I'm drowning, choking. Every step I take, it's worse. I left Emile lying on his kitchen table. He hadn't eaten yet. Was he even conscious? I gave him a glass of water. That doesn't make it better. He's older, weaker. I shouldn't have drunk so much. Maybe his health is fragile. How can I look him in the eyes? I stole his daughter's pills. But I have to go back, again and again, and again. Forever. I have to.

The guilt lodges in my throat, gnaws away. It's almost worse than the coughs. Almost. Nothing is right and I always suffer, whatever choice I make. Sartre wrote, "L'enfer, c'est les autres", but I am my own hell, and I am theirs.

There is no greater punishment than guilt.

Emile was nice to me. We got along. We talked. He gave and I took. I'd talk with him for the sake of it. Small talk, but I don't even get that far with most of my colleagues. He asked me questions. As much as I don't want to talk about myself, to get attached, nobody ever wants to know me and it makes me happy. It's just a spark, but the guilt can't blow it out and it flickers up after every gust. I knew I was thirsty, but now that I've had a few droplets, I want so much more.

I want to go back already. See if he's alright. Talk more. I don't want to be alone. I'm always alone. Even if I'm not, I'm a ghost, or are they? They are fleeting, and I don't connect. I pass through them, although they are what goes and I am what stays.

I walk through several pools of light, but they don't clear up my head, don't enlighten my mind. Back in Emile's house, I wanted to go home and shower, but it won't wash out my thoughts, my turmoil won't swirl down the drain. I want to go back to the mindless chatter, to let it fill up my head till there's no room for anything else. At home, there's only books and music, and even if I blasted Mahler, it wouldn't be loud enough. Even if I read till my eyes hurt, those words would leave as soon as I stopped reading and in that frame of time before sleep, I would be both too full and too empty to escape myself.

I trudge up the stairs to prolong the sound of my steps. The concrete is bleak and ugly. There are a few unidentifiable stains. The light flickers. It reminds me of metal and car wrecks. Harsh, cold, old.

"Hey, Dante! I was hoping to catch you." Charles stands before his door. "You were out?"

"Yes. Took my evening walk." What is this about? The feeding? Does he suspect something?

"I've been meaning to talk to you about last Sunday – I mean, the one before yesterday." Oh, God. Here it goes. "Are you alright? You looked so ill at my door, but then I got a sugar drop myself and when I felt better, you weren't there anymore."

"Sugar drop?"

"Yes. I've diabetes. I didn't tell you?" My heart soars so fast so high that I feel dizzy. He thinks it was just a sugar drop. No questions about a bite.

"I didn't know."

"My bad. But you're okay?"

"Yes." I have to give him an explanation, don't I? What do I say? "I don't even know what I was thinking, but I was pretty out of it."

Charles nods. "I noticed. Though you still got me a glass of water."

"I did?" Christ, why did I say that? There's got to be a better reaction. "Uhm... Everything's a bit of a blur."

"I get that. I assume you got yourself home then? You were so weak."

"I was. But I started feeling better that afternoon, so it's okay."

"Yes? I'm happy. I was worried when you suddenly weren't there anymore. I wanted to check on you, but I was afraid to wake you if you were sleeping, and then I couldn't get a hold of you. I think your doorbell doesn't work."

"It doesn't? I'll have it checked then." The hallway is silent all of a sudden, except for the buzzing of the lights. They should replace them already.

I look at Charles, but neither of us speaks. Somehow, this is more difficult than all the small talk I have to make when I feed. The few times I've talked to Charles, he chatted for the both of us, but now he seems at a loss too. Maybe I'm just too difficult, too awkward. Awkward. Such a youthful word. I guess the teenagers I teach rub off on me.

"Well, I'll see you later. I haven't eaten yet, so..." I walk to my door and Charles jumps out of his stump.

"Of course. See you later! Bon appétit!"

***

I switch on the radio. Mozart. Off. Too happy, too playful. Silence it is. If only silence outside meant silence inside as well. It's such a soup.

Charles was nice. No hard questions. That's good. I've got antiretrovirals. Also good. I liked my conversation with Emile. Good? I don't know. What's the point? He will die, I won't. I lied to him. I stole his daughter's pills. I drank his blood. Twice. I left him lying on his table. I will do it again. And I just want more conversations, more of his company. Someone's company. I don't care who. Just – someone who cares.

I miss papà.

***

I take a pill with my breakfast. I got lucky. These are combination ones. Imagine if I had to take three pills.

The clouds are an angry grey. They cry. The city is soaked in tears and the streets are empty. I watch. The rain ticks on the window – no, it doesn't. Droplets crash against the window and burst into a million others. They fall and fall and fall. All together.

I'd love to be a water droplet.

My day is empty. I don't want to go back to school when I can fall sick again. There are only books and Bacchylides.

