“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.
