Childbirth hurts because a woman’s organs force a living thing from her body. It’s a pity mortals don’t feel this pain more often. If you did, you might have some idea of the crescendo of agony we immortals suffer. Every night. Until I consume ten pints of human blood. If I don’t reach this quota by dawn, I go to bed with my insides screaming. The contractions begin soon after rising, at dusk, and increase gradually along with an awareness that my skin is deteriorating. I wear perfume to disguise this putrefaction; there’s not much I can do for my thinning hair. When my hunt is successful, however, my skin and hair and eyes radiate with a glow that makes me irresistible for days. It’s nice not to have to make the first move. The last, however, must always be reserved for me. By the time your first child learns to walk, I will drain more than seven hundred adults. By the time your first grandchild arrives, I will claim an entire city. Still, you have incredible powers at your disposal. If you and every mortal stopped reproducing, my entire race would be wiped out in a matter of weeks. Fortunately for me, I continue to have a purpose. When I was human, a little girl, I watched a family of rabbits behind my parents’ house. It’s the only memory I have of my former life. They hop around their hole, nervous and excited, unaware of the fox carrying their mother’s limp body away. The adolescents stuff their mouths with clover and seem to grow right in front of me. Then their numbers shrink as a hawk arrives each day for his lunch. I spent the whole rest of the year worrying they might go extinct. But they returned and so did my fear of the fox and hawk. Now, of course, I empathize with those who prey. I think I had a child once but I might’ve eaten it; the centuries make remembering difficult. But the future – that’s full of promise given the particulars of your family tree. I think I’ll wait a generation before calling again at your house. Just continue watching Dracula while your son has sex with his teacher and your daughter gets high with her boyfriend. Right now, though, I can’t stop looking at the fur on your slippers. Is that rabbit?
Dan Klefstad is the author of “Shepherd & the Professor,” a novel, and “The Caretaker,” a short story. He writes in DeKalb, Illinois, and Williams Bay, Wisconsin.
Photo by Debbie Berk