It’s nice to meet the real Midnight. I don’t think anybody’s reached out to her for a while.
‘Definitely. But I still need to ask you something,’ I said. ‘Can you be courageous a little longer?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tensed, her expression radiating anxiety. ‘What is it?’
‘Are you planning to hurt yourself?’
The question must not have come as a surprise. To her credit, she took a few seconds before answering. ‘No. I would never hurt myself, or anyone else.’
‘Okay.’ I let out the tense breath I’d been holding. ‘I’m very glad to hear that. But if you ever start to feel like you might hurt yourself, or you just need to talk, I’m going to give you one of my cards with a number you can call any time. My service will put you through to me. So, let’s make a contract between the two of us that you’ll call me if you start to feel bad between sessions. Do we have a deal?’
She took a deep breath and nodded, studying me as if she wasn’t sure she could believe me. ‘All right. I guess I can do that.’
Little girl lost. But strong, nonetheless.
The light caught the ruby eyes of the snake winding its way up her arm and I took a closer look. The detail in the jewellery was stunning. I pointed in the snake’s direction. ‘What gorgeous artwork. Did you make it?’
She grinned wide, her trusting younger self peeking out from the shadows, and extended her arm, shifting it from side to side. ‘No. I haven’t tried to make jewellery yet, but I’m thinking about learning. There’s a class I can take on working with silver . . .’ The grin disappeared. ‘I mean I used to think about it.’
Good. Both sides of her psyche are still wrestling for control. There’s hope.
‘You certainly have an artistic eye – your entire outfit is amazing.’
Even through the white makeup I could see her blush. ‘Thank you.’
I glanced over at the clock. ‘It looks like our time is up for today. I’d like to meet with you regularly for a while so we can get to know each other. Would you be willing to do that?’
‘Yeah.’ She grinned again, flashing the designer fangs. ‘It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.’
Well, there’s something to put on the back of my business card: Therapy that isn’t as bad as you thought it would be.
‘That’s great.’ I smiled. ‘I look forward to our time together.’ I moved over to my desk to fetch my appointment book.
We scheduled our next session and I walked her out into the waiting area, wondering how she’d look without all the makeup. I shook my head and thought about what a miracle it was that any of us survived our teenage years.
Since Midnight was my last client of the day, I sat at my desk, kicked off my shoes and created a case file for her. I hadn’t been able to decide on one specific diagnosis yet, but I jotted down some possible options and then added a sheet of informal notes:
Female, nineteen years old. Referred by family. Dressed in a goth costume, complete with theatrical makeup and detachable fangs, in accordance with her reported desire to become a vampire. Client’s verbal family history indicates perceived emotional abandonment by both parents: mother to her career and father to alcoholism and co-occurring mental illness. Prior to the last year, she was a straight-A student in high school, studying art. Little support in her family for her artistic skills and dreams. Will explore client’s peer system and her current activities in more detail. Although she hasn’t disclosed much information yet about this person, it is likely she has been influenced by a young male who is participating in the goth/vampire-wannabe lifestyle, someone who has given her the affection and attention she craves. She presents herself as a rebellious rule-breaker, but that appears to be a mask. Her defences – the costume, her refusal to give details about the alleged vampires she spends time with and her hostile attitude – keep her protected from more emotional pain. But her body language frequently gives her away: beneath the tough-cookie persona is a sensitive, creative, caring young woman, afraid to share her fears. She is articulate and intelligent, but naïve. She often forgets which role she is playing at any given moment. Explore how seriously she takes this fantasy world she has created. How much is teenage drama and how much psychosis? Continue to build rapport and elicit more information about her vampire-wannabe activities. Test her ideas of reality.
Geez. Life isn’t weird enough, so we need to suck blood. Why didn’t I think of that?
