"Dante? Dante." There's a hand on my shoulder. It moves. Gone. "Dante? Can you see me? Breathe with me." He sucks in air, holds it, and out it goes. Again. I listen and I try it too. Again. "Good, okay. Keep doing that." Again. There's rustling, but the hand doesn't come back. I hear a faucet, water in a glass. The hands are on the table. They have little hairs on them. They're darker than mine, close to mine. I could touch them, but mine tremble. I look up and I see Emile. Right. Emile.

"Are you okay? I think you had a panic attack." I can't move my tongue, my mouth. I don't have a tongue or a mouth. I'm just breathing, looking. "Alright. Uhm, keep breathing. Focus on the table maybe? I'll brew you a cup of chamomile. Right." He moves, switches on the kettle, rummages in a cupboard. It's tiring to listen, so I close my eyes and feel. Didn't he mention the table? It's warm where my forehead rests, so I move it. Cool. There are scratches in the table, a long line that goes from my nose to somewhere under my wrist. There's also an old stain close to my thumb.

The cup thumps when it is set on the table and I smell the tea. I don't lift my head, but I reach out and touch it. It's hot and something settles. I inhale and exhale and it settles deeper and deeper, something to hold on to. Emile is - No, let go. Let it out, relax. No thinking yet. Emile is here and we will talk, but not yet.

I sit up and curl both my hands around the cup, sipping slowly.

"Are you ... okay now?" Emile sits down in front of me.

"I'm fine. Sorry for ..."

"It's alright. I understand." His tone suggests he doesn't, but I don't comment on it. "Uhm ..."

"Can I drink my tea? Then you can ask your questions." Something stirs, but I focus on the heat of the tea and on my breathing. It will be okay. Emile will give me a fair chance.

"Take your time. I'm still processing."

We sit in silence. Emile's watching me, but his gaze is sort of distant. Every time my thoughts threaten to stray, I yank them back. There's only breathing, tea, the table, the clock. Only this moment counts; not the millions before, nor the millions after.

I set my cup down with a little clang. "What do you want to know?"

Emile doesn't react immediately. "So you have HIV?"

"I do. I think so."

"How's that possible?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I don't get sick, you know. But then I did, and I got better, and the next day I got sick again, and I got better, and so on and so forth." I pause. My cup is empty. I gesture at the glass of water. "Can I?" I drink and the something in me settles again.

"Next I met you and your talk about Aids made me wonder. I looked it up and it made sense, so I ordered a self-test and it was positive."

"But how? Do you sleep with your - you know?"

"Huh? No!" That'd be worse than feeding. I don't like drinking, but I need it and I don't need that. I'm technically still a priest anyway.

"How then?"

"Shouldn't you know all the ways HIV can be transmitted?"

"Are you an addict? Oh, of course you are. That's why you claim that you - "

"I'm not an addict. It's just ... Blood, you know?"

Emile deflates. "Oh. Right. You'll have to excuse me. We're both messes this evening. It's just ... a shock. You understand." I do. I'm not the one whose world was turned upside down and here I am panicking while he is handling it so elegantly. Christ, I thought I was over this. I can enter monasteries without crippling fear. I can function in society. I am not the recluse that I once was, the one everyone whispers about, the one who fails at being part of the crowd. I don't talk Italian anymore when I can't fall asleep, just to keep my father alive.

Emile gets up. "Do you want another cup? I'm gonna brew one for me, so it's no bother." When the tea is brewing, he mutters: "Jeez, I thought this would be the easier topic." He chuckles. I chuckle too. It comes out strangled.

"So, you said you alternately fell sick and you recovered, but I don't see the link with HIV, even if you were never ill before. Or did you ... taste something was wrong?"

"I don't remember. I ... After I studied medicine, I examined myself a little, to better understand what I am. These are just my hypotheses, by the way; I don't know anything for sure. But well ... I think I have some kind of cancer that transforms my red blood cells into white blood cells. Which is why I need blood, but I also have a stronger immune system. And because I continuously get new, uninfected T cells, my CD4 count fluctuates. That's what I figured, at least."

"Your cancer makes you immortal?"

"I think so. I don't know. I presume there's also a link with my telomeres. Biological age and stuff."

Emile contemplates that information. "And the ... albino thing? Is that related?"

"No. I was born like that."

"You weren't born as a ... a vampire?"

"When did you turn into one then?"

"Uhm ..." God, I don't know if I can talk about that. "When my father was dying, he sent me to the monastery. And there was someone who - "

"Hold on. How old were you? Didn't your father die in your early teens?"

I'm relieved for the respite. "I think I was thirteen. Or fourteen. It's been a long time. And I was just a commoner. It wasn't that important. But it was during the Plague."

