He draws on my skin.

"You are an artwork", he mumbles. "Look at all those beautiful red lines on your pale skin." Droplets roll down. I feel them. Sometimes, he holds a mirror above me and then I have to look. I am art, and I depict hell.

"I wonder if you'd die if press a little harder? If I open those veins of yours? Let all the demons inside you bleed out? Would there be any of you left?" I hope there wouldn't.

***

I live. Life is pain.

***

Everyone dies. Papà acts strange too.

"Stay away! Don't come near me, Dante." His voice is hoarse. "I'm cursed. Tainted." I don't say anything. Papà likes quiet. He's not cursed. I want a hug, but if I don't do what he says, he spanks me.

"You have to go to San Michele. The monastery. Tell them the Black Death has come for me."

"What's the Black Death?"

Papà moans. It sounds a bit like the air when he's blowing glass.

"Now, Dante. The Lord be with you."

***

He whips me. I have to atone for my sins. My existence.

***

He pinches my nose and pours hot liquid in my mouth. It feels like molten fire and I burn, drown, burn, cry. My intestines go up my throat and I puke and choke. I can't turn my head to the side. I can't breathe.

***

My blood is salty. Like seawater. Vile. I don't know when I last tasted salt.

***

I float in the dark. It is where I belong.

Am I dead?

The light spears through me. It is pain.

***

I heal. Fast. I don't want to, because it means I suffer.

***

I read Augustinus. The abbot says I have a talent for Latin. I want to serve our Lord too. There's no other place that would accept someone with my eyes and hair and skin.

Sometimes, brother Geronimo takes me to his room at night. I don't cry.

***

The scariest monsters are the ones that are too similar to us. I am the monster. He destroyed me.

***

Papà and I are in the Chiesa di San Rocco. The priest speaks Latin. I understand him. I'm nineteen. Papà hugs me.

After mass, I go to the cemetery. He doesn't have a grave. I do.

***

My bed is drenched in sweat. I'm dreaming. Dying.

***

There is a void in me and I need to fill it. When I bleed, I bleed white. I float in dark and light. In and out. Above the clouds. Lighter and heavier than ever. I can't feel my head. Can't think.

***

Papà brings home a piece of glass in red and blue.

"It's unclear. I wouldn't be able to sell it. And it's too small."

I use a piece of string to tie it around my neck. It's pretty.

Papà smiles.

***

A woman smiles at me.

Mother Mary.

I drink.

***

I am free and I quench my thirst. I drink in gulps until I'm full and I leave a brown shell. I am emptier than ever. He didn't exorcise the monster. He created it.

***

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Where am I? Am I dreaming?

I shiver. I'm wet and bathed in light that filters through my eyelids. I turn my head. My pillow is soft.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

My alarm clock grates on my nerves. I don't know how to lift my arm. Even thinking about it drains my energy. Can I sleep? How late is it? Nine o'clock. How long did I sleep? It can't have been for eighteen hours, but I got home shortly after two pm. No wonder I still feel tired. Too much sleep.

I don't feel hot, nor dizzy. It is like a cycle. I wake up just fine, I get sick around noon, I fall asleep, and I am cured during the night. If this is not a dream, at least. Maybe I only sweated so much because of all the nightmares.

Or maybe I am a new Prometheus. Liver eaten during the day and growing back at night, only to suffer more. Sounds like my life. No god appreciates an immortal human. It is hubris and I am a monster. Frankenstein's monster. Or should I quote Mary Shelley: 'Frankenstein, the modern Prometheus'? The irony: Prometheus creating Prometheus.

Why can't I forget? Am I to be haunted by memories and dreams for all of eternity? While I am physically fine, the fragments of my dreams are stuck in my skin like shards of glass. They weren't all memories, but it's difficult to remember when the details are already fading. They were likely just fever dreams, and there are more pressing matters to attend to.

Why in the name of God did I end up in this cycle of suffering? Why am I healthy for hundreds of years, through epidemics and wars and not always the best living conditions, and now – not anymore?

What do I have? I can't exactly go to a doctor when I have a different disease every day, am perfectly fine in the morning and I am not a normal human being. If they wanted to do a blood test, I'd be screwed. Especially since I didn't feed yesterday. Someone with an abnormally high count of white blood cells doesn't go unnoticed.

The only option left is to do it myself. I should still have the basic stuff somewhere, but that's material from the sixties. Not exactly foolproof anymore, but it's worth trying. My memory is not foolproof either, but that's why I kept my syllabi.

***

My morning is slow. I take a long shower and have a copious breakfast. It won't replenish my red blood cells, but I still need the energy. Maybe I should go out to feed now, but it's more difficult in the middle of the day. People are in a hurry and there are more passers-by who could get suspicious. It's almost eleven am when I've dug up the relics of my medical studies. I'd forgotten I'd put those boxes in my garage that I never use because Brussels and a car don't get along.

By the time I have a vial of blood, it's noon, and after lunch, I sense the first signs of another illness. It's just a fever, but it's somehow enough to stop my brain from functioning. I doze off on the couch while dusk is setting and when I wake up, it's too late to go out and feed. Technically, I could, but I have no intention or desire to get drunk or high and I won't meet many other people at three am.

However, this creates a predicament: If I don't feed, I won't have any blood to carry oxygen to my heart or brain or limbs. And then I'd probably die, but I don't want to think about that. Or about the other possibility my dreams so nicely reminded me of. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Should I examine my blood now? It's night, but I've just slept for more than nine hours. For once, I don't still feel tired. On the other hand, I don't want to mess up my sleep schedule. With all the sleep I've been getting during the day lately, I might become a true vampire who only wakes up at night.

For the next few hours, I look at every proverbial nook and cranny of the blood I took earlier, but I can't find any indication of what I might have. Nothing. It might be because of my outdated microscope or because I don't own the right research tools, nor can I make use of a good laboratory, but the nothingness is so complete I'm inclined to think there's just nothing strange in my blood. I have no idea where that leaves me. Enduring? Hoping it passes like the flu or a cold? After all, up to now, I've mostly had flu-like symptoms.

Since I can't cure what I don't know, I'll have to spend the time I'm well, wisely. Maybe I should pop in at the chemist's shop this morning. At least I'll be able to find something against coughing and sore throats. And some extra vitamins won't harm me either.