But I had to admit, the topic had already captured my interest. I was, after all, subject to the same rules as any other psychologist: publish or perish. I was due to write another book and the pressure was on. And, if truth be told, my life had become boring. I had accomplished all the goals I’d set for myself and settled into a listless rhythm. After the excitement of always graduating earlier than expected from every academic course I’d ever attended, adapting to the monotony of private practice was less than thrilling. It would be good to have a challenge after my dismal track-record in the realm of relationships.
I turned on my office computer and searched for everything I could think of about the subject: vampires, vampirism, blood, blood-drinking, cults, mind-control, immortal beings, etc. I was inundated with fictional stories about vampires, historical research on blood-drinkers, case studies involving the self-proclaimed undead and websites for wannabes. Talk about an education.
I printed out examples of the most informative sources and spent a good three hours at my desk, reading through psychological reference books, seeking a trail of crumbs. By the time I came up for air and checked the clock, it had become full dark. I usually tried to avoid walking out of my office by myself at night. Too many lost souls wandering the streets.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ I said aloud as I gathered the papers and tucked them into my briefcase. I put my shoes back on, found my purse and my car keys, locked up my office and headed out to the elevator.
At that time of night, the building was deserted and the elevator came right away. I rode down holding my keys with the car alarm clicker in my hand and strode purposefully out the front door of my six-storey office building. Luckily I had parked conspicuously beneath one of the streetlights in the parking lot across the street. My champagne-coloured BMW was the only car left, so I figured I would be safe.
Just as I exited the building, I caught a blurred movement out of the corner of my eye and noticed a shadow to my right. I felt the hairs on my arms rise and I froze. My stomach tightened and my breath caught as a male figure stepped away from where he’d been leaning against the wall. He stood there, gazing at me, smiling, almost close enough for me to touch. We locked eyes for a long moment. The light shining out of the front of my building was bright enough for me to notice that he was gorgeous: tall and toned, with long blond hair, dazzling eyes and snug leather trousers.
Hey, wait a minute. Stop ogling the good looks of the guy who’s about to jump on you and run!
And I did.
For someone who sits on her butt all day talking to people, I can still move pretty fast when I want to. I am blessed with one of those long, lean runner’s bodies, an inheritance from my father’s side of the family, and my body fat percentage is on the low end. But thanks to my mother’s genetic contribution, I am too well endowed to actually enjoy running on a regular basis.
The fight-or-flight instinct is an awesome thing.
I sprinted over to my car, clicked the lock, yanked the door open, jumped in, secured the door. My heart was pounding out a heavy-metal drum solo in my chest as I fumbled the key into the ignition. My hands shook so badly it took a couple of tries to get the car started. My throat was so dry it hurt.
Once I was safely barricaded in and the reasoning portion of my brain had sauntered back to the party, it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard any footsteps following me as I ran. No voices yelling for me to stop. Still shaking, I scanned the area in all directions but could find no threat of any kind. The handsome mugger or rapist or whatever he
was had vanished. Or maybe it had been some regular guy, enthralled by my grace and beauty, and I’d scared him off when I’d bolted. Yeah, right, Nerd Woman.
Maybe he was just there waiting for a friend and I’d overreacted. He probably hadn’t really been a danger at all. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time I’d freaked out over nothing.
But I had to admit I’d never seen such a fantastic-looking man in person anywhere before, much less standing in front of my building. What were the odds that such a magnificent hunk of manhood would need to troll the streets for female attention? Of course, as a psychologist, I know better than to judge a book by its cover. Perverts come in all shapes and sizes.
My heartbeat finally began to slow down to something approaching normal. I had to say that was the most exciting thing that’d happened in weeks, which said a lot about the pathetic state of my social life.
I sat there for a few minutes until the adrenalin rush subsided and then shifted into drive. I need a new office with a receptionist, a doorman and underground parking. I drove out of the parking lot and steered the car along one of the many one-way streets that confounded the traffic in downtown Denver.
