On Sunday, I feel so lightheaded that I decide I don't have any choice but to knock on the door of a neighbouring apartment. I prefer not to drink from people I know or might see again because there's a bigger chance they might remember something they shouldn't, but I can't bear the agony from the past days anymore. I felt out of breath if I walked to the toilet and back to my bed. Sometimes, I felt like I couldn't breathe and my chest ached as if it was battered inside and out.

It takes almost an hour before I have fresh clothes on because I have so little energy and I nap for ten minutes in between my shirt and my trousers. I'm also in dire need of a shower, but that'll have to wait. My pheromones are currently so overpowering nobody will think I smell bad anyway.

I knock on Charles' door. Even lifting my arm that far is exhausting. He opens.

"Dante! What are you doing here? You know your apartment's next door, right? Are you okay? You don't look too good, dude." His words clutter together and break into pieces in my head.

"Can I come in?" My voice is hoarse and bounces inside my skull. I swallow down the phlegm, but it closes up my throat. I stumble inside before Charles answers. I can't step without thinking, but I can't think.

"Oh, man. Fuck. Let's bring you to the couch, yeah?" He slides an arm around my shoulders. I'm only half a meter from his neck and even though I can't smell his blood, I do smell him and I am thirsty and he's close, so I don't wait. I can't think with this fog in my mind and my heart beating painfully slow. Painful.

I gulp his blood down as if it's a matter of life and death. It is.

Charles sags against me. He's breathing heavily, his eyes closed. My mind clears. Fuck. He can't- But no, I haven't. I lead him to his couch, lay him down and fetch a glass of water. Do I just leave him here? He might remember my coming to his door. That I was unwell. There's no logical explanation why he's suddenly the one unwell. I don't even know him. We only ever greet each other in passing.

Charles groans. It crawls in my stomach and nestles among the thousands of other people I've left weak and dazed. I flee, full of blood, but it was poisoned with something bitter and kills me from the inside.

***

It's three pm and there's nothing wrong with me yet. I don't believe it. I shower again. No abnormal spots. No headache. No nausea. No coughing. I don't believe it. I still have to blow my nose, but it's just a normal cold. As if anything is normal. I'm not. I'm a monster. I can only leave and leave and leave. If only I could leave this body.

It's eight pm and I eat. I read. I go to bed at ten. I wake up at seven. I don't believe it.

It's noon. I don't cough, don't pass out, don't sleep.

At six, I go out with lead in my veins. I wish I could skip this day, but I can't take the risk. Yesterday wasn't enough and maybe there won't be a tomorrow for this. It'll come back.

I dwell through the dying streets of the evening rush and lose myself, but I've already lost and I can't.

I recite Eliot in my head on the cadence of my steps.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells

Somewhere in the world, people die, and I am not one of them. I am condemned to life. To liberty, as Sartre would have said.

A few homeless people have sought refuge from cold and rain. I am jealous of them. It is the jealousy of a privileged man, but at least they can die. If I wanted to die, I'd have to take my own life, but how can I destroy what was given to me by God? Most days, it doesn't feel like a gift, nor like I am one of His children, but centuries of Christianity have moulded my mind and soul, and doesn't Israel mean 'he who fought with God'? Besides, just thinking about it seems like a hassle. I just want to fall asleep and never wake up. Cease to exist. Cease to think, dream, live. I'm just tired.

By now, I'm in Brussels-South Station. The yellowy walls are harsh in the cold light – no marble halls in my dreams – and the hall is still filled with people. Airy spiders crawl and wriggle under my clothes. The crowd moves and hums and I don't know which one of us is the true beast.

I lock eyes with an older man in a suit. His face is a map of his life: valleys and rivers, bare to erosion. I stare at him. He stares back through big glasses with a thin frame. He frowns. Stops.

"Can I help you, sir?" He speaks French.

I look away, at his shoulder, everywhere but his eyes as long as it's not considered impolite. "Oh no! I'm sorry. I'm just... I've had a rough week. Been sick and such."

His forehead creases. "Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"I don't think so. It seems to be better anyway."

"Think so? You haven't been to a doctor? You shouldn't take that risk when you're nearing fifty or over it." I find there is a certain irony in his assumption that I'm younger than he probably is, while I am so much older.

"I'm a very healthy person and I never get sick, so I figured I wouldn't suddenly be in danger now."

He shakes his head while I'm still speaking. "See? That's where it goes wrong more often than not. Even the healthiest person can get seriously sick. I hope you at least stayed home from work."

"I did." I smile. "Are you a doctor?"

"I am. I'm sorry for my unsolicited advice. Professional malpractice."

I wave my hand in a dismissive gesture. "I don't mind. I studied medicine as well and I'm a teacher now, so I get how it can be a default mode."

His steps falter. "You teach medicine? Where do you teach then?"

I shake my head. "I don't teach medicine. I just studied it. I teach Greek and Latin here in Brussels."

"You studied medicine and you teach Greek and Latin? How did that happen?"

I laugh. "Technically, I studied both of course, but the classics are my passion and medicine was more of a personal challenge."

"I've never heard of someone who studied medicine for fun." I don't react. I can't very well tell him I had too much time on my hands, can I? No normal person has.

I glance at the thinning crowd around us. "Where are you headed?" The man frowns. His greying brows are still heavy. "I'd like to talk more if you don't mind."

