Andreas brings his mug to his lips. The blood doesn’t stain his white teeth; the fangs leave tiny dents in the ceramic where he bites down.
I should be crying. He’s expecting me to because I’m a warm-bodied, emotionally-invested human being whose tear ducts can’t resist the impulse.
But they do, at least regarding my own future. Won’t make that Life Drawing class. Won’t ever see my work on a billboard or a book cover. Won’t exhibit, won’t—who knows what else?
Andreas interrupts my efforts. “Or I could turn you.”
“Into a vampire? Aren’t we supposed to apply for that?”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” His smile doesn’t wrinkle his old skin.
The decision between anything and “or death” should be easy. But if I want to eat without killing people—and I will need to eat—I’ll have to register with the Federal Vampire Commission and explain myself and risk getting in trouble and getting Andreas in trouble.
Maybe he deserves it. He fucking bit me without permission.
But vampires who break the law, who feed from un-certified donors, who steal blood bags, or drink without asking first, are put on the Blood Offenders Registry, which is basically a hit list for corrupt cops and stake-wielding bigots. And if they survive that, the second strike is euthanization.
The system is fucked. No government lackey is going to hear out a gay trans guy who was illegally turned into a vampire. All I know is I don’t want to die before I’ve done anything with my life. Designing in-store signage for Sears does not count. Just ask the half-finished paintings in my living room.
I run my tongue over the smooth, flat line of my teeth for what I assume will be the last time. “Turn me.”
◉ ◉ ◉
The hangover feeling doesn’t go away. Not the spins or the sticky pain of thirst.
Andreas’s venom curdles any food left in my stomach. He deposits me in the bathroom the instant before I vomit. I clutch the toilet bowl until my knuckles whiten and the whiteness spreads through my hands and I can feel it in my face. Until I can only dry heave.
My throat stings with stomach acid. “Can I have some water?”
Andreas presses a sports bottle to my lips. “Swish and spit. Don’t swallow.”
I bite down on the plastic nozzle and drink until there’s nothing left. My sensitive teeth rip through the thin plastic, tearing up the empty bottle. My canines ache the worst, like I’ve jammed them into ice cream for too long or just had fillings put in. Or both.
“I told you not to swallow,” Andreas says only moments before I prove him right with another retch.
“You can’t drink water?” I see vampires drink all the time.
“No, you can’t drink water. Your body is purging its fluids.”
“What about after . . .”
“After you’ve turned? Sure, you can drink water. Might want to wait a couple centuries before putting anything more complex in your body.”
“Like what, Diet Coke?”
“No, Diet Coke you can drink after a couple years. I meant your mother’s homemade meatloaf.”
“Oh.”
What’s the last thing I ate? A slice of pizza and burnt French fries. Not the last meal I’d have chosen, but King’s was the only place near the bars that served food all night and I was nervous and hungry.
“Just kidding, your mother will be dead by then.” Andreas sips from his mug. He waits for his words to settle then smiles. “That was a joke.”
“Thanks.” I imagine her funeral. My dad going home to an empty house. Eating across from an empty seat in the kitchen.
Still no tears. Maybe it won’t be much of a change becoming a vampire. Andreas doesn’t look like he cares much about anything.
“Do you want to call her?” he asks.
“No.” That answer’s easy. She told me she felt like her daughter was dying when I came out. She got over it, eventually, but I don’t want to put her through a literal death after that. “I do need to call the HR department at work, though.”
“I think they can wait until you’re done vomiting,” Andreas says.
I push myself to my feet and flush the toilet. He doesn’t understand how this works. I do. “I can’t lose my job on top of all this, okay? When everyone I love is dead—or when they decide they don’t want a vampire in the family—I won’t have a support system. So, where’s my cell?”
It’s dead, ironically. Andreas plugs it into the wall beside the sink and I spend another hour in the bathroom alternating between ready-to-talk and ready-to-vomit. When my fingers finally steady and I can lift my head long enough to call, HR doesn’t believe me.
“No, I can’t come in. I was bitten by a vampire. I’m dying!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hall,” says the HR officer, whose name I cannot remember because I’m so, so thirsty. “Like I said, I don’t see an application on file for medical-vampirification, which you’re required to submit ninety days in advance for paid leave. Now—”
“I couldn’t submit an application because I didn’t know. It just happened.”
“We can offer you six weeks of unpaid leave, Mr. Hall.”
“But—”
“That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”
“Fine. Thanks.” I hang up and squeeze my phone in my fist.
Andreas rests his hand perfectly still on my back. It doesn’t twitch or clench or rub; it just lays there like a paperweight, reminding me of his presence. He wasn’t beside me while I was on the phone but he’s here now, always now. I wish he hadn’t been there in the alley.
A gross conflicted feeling creeps over my skin. Why am I even here, still?
Where else am I supposed to go? I’ve already decided against Mom and, now that I’m thinking about it, any other human. A more scrupulous vampire would report me to save their own neck; a less scrupulous one would break mine.
This is Andreas’s fault.
“You’re right,” he says. “This is my fault.”
“I hate when you do that.” Read my mind, I think, because I know he’s still listening.
