second memory. You do not know what this place is. Your clothes, usually high fashion, made of the finest fabrics, are dirtied and torn. You can barely tell the colour of your shirt apart from the colour of the light dust that would remain on the pavements when He and you went out to hunt on nights like these, when the moon shone brighter than the fire that took Him, took Riccardo and Bianca. These people stand before you, claim to serve no God but a devil — they call him Satan. They insist on calling you Armand. It takes so little time for him to go from being God's (and His) beloved to a mere soldier, another piece in whatever game that Heaven has placed you in. You look at the people who chased you down, kept you from joining Him into the fire — matted hair, sunken eyes, none of the grandeur of your earlier life. They teach you to be a vampire anew. Rules upon rules. Is this your life now?
Your second memory. You do not know what this place is. The hunger is unbearable. You are given a young boy to eat. You do not care who or what is it; you think of nothing but the blood pouring into your mouth, like honey on your tongue, wrapping itself around your throat and holding your words captive. You drink and drink and drink and you finally feel something resembling sane when the hunger is satiated, and you— It's your brother. It's your brother, you've fed on your brother what have you done it's Riccardo, you've—
You remember being taught newer rules, laws you must not break. You wish you'd killed more of them; you wish you'd killed everyone of them. He is no longer here; Riccardo was with you but does it matter? You learn to be a vampire anew. All the glamour of your previous life with it's fine fabrics and regal habits and perfectly styled hair lost. This is what you have now, you are told. This misery, this squalor, this blood. This is where you die. This is the place you mark with your screams. This is the place where you become a stranger to your own self. There is peace in this. Now am I become Armand, you think. Now you are become Armand. You ravish, you kill without abandon, no more do you grant peace to your victims: thou hast killed and gorged thyself. This is thy destiny, soldier. This is thy lyfe, Armand. Demon. Dybbuk. What God shall accept thee into his abode now? His kingdom shall remain too faraway for one like thee, who, living amongst the children of the Devil himself, tremblst by Heaven's very name, by His very name. Thou art Damned, Devil, Olim amatus deo.
Your third memory. There are people with strange names and strange clothes who speak in strange tongues. They are strange, thou decreest. Thou hath been sent to the land of Paris with the mission of leading the coven. They live not dissimilar to how the Children of Satan did, not dissimilar to how you live. Santiano asked thee to travel there. Thou didst not speak thy refusal. When thy new coven asks thy name, thou knowst not what to speak. They call thee Maître. Thou dost not speak thy refusal.
Your third memory. There are people with strange names and strange clothes who speak in strange tongues. Thou art their Maître, they decree. They treat thee reverently. Thou spendst the nights in shame, splendid squalor admist thy Children. There is a man. The Bastard of Magnus. He preens as a tropical bird before mortals, makes an entertainment out of his own self. Thou goest to see him, so that he may learn the ways of thee and thy Children. Each night he spends with his mortal lover weighs upon thy mind for thy Children protest to the violation this venerated Law that he so blithely flouts. Lestat, he calls himself. Thou must bring him into the coven, put an end to this love affair lest you lose your Children to their own rebellion. Thou feelst thine hold over them slipping each night Lestat roams freely while they remain forbidden to do but live in secrecy. There is no choice. When thy Children entreat you, thou doest not speak thy refusal.
Your third memory. There is a man with Lestat, a man with a violin whom Magnus' Bastard calls Nicki. When Lestat turns thy Children against thee, when this golden-haired, insolent, impertinent, lovely brat prince turns his affections towards thee, and turns his teeth to Gift his little mortal lover despite thy warnings, thou standst and watchst. Thy refusal does not leave thy lips, does not form into speech. Thy Children burn the little mortal boy and Lestat: he burns thy Children. There is peace in this. Thou clingst to thy rituals of ye olden days, and Lestat clings to thee.
Your third memory. Third? Your fourth memory. Fourth? Your memory. Memory. Lestat. Lestat isn't here. Your Children aren't here. The coven burns and a Théâtre stands in its stead. You do your duty. You think of Him. You do you do you you do you do do do you do your duty duty duty your your duty your duty your your yours. You think you think you think think think think you you think and think and you and think and you and think and you and you and you and of Him and Him and Him and Him and of of of Him and of of Him think you you Him of Him of Him you you Him Him of Him.
You are this: Armand, Maître, Demon, Lover, Directeur Artistique. You lead, you direct, you ask your new coven to write and stage new plays. Lestat taught you this pride as He had taught you to relish the blood, as He taught you you deck yourself in regalia, as Santiano had taught you to ravish, as Riccardo taught you the cards, as you had been taught sitoliya, as someone had took you by the hand and taught you to dig your teeth into fruits of the colour of the dawn that your kind cannot endure. You are this: teeth digging into the thin skin, you chin and clothes stained, it's like sunlight in your chest, it's tasteless when you eat, the same colour as the sun that would once shine upon Amadeo, bathe him with gentle light, absolve him of what he would not speak of; and He would come to scold Amadeo.
"Stay out of the sun," He would say.
"You will spoil your skin, silly child," He would say.
Amadeo, for all his worship, would not listen to this one command, but He, in all His kindness, would not rebuke you further. You loved Him and you loved Riccardo and you loved Lestat. What difference did your adoration make? You serve them with all your heart for beyond your heart, you have little else to offer.
You look down now, the boy almost dead. The blood has dripped down your chin and stained your shirt. The boy is breathing too lightly now, his eyes are clouded over now; his blood tastes faintly of the mangoes you had compelled him to indew. The blood, the juice, your own saliva, his spend, it all corrivates as Amadeo turns Armand turns Maître. You've taken too much; the boy will not survive. You sink your teeth into the thick flesh of the boy one last time, hear him moan again, and then finally he goes limp in your arms.
You dispose off him and ascend to your box to watch what new play Sam has come up with. They're much livelier, the new coven. Liveliness, however, brings with it rebellion. Santiago will be the most troublesome of them all. The others, he can manage, although he may need a far more dictatorial approach than he preferred with his Children. The new ones, they brim with the mutinousness of juvenescence and the Théâtre has given them a sort of uncumberment you would not have but dare imagined in your own youngth.
Your first memory. You are here, trailing behind the American vampire and the girl. The moon shines down on them, and you retreat into the shadows to keep watch. You do not understand. You wait for them to pay their respects to the coven, come forth and introduce themselves. They do no such thing. It is most certainly a slight to the dignity of your bearing as the maître and to your coven. They inhabit an apartment some two kilometers from Pigalle: one floor above the owners, and one floor below the students and sex workers; literally encircled by curious and money-hungry motivations. Are they romantic? No. Who is the master? Neither, it seems. The male hunts to please her, the girl suffers philosophical conversation to please him. The American vampires appeared to be as dull and plain as their tourists and soldiers were. The best course of action would be to do away with them, confer upon them the same fate as they had thrust upon their maker. Upon Lestat. And yet, for all their blandness, you cannot help but be fascinated by them, drawn as a moth to flame, as ants feed upon mangoes. The coven grows restless every day, their rebellion rises over you as the first rays of dawn and you decide at once that the Americans must be led to them as you had tried to lead in their maker to your Children.
Your first memory. You are here, standing by the banister as you introduce the Americans to your coven.
Your first memory. You are here, sitting by the stage and watching the Americans being tried.
Your first memory. You are here, watching Louis suckle at your wrist, your blood running down his chin, staining his shirt anew.
Your first memory. You are here, running after Louis as he runs himself into the a morning painted in the colour of the innards of a Dasheri.
My second. An eager black hole.