I caught a red light a few streets over, which gave me a moment to check out the nightlife in this popular part of town. I usually left my office before the fun and games started, so the streets familiar to me in daylight were a whole new world after dark. A magnificent old church, apparently converted into a busy nightclub, took up an entire city block. It really was a beautiful building. Such incredible stained glass. Funny that I’d never noticed it before. Groups of party-goers stood on the sidewalk, laughing and talking, performing one illegal act or another. Many of them were dressed in the same kind of costume Midnight had been wearing: so many potential clients all in one place! I briefly considered parking the car, mingling with the crowd and passing out my business cards. There had to be several books’ worth of material to be gleaned from the characters hanging out in front of the gothic cathedral. But that would take bravery – or extroversion – I didn’t have.
Just as the light turned green and I put my foot on the gas, I saw a tall man with long blond hair step down the entrance stairs. He nodded and waved at me when I passed.
Distracted and unnerved by the events of the last hour, I drove home to my new townhouse, punched in my security code and locked myself into my own personal sanctuary.
I lit an aromatherapy candle, poured myself a glass of white wine, sat down in my favourite chair – one of those huge puffy types with an equally large ottoman – and stretched out, letting my thoughts wander back to the blond man who’d waved at me.
That was just too weird. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. It couldn’t possibly have been the same guy I saw in front of my building, could it? Well, wait a minute. That club was only a couple of blocks from my office and if he had been the same man who saw me run to my car, then it made sense that he could have recognised the car again when I passed him. It was merely a coincidence he was at that particular club, and that I noticed the place today.
Just a coincidence.
But the fact that he actually waved at me gave more weight to the notion that I’d overreacted and he hadn’t meant me any harm.
Maybe.
Unless he was a sociopath who enjoyed messing with people’s minds.
Oh well. No use fretting about that now. I would definitely be seeking a more secure office location. And some pepper spray.
I carried my glass of wine over to my desk, opened my briefcase, and spilled out all the vampire material I’d printed. Then I fired up my computer, clicked on the TV, and prepared to spend the next couple of hours researching possible topics for a new book.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Dracula,’ blared from the speakers.
Startled, I looked up at the TV then laughed. There he was, the sexiest vampire ever: Frank Langella as Dracula, circa early 1980s. He had the best lips – pouty, full, and definitely come-hither – and eyes that wouldn’t be denied. One of my college roommates had been a real vampire fan, and she had an extensive collection of bloodsucker movies. This version was her favourite.
I sat back and enjoyed watching Frank’s lips for a while, savouring my glass of wine. As the end of the movie approached, I clicked off the TV, because I didn’t want to watch those sweet lips get fried by the sun in the film’s inevitable finale.
As I drank the last few sips in my glass, I had a sudden memory of the last time I’d watched that movie in college, sitting with my roommates and listening to them scream at the end, rooting for the vampire to break free and fly away. Afterwards they all talked about what fun it would be to invite some dark, window-tapping stranger into their beds.
Hmmm. I linked my fingers together behind my head. Vampires as erotic fantasy material. Listening to my roommates that long-ago night, the budding psychologist in me had been intrigued, but I considered vampires to be horror-movie and comic-book fare. I was not the kind of person who believed in the supernatural or the mystical. I’d found that most things turned out to have mundane, predictable explanations.
Of course, since then I’d taken the required class in Jungian Psychology in graduate school and I knew all about his theory of synchronicities – the interconnection between inner and outer realities based on the idea of a collective unconscious. Jung said that there are no coincidences and the universe functions through an unknowable intelligence. I could even agree with that on an abstract level. Yes, it did seem odd I was experiencing things that appeared to be related on the surface. But contemplating the cosmic possibilities of metaphysics was a hell of a lot different from believing in vampires.
Still. This had been one strange day.
CHAPTER 2
I spent most of Saturday immersed in my vampire research. It turned out there were millions of vampire pretenders in the world, and reading through some of the websites gave me a better understanding of the scope of the illusion. Most of the wannabes were very sad – young people searching for meaning, connection and love in a world where they hadn’t found any. Some were simply drawn to the excitement, danger and forbidden fruit. Then there were the walking wounded who had crossed the line between acting out and psychosis.