"I'm going home."

"Can I accompany you? I'm taking my evening walk and I often strike up a conversation with a stranger. Always interesting and you meet all sorts of people." His muscles relax. That phrase always works to make them less suspicious. And on my good days, I do like the conversations and the people I get to meet. The bad days only accentuate what I don't have.

"Alright. If it's not too far out of your way." We start a nice stroll. "I'm Emile, by the way."

"Dante."

"Like the author?"

"Yes, though my last name is not Alighieri and I'm from Venice." I'm feeling generous with information today, and if I'm unlucky, I still have a long way to fill with idle chatter.

"You're Italian? You don't have an accent at all."

"I've been here a long time and French is not that different." It's better than my Dutch, even though I've spoken more Dutch than French in the last century.

"So have you read La Divina Commedia?"

"I have." And everything else by Dante too. "Have you?"

"I'm afraid not. Just the first few verses." I don't respond. Time to divert the attention to him.

"So what kind of doctor are you? A surgeon? I suppose you work in a hospital if you're going home at this hour."

"Actually, I'm more of an academic nowadays. I teach some general courses to the first-year medical students. And I do unofficial research into Aids."

"Why unofficial? Aren't professors expected to do research, on top of their teaching responsibilities?"

"Yes, and I do official research as well, but I'm not a virologist – hence why I teach general courses."

"Why the research about Aids then?" Emile stays silent. I look at him. The lines of his face seem deeper than in the station, but that might be the shadows the lamp posts are painting. "Don't feel obligated to tell me. I know I'm just a stranger." I smile at that, though I don't see how the motivation for his research could be too personal.

"Uhm... Well, I'll just give you the short version. My wife died due to Aids over a decade ago, but my daughter was born with it and I want to find a cure, so she won't have to take medication all her life and be afraid she will forget it one day or the virus will become resistant."

"Oh." I don't know what to say. Emile turns left. The street is small and dark. There are no cars. "And you..."

"I don't have Aids. Too complicated to explain."

"Alright." Should I say I'm sorry for his loss if it'll come across as nothing but a platitude? Something about his research? I remember the Aids crisis, but I don't want to sleep with anyone, so it has never concerned me and I'm not well-informed. "Have you made any progress?"

"Not really. It is a difficult process because the virus mutates so often."

"Does it? I hardly know anything about HIV and Aids."

"Really? You do know what the abbreviation stands for, right?"

I nod. "Yes. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome."

"So basically, it infiltrates the DNA of your CD4 cells, which allows the virus to reproduce and infect more cells, and if your CD4 count is too low, your immune system is practically non-existent and you can die due to opportunistic infections."

"CD4 cells are white blood cells, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are."

"And don't they have antiretrovirals nowadays?"

"Yes. I won't bother you with the details, but patients usually take a mix of several, to prevent the virus from becoming resistant."

"Oh." I really don't know anything about HIV or Aids. I never bothered to update my medical knowledge. Plenty to study with just the classics and Antiquity. "Where do you teach?"

"Leuven."

"You have a pretty long commute then."

"It's not too bad. Half an hour on the train – if it's not delayed or cancelled – and a bus in Leuven. And this walk to the station, but that's about the exercise I get, so it could be worse. It's worth it to work with all those amazing researchers."

"I can only imagine."

"What about you? What do they teach the children of today? I studied Greek and Latin back in the days, when that was still pretty standard for everyone with my ambitions, but my knowledge has been reduced to medical terms."

I take a moment to think. How much do I want to tell? The less they know, the better. "I only teach the higher grades, so I get everything from Caesar to Homer, to Cicero, to Sophocles."

"The same old, then."

I laugh. "Yes. We classicists tend to be very traditionalist."

He laughs too. "Are there even other authors that are worth the read?"

I barely let him finish his sentence. "Absolutely. There are postclassical authors like Petrarca or Thomas More, and so many lesser-known people that are canon, but not to the general public, like most lyrical poets. I'm currently working on a translation of Bacchylides and I'm sure you've never heard of him, while he can compete with Pindaros."

"I haven't, but that might also be because I don't remember much from secondary school. You know how it goes." I do. Vampirism doesn't come with better memory.

We stop at a small house squashed between others with the same brick façade, but different doors and windows. I glance down the street, but only a cat moves in the shadows, its white fur eery like a ghost. On the other side of the street is a bus stop. 'Sint-Gillisvoorplein'.

"You have something here," I say. I touch his neck. His pulse flutters under my finger. "Wait, let me have a look." I lean down, and when I'm close enough, I bite.

"Ugh." That small sound activates my guilt, like a gust of wind that sweeps me off my feet. I can't fall here. Breakdowns are to be internal, never seen by my victims.

Victims. How I hate that word. Yet they are. Victims. They might not remember, but I do. Not their houses or their names or their faces, but the sound of their voice, their day, their child, their broken heart, their smell. Smells are easy to remember. Like the madeleines in A la recherche du temps perdu. My guilt is a tower: a new brick every day, and one day it will fall and crush me.

I try to drink fast, efficiently, but I can't because too sudden equals dangerous. For my victims. Emile. The doctor with the dead wife and the sick daughter who wants to find a cure for Aids.

I lick my bite. "There. Nothing to see anymore." I step away. Emile stares. "It was nice speaking to you." He doesn't answer. They never do.