“Sorry. It’s centuries of habit, but I can stop.”
“Good.” Didn’t expect him to say that. “I mean, thanks.”
We sit in silence for a minute that feels like an eternity. I’m going to have one of those ahead of me: an eternity. Like it’s a tangible thing I can hold in my hands and squeeze. Like a blood-soaked heart I can wring dry.
“I’ll cover your expenses for the next six weeks.” Andreas leaves before I can pretend to object.
◉ ◉ ◉
I don’t die—not yet.
I unravel myself from the quilted cocoon Andreas wrapped me in. I need air, still. Not much, but enough that my chest rises and falls automatically. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping for a moment’s relief from my perpetual dehydration headache.
The bathroom rug warms my feet as I sit to pee. No prosthetic is worth fumbling with while my body ejects all its fluids. There’s not much in my bladder, but I ease the pressure. Blood spots the toilet paper I toss into the bowl. I go cold. I dab another square between my legs, hoping I’ve started pissing blood. The other option is not an option.
And then it is.
I haven’t menstruated for three years. This shouldn’t be happening. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I bite down on my knuckles, forgetting my growing canines. Blood beads on my punctured fingers when I pull back.
Andreas doesn’t know what to do with me—not really. I need a doctor. One who can explain my reanimated uterus.
I clean up and pop on the pair of sunglasses Andreas left on the side table. He hasn’t let me outside, but it’s not like the door’s locked and I’m still human; I won’t spontaneously combust. I assume.
The thinnest line of light shines between the tin
y windows’ blackout curtains: daytime. I’m officially on “unpaid leave.”
A bottle of sunscreen rests on the front windowsill and I slather the white goop on my face and hands before pulling on a hooded North Face fleece from the closet. To think I expected a cape.
◉ ◉ ◉
“I need to see a doctor,” I say.
The receptionist stares at me over the counter, over cooling coffee, and square computer monitors.
“I don’t have an appointment with mine, but I’ll see whoever.”
He nods his head quickly, the rest of him unmoving, like a bobblehead doll.
“Great. Do I need to fill out a form, or . . .”
He pushes a blue lined paper across the counter to me. I sniffle and wipe at the cold drip from my nose. Blood stains my sleeve. Dammit.
“Thanks.” I grab a pen and sit down.
Four other people share the waiting room. Two read over a pamphlet on lesbian healthcare. One shoots cartoon pigs on her phone. The last just watches me over their acid wash jeans and under their knit hat. They pull their legs up tight against their chest when I pass, never taking their eyes off me. They still watch when I sit beside a corner table, push all the gossip magazines to the side, and try to flatten my form out.
It’s pretty standard.
Name: Finley Hall
Legal Name: See above
Age: Twenty-six
Gender: FTM/trans male
Pronouns: He/him
Species: Human
Technically, true. I haven’t died yet. Just because I can’t eat Dad’s homemade crab cakes for another couple centuries, doesn’t mean I’m not me, still. I wonder if I can freeze some . . .
Are you an existing patient at Centre Street Clinic? Yes.
If yes, who is your primary care physician? Dr. Lisa Perez.
What is the reason for your clinic visit today?
I bite the cap of my pen. My teeth hurt, but I can’t stop chewing. And I don’t know what to write—nothing I want to tell the receptionist. I settle for: Bleeding.
Understatement of the century.
When I return the form, the receptionist pretends to have been drinking his coffee; he grabs the handle with such force, the black liquid spills over the edge and stains a pile of blue forms.
The person who was watching me doesn’t stop when I sit back down.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
I relish that edge in my voice. The gritty feel, condescending tone. Andreas never sounds like that. His voice is sea glass, smooth and translucent. Mine is a year of throat-clearing, congestion, and cracking.
The waiting patient loosens their hold on their knees and raises their chin. “You’re bleeding.”
“I know.” I wipe at my nose, but there’s nothing.
“No, I mean on the chair.” They point.
Fuck.
My cheeks muster up all the color they can find—hopefully enough to suspend menstruation.
“It’s okay. I won’t tell or anything.” They motion for me to stand, then toss a magazine over the spot. “The clinic will probably just throw the chair out anyway. No use blaming someone for it.”
“Thanks.” I want to smile, but the gooey feeling between my legs—knowing that I’m bleeding out and there’s nothing I can do to stop it—stops me.
I’m halfway to the bathroom when a nurse calls my name. “Finley! Finley Hall?”
“Yeah.” I hold myself together while I walk, Andreas’s fleece wrapped around my waist, steps small to avoid any further leakage, arms clasped in front of me—as if anyone really walks like that.
“I’m Ashlynn, Dr. Treggman’s nurse. Why don’t you follow me on back and I’ll get you started. How does that sound?”
“Fine.” I nod and follow her back, even cooperate.
She makes me get on the scale.
“Wow, you’ve lost nine pounds since your last visit—two weeks ago.”
Takes my blood pressure.
“Fifty over thirty. That—that can’t be right. You’d have to be . . .”
And my temperature.
“Um, okay, this—I’m going to get Dr. Treggman.”