I sit at my desk, text edition open. The fine lines form letters, but the letters don't form words. I blink. Eyelids down, eyelids up. Again. There are they. The words make little sense, but it doesn't matter. I pull out the papers with my translation, my notes, dictionary. My fingers bend under its weight and it almost slips down. God, what is wrong with me today?

I read the last few verses of my translation. The words don't register. I read them again. The next verse in Greek doesn't click either. The words don't connect, don't fit.

Again. Slow. Analyse. Like you teach your students. Adjective, dative, subject, verb, participle. Those go together. Those too. See the hyperbaton? Alright, that's the syntax. Now the translation. Dictionary, kappa. The pages slip from my fingers.

Again. Calm. It happens. Iota, kappa. There it is. Read. Again. Write. Next one.

It's almost nine o'clock. One hour, five verses.

Next word. Rho. Not here. Next page. No. Where is it? Last page again. No. It isn't there, where it should be. Am I thinking of the wrong word? Where can I find the root? Is there a lexicon on Bacchylides?

Dammit, why does this happen? I don't want to think! I want to immerse myself in Greek, in routine. I want to forget, not to get stuck every other word and think, think, think. Everything coils together and I'm not busy enough.

Skip it. Next word. No, next poem. This one fights and I can't win when I'm already fighting another battle and I'm losing. No, no, no. Don't think. Next poem. Yes. See? You know all the words. Easy. Syntax, vocabulary, translation.

***

I'm not hungry. It's only twelve o'clock because I needed a break, but I've been up since seven. God, everything's going wrong today. Am I falling ill again? Maybe the antiretrovirals don't work. Maybe the virus has already mutated. Or are these side effects? I read that the current medicine is so on point that you shouldn't get any, but I'm self-medicating.

What am I going to do if this doesn't work? I don't have a plan B. Would it help if I drank enough healthy blood to kill all the infected cells? If I drained...?

No. Don't. Don't think like that.

But I thought of it, didn't I? Nothing has changed. I'm still a monster, even if I don't act on it. Maybe I shouldn't try to cure my HIV. Maybe I should just fall sick and hope I get sick enough to die someday. Suffer to atone for my sins. My existence.

Or maybe I should try to kill the vampire in me, so I can grow old and die like a normal human. Undo what was done to me. If only I knew what exactly that was. He probably didn't know either. I think he expected me to die, not to become a monster, the child of his sins.

The one slice of bread I've eaten settles heavily in my stomach. I clean up and gargle my mouth with water. It doesn't wash out the wry taste. Like blood.

Today's not a good day. I can't work on my translation right now; whatever I force out, won't be any good. I'll just take a nap. Yes, that sounds like a plan. Sleep, peace, no thoughts.

***

I am awake. I crave. It burns in my throat and my stomach and I need it, but I don't know what it is. I just... need.

I turn my head. I can turn my head. I clench my left hand. Five fingers. Nails in my palm. Right hand. Nails in my palm. My hands are... light. There's nothing. No chains! I can lift my hands. Left one. Right one. I can feel my stomach. Smooth. My chest. Smooth. A few hairs. My face. I can touch my face. My jaw, my cheek, my mouth.

I could sit up. I put my hands on my sides and push myself up. The room spins and I can't see. Then I see the walls. Grey. Stone. The dark wood of the table I'm sitting on. I can sit up!

But I am so... thirsty and I need, need, need. It nestles in my mind like a tick and it sucks out my sanity as if it was blood.

I can't think about that right now. I have to get away. Before he gets back. I don't know how long I slept. Maybe I've slept for days and that's why I'm so... Thirsty? Hungry? Needy?

I swing one leg off the table. The floor is cold. It creeps up my legs and leaves goosebumps in its wake. I swing my other leg off the table as well, but I touch the floor with my toes first and then the sole of my foot. When I stand up, my knees wiggle. I'm weak. I need to drink, quench this fire. I need gallons.

I step to the door. Slow. My legs ache. I haven't walked since... Maybe they'll capture me and I won't walk again. It doesn't matter as long as I get to drink. Or is it food that I need?

The door isn't locked. I climb up the stairs. They creak. Nobody comes looking.

At the top is another door, but this one isn't locked either. It's not even completely closed. Did they think I was dead? Maybe I'm dead and that's why I'm so thirsty. Or they didn't feed me.

The door opens to the courtyard of the monastery. I can smell the kitchen. Brother Giovanni is working in the garden, gathering herbs. I want to greet him, be near him. Maybe he'll give me something to eat like before. He keeps crooning a hymn and cutting leaves and stems and roots until I stand next to him. He sees my feet and looks up. His eyes widen.

He smells nice and I can see his throat and my throat burns and I'm so, so thirsty and I need to quench the burn. I bite and I drink and gulp and swallow and slurp. Every last drop. I'm full and fine and free and I have a weight in my arms. A dead weight. I let go and he falls. He's as white as I am, and his habit is brown and what did I do? Everything turns sour and dissolves and I am so, so empty.

I am a monster.