“A Vampire Returns”

 

By Charles C Cole

 

     The dinner hour is over. The hallway outside my office is dark, intentionally. My workspace is dim but comfortable, a small gooseneck lamp on my desk. I’m a therapist for the self-conscious and the shy, for those who live outside the constraints of polite society. Some might call them monsters. I call them clients. They rarely come out in the day, but night is often a busy time for them.

     I look out my window at passing traffic then back at the open door to the hall. A vampire stands just outside. He wears a black trench coat. He is tall, face hidden under a gray fedora pulled down in front. He’s been here before, briefly. He wasn’t ready then, but he’s asked to reconvene. Is he ready now?

     “John, it’s good to see you. Come in. Close the door.”

     “Dr. Peabody, a man I never expected to see again, but here I am.”

     He enters and immediately sits opposite me. The chair creaks like he was a hundred pounds heavier. He removes his hat and holds it with both hands. It seems a vulnerable gesture. His eyes glow like those of a deer in the headlights. An imperfect metaphor for a night prowler.

     “How’ve you been?” I ask. It’s meant to be an ice-breaker.

     “The same, but maybe a little bit more in my head.”

     “When you were last here, I think you were starting to look at your lifestyle with fresh eyes.”

     “My lifestyle?”
     “Bad choice of words. I just mean, no matter what, when we examine something closely, we’re bound to see details we didn’t see before. Does that ring true?”

     He nods and smiles and, for a moment, I can see his sharp canines.

     “Tell me why you’re here, John. What brought you back?”

     “I guess it was your reputation,” he says, “as a patient and nonjudgmental listener.”

     “Thank you. I try,” I say. “Anything else?”

     “And because I learned something about myself since the last time I was here.”

     Then his eyes probe mine, exploring but tentative, almost mesmerizing. Am I losing control of my session? “Last time you brought sunglasses. Did you bring them? I might have a pair in my drawer…”

     He reaches inside his coat and pulls a pair of round purple-framed sunglasses from a breast pocket. “For you, Doctor. I apologize.”

     “Better,” I say. “Please go on.”

     “I thought I understood why I do what I do, that it was instinctive, a survival skill, no more. What you might consider a bad habit, an addiction. There was no thought to it: if I was hungry and some unlucky soul was conveniently nearby…”

     “Was there joy in it?” I ask.

     “No,” he says, and I believe him. “I wasn’t being smart. I wasn’t being thoughtful, just impulsive.”

     “Many people live life that way. You’re not alone. But I like what I’m hearing. It takes a brave man to look closely at himself in the mirror, seeing warts and all. But we need that step before we can move on to acceptance. You’re on a journey of self-discovery. It sounds exciting and, I hope, rewarding. Please continue.”

     “Lately, after I’ve ‘consumed’ – and I promise nobody died – I found myself in a quiet place and I asked myself:       What does this blood mean to me, besides just food? Because I knew there was more to it. Listening to you has made me more introspective, you see.”

     “Go on, John.”

     For a powerful hunter who rarely lets others close, he was genuinely sharing. I was moved.

     “I realized that when I bite someone, I’m not alone.” Could he read my mind? “And, afterwards, images and feelings from their life stories are accessible to me, like a movie trailer. I can see their recent highs and lows. I can feel their moods. And I’m not alone.”

     “Wow. I had no idea.”

     “Me either. So, I started getting choosy. No more drunks in alleys outside bars. No more homeless drifters sleeping in cars. I went for teachers and professors and doctors. It’s been a much better high. They feel good about themselves, so I feel good about myself, for a while anyway.”

     “That’s an interesting step,” I say. And I realize I’m damning with faint praise.

     “I’m still a hunter,” he explains. “I’ll always be a hunter. I can’t change that, but I can feel better about it. Maybe one day, I can ask permission…”

      “Sounds like you’ve found some answers. How can I help?”

      “You’re smart and compassionate, and you give generously of yourself.” He reaches for his glasses. I know where this is going.

     “Leave your glasses on, John. Let’s keep this professional.”

     To his credit, he stops himself. “I just thought that if I could understand you better, I could understand myself better, through your eyes. You’ve got all the answers. I know it’s not the ideal patient-therapist activity, but we should focus on the results. One time. One bite.”

     “I think we’re done,” I say, trying to be the clear authority in the room.

     “You see why I came back. I had to ask.” To his credit, again, he stands and prepares to leave, hat back on his head. “People always say: Don’t be a victim. You have to advocate for yourself. This is me advocating.”

      I stand and escort John to the door. He turns back to me in the hallway. “Did I just blow something that could have been wonderful? Or did you?”

     “We’ll never know,” I say. “Thanks for giving me a second shot. Have a good night, John.”

     I never see John again. But let me be clear: I do continue to see my regular “monster” clients and while our work is sometimes hard, the results are almost always wonderful. And that is why I continue.  

​

​

Charlie C. Cole lives in the Maine woods and loves cats. He has been writing flash fiction for about eleven years. Black Petals has previously published some 31 of my pieces, the last in 2017.

​

 Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His artwork has appeared over the years in Medusa’s Kitchen, Nerve Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, and Rogue Wolf Press, Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.