She backs out of the exam room, keeping her eyes on me until she’s safe on the other side of the door.
I lean back on the patient table. Its white paper crinkles beneath me. Dr. Treggman walks in just as I’m peering at the crotch of my jeans to assess the situation.
“Finley, nice to meet you.” He sets his laptop on a wheeled table and sits on a short black wheelie stool and wheels himself and his laptop over to me. “I’m Dr. Treggman.”
I nod.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asks all while peering over his glasses at the form I gave the nurses. “Bleeding?” Then he looks over his glasses at me. “Would you like to be more specific?”
“I got my period for the first time in three years, today.”
“You’re on Testosterone Cypionate?”
“Intramuscular injections.”
“So you know, then, that people who have taken steps to medically transition are on the restricted list for vampirification.” He stares at me over his wire-frame glasses and old plasticky laptop. Slowly, his lips purse. “The nurse gave me your stats. I’ll have to report this. I’m sorry, I’m required by law.”
I squeeze my legs together and lean forward, trying to appeal to his human side while I still have one. “Look,” I say softly. “I need help, okay? This is the only clinic I even feel safe coming to for trans stuff.”
“Mr. Hall, this isn’t trans stuff, this is vampire stuff. And there’s a reason the two don’t mix; we don’t have conclusive studies on how vampirification affects atypical bodies.” He starts typing, again.
I’ve seen the Federal Vampire Commission’s list of atypical bodies. It’s trans and intersex folks. Disabled and neuroatypical folks; the F.V.C. even provides a list of prohibited surgeries and medications. Never mind those who can’t afford the required physical exams and application fee. And heaven forbid you’re a woman of childbearing age who “might want to have kids someday; how can you be sure you won’t want to?”
“As I’m not versed in vampire anatomy—” Dr. Treggman’s words buzz like a fly in my ears. “—I hesitate to make any recommendations—”
I clench my hands into cold, white fists and punch them down on top of Dr. Treggman’s shitty laptop. His tan, hairy arms tremble where they stick out from the keyboard. I lean over the wheelie desk and bare my growing fangs. If I breathe deep enough, he smells like dinner.
I lean my full weight on the shattered laptop, crushing him in a hand-sandwich between layers of circuits and plastic.
“Finley.” His voice is hoarse and shaky. “Finley, please, you’re hurting me.”
“Finley!” Andreas’s sea glass voice turns my head.
“What,” I ask, slowly, “are you doing here? You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“Good thing I wasn’t. You need to let the doctor go. He’s just doing his job.”
“You know how many doctors I’ve met who are just doing their jobs?” The one who asked if I was really, really sure, because I didn’t seem very masculine. The one who suggested psycho-sexual therapy as if my kinks disqualified me. The one who told me no cis gay men would want to sleep with me.
“I know.” Andreas snakes an arm around my waist and pries me off the laptop.
Dr. Treggman squeaks relief and Andreas looks into his eyes and says, “You will wait quietly.” The doctor slackens, suddenly unconcerned about his injured hands or the one and a half vampires fighting in his exam room.
“I can’t go like this.” I gesture over my un-reproductive organs.
“So, buy some new clothes. Here.” Andreas thrusts a few bills into my hand.
I hate that he
’s so easily solved my problem. I want to stay angry. I’m still angry. I’m still bleeding. “How did you know where I—”
“I can smell you.” Andreas taps his nose. “Now, I’m going to convince the doctor not to report us for this mess. You will meet me outside.”
“I didn’t even think you could go outside at this time. I thought I’d ditched you.”
“Yeah, well I’m old and soon you’ll be young, so don’t ditch me for a few more centuries. You have a lot to learn.”
My “Ugh!” is a bratty growl as I slam my fist into the doorframe and leave. If this is my life, now, bring on death.
Andreas meets me in the back alley and pushes me against the brick so hard it cracks. Notably, I don’t.
“What were you thinking?” he asks. “Are you trying to get us euthanized?”
“I was thinking you don’t understand how my body works and I needed to see someone who does.” I try to pry his hands off my shoulders but he’s got millennia on me. I haven’t even managed to die, yet.
“Dr. Treggman doesn’t know more about vampirification than I do. Besides, if you’re really concerned, we have vampire doctors.”
“Any trans ones?”
“What?”
“Do you know any transgender vampire doctors?” I ask slowly to drive home my point.
Andreas’s lips twitch, revealing a flash of white. I wonder if he has emotions or only teeth.
“Didn’t think so.” This time, I brush him off easily. “You’re welcome to feel doubly stupid, by the way. Turning someone without an application—a someone who also happens to be trans. It’s not even legal!”
I get halfway down the alley before he says, “I thought you smelled different. Not enough to deter me. Actually, not bad at all. Just different.”
“I’m flattered.” I suppose that’s the vampire equivalent of “Wow, I’d never have guessed you were trans,” or “But you look so normal.”
I put my borrowed sunglasses back on and pause at the shade’s edge. “Let’s go home so I can die, already.”
Andreas catches my shoulder before I can step further into the sunlight. Smoke rises from his hand before he jerks it away.
“I thought you were old,” I snap, still unable to control my temper.
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