By the time I woke up at dawn on Sunday morning, I had formulated a plan of action and I was excited. It had been a long time since I’d felt passionate about my work. I was going to become the Vampire Psychologist. Well, Vampire-Wannabe Psychologist, anyway. Starting Monday, I would run ads in all the local newspapers and online classifieds, offering both individual and group psychotherapy for vampires.
Yes, I thought, mentally rubbing my hands together, this had bestseller written all over it. I had found a brand-new dysfunction-of-the-week that mixed genuine mental illness with just enough scary occult sensationalism to make it a bona fide hit. Maybe I’d even get to go on Oprah or Dr Phil!
While I daydreamed about my impending stardom, my stomach growled in angry protest. When had I last eaten? I tended to forget mundane details such as food, and strolled into the kitchen to forage for something edible. As usual, the refrigerator was cluttered with old take-away boxes, the contents of which were no longer recognisable, along with bottled water and a substance that had probably once been cheese. My kitchen was a potent reminder that while I was exceptionally organised and efficient in my professional life, I was completely oblivious to its other aspects.
Shopping falls into the category of torture for me. Not only do I have all the impatience of my ‘Type A’ personality to deal with, but being around all those people – their energy, I guess, for lack of a better word – wipes me out. According to my parents, I’d always been ‘too sensitive’, too receptive to the moods of those around me. I suppose that’s why I became a psychologist, but my sensitivity certainly complicated the rest of my life.
I spent most of my childhood thinking I was crazy – or cursed. Normal kids didn’t spend time hiding in closets, talkin
g to invisible friends, and picking up bits of people’s thoughts. I learned very early to keep my weirdness to myself, to isolate so nobody would notice. It took years for me to integrate my extra senses, to acclimatise to the strange hand I’d been dealt.
And if my psychic ‘gifts’ weren’t stressful enough, I always got teased in school for being a nerd. The ‘brainy girl’ with no fashion sense. The shy loner with her nose in a book, cowering in the corner. Thanks to my reclusive parents, I was the poster child for Social Anxiety. I just couldn’t see the point of worrying about trivial things like parties, friends or clothes when there were so many mind-puzzles to solve. So many mental illnesses to cure. At least, that’s what I told myself. I had a moment of feeling sad for the terrified child I’d been, always observing instead of living.
Another stomach growl prompted me to call my local deli for a breakfast bagel. Picking up the phone, I heard the beeping sound that told me I had messages.
I made coffee and poured myself a cup, then punched in the retrieval number to access my calls.
The first message made me grin. It was from Vaughan, the cute chiropractor I’d met when we’d both volunteered to answer phones at the local PBS fundraiser a couple of months ago. I think he’d called me once before, but I couldn’t remember if I’d returned the call or simply thought about returning it. He really was adorable, with his light-green eyes, curly chestnut hair, and that delicious dimple. It probably wouldn’t hurt to call him back. After my spectacular failures with men, I’d become such a wimp about dating. It was just so much easier to hole up at the library.
Hearing the next voice made my breath catch and my knees go weak. My heart pounded and my palms moistened. I grabbed the counter to keep my balance.
‘How can he still do this to me after all this time?’ I said aloud.
Dr Thomas Radcliffe. My first love. The man I’d been willing to change my life for. The man I’d thought was the answer to my prayers. The man who had told me I didn’t excite him any more and who’d dumped me for an airy-fairy astrologer who wore crystals and smelled of patchouli oil. Even after all this time, thinking about him still made me want to cry. It had been two painful years, and I had only recently started to feel good about myself again. Two long years of going over everything I’d said and done, trying to understand what it was about me that hadn’t been quite good enough for him. Shades of my lonely childhood.
The Vampire Shrink kk-1 Page 2