"The Plague? What year are you talking about?"

"1347."

Emile blinks. "Huh. Sorry for the interruption. Go on. You were in the monastery?"

"Yeah. I studied there. I had a talent for Latin and theology. I would become a monk. But ..." Breathe. "One of the brothers ..." Breathe. Drink. I'm here. I'm safe. "Sorry, this is ... He took me and ..." Emile reaches out and his fingertips on the back of my hand ground me. "He kept me in the basement - dungeon? - and he ... He experimented on me." To put it lightly. "Punished me for my sins. Made me a monster. And when I came out, I was ... this."

"He ... You're not a monster."

I'm - "You don't know what I've done. I drink blood. When I escaped from that room, I drained the first person I saw, who had never done anything to me."

"You ... Why?"

"Because I'm a monster."

"No, but ... You wanted to kill them?"

I pause. "No."

"Why did you do it then? How does it even work? I never noticed puncture wounds and you made me dizzy and my memory hazy."

"I don't know. I couldn't examine my mouth or my ... victims. I never drink twice from the same person."

"But you fed on me more than once. All those dizzy spells were you, right?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry." That doesn't cover my remorse at all, but neither would 'apologise' or 'forgive me'. "I needed the pills and I didn't know any other way to get them."

"You could have gone to the doctor."

"And they would have noticed I'm not normal and I'd be reduced to a test subject. Everyone wants to be immortal." Except for me, but I had no choice. I'm only protecting them from this particular hell.

"Is that what that - man? - wanted? Immortality?"

"I don't know what else. I don't ... I can't remember. I prefer not to think about it."

"Naturally. You do understand he abused you, right? That you have every right to be traumatised?"

"Really? What right do I have to be traumatised when I traumatise others? When I killed someone? Isn't that the worst sin of all?"

"I'm not saying it's okay. I'm saying you weren't cruel without reason. You weren't cruel because you enjoy it. Though I do wonder how it happened. If I'm allowed to ask that."

"I woke up thirsty and he was the first person I saw. I couldn't really think and I just kept ... drinking and then he was ..." I stare intently at my teacup because I don't want to remember the shell I left behind or my descent into the abyss.

The clock ticks until Emile talks again: "It's a thirst?"

"Kind of. It's the closest description I have. I just try to feed every few days. When I was sick, I couldn't go out in the evening as usual and I became very weak. I barely had the strength to feed on my neighbour."

Emile looks thoughtful. "I think I remember that when we first met, you said you had been ill."

"Easier to lie when you stay close to the truth."

"I suppose. I haven't lied much in my life." The guilt yanks on my stomach. "Are you actually from Venice?"

"I am. My father was a Muranese glassblower."

"So was there any truth to what you told me on Monday? You left Italy when you were nineteen, travelled, and you've been here for twenty years?"

"I'm not sure how old I was when I left that room. I didn't know the year and I didn't dare ask or look for it. But I did travel through Europe, so people wouldn't get suspicious about my age, and I've been here for twenty years."

"When you said this is the closest you've come to friendship since you were young, did you mean - "

"Since my childhood. The monks were ... And after ..."

Emile lets that sink in. "Did you actually study medicine?"

"Fifty years ago."

"Jesus." Emile drains his cup and leans back. He looks but doesn't talk. His gaze pins me in place and I don't know whether to meet his eyes or lower mine. "I must admit that I don't really know what to say anymore. We're not done talking, but it's late, I'm tired, you ..." He leaves unspoken that I probably look worse than tired. "This has been an emotionally taxing evening. How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Fine," I answer pointedly. Emile frowns but doesn't press on.

"Was that a vampire thing?"

I shrink mentally. "No. I, ah, I panicked. You're the first one to know about me."

"You were worried about my reaction? That makes sense. I know I overreacted a little."

"That's not what I meant. You didn't overreact. I understand. I was just afraid that you'd tell someone." And that I'd yet again be a captive, and alone in the world, crushed under my guilt.

"I didn't even think of that. But I won't tell anyone, okay? You've seriously bruised my trust, but you don't strike me as a bad person and I want to give you that chance." At that, the wire of fear in my throat uncoils and I can finally breathe more freely. I didn't even realise how off-balance and unstable I still felt.

"Thank you."

Emile meets my gaze. "I do think we still have a bunch to talk about, like I said. I don't have any classes tomorrow, so you could come over if that's alright with you. If not, it'll be Monday evening at the earliest since I suppose you'd prefer to keep Aurélie out of this."

Some nerves rise up when I think about more difficult conversations, but my voice doesn't waver: "Tomorrow is fine."