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Description
It was a tiny room lit by a buzzing flourescent light, painted eggshell white and interrupted with posters delivering passages from Scripture, social services information, and the Mission's rules. There was a folding table in the middle of the room, folding chairs on either side. Against a wall sat a smaller table with a coffeemaker cradling a dented, stainless-steel carafe.

Melody sat at the table, staring at her hands as they absently picked each other's fingernails. Lem poured a cup from the carafe, walked to the table and set the cup down in front of her. He dropped a legal pad and a mechanical pencil in front of an empty chair, and sat down.

The cup steamed. Melody looked at it, then back at her hands.

Lem clicked some lead into the pencil, scribbled on the pad and showed it to her.

I know you're hungry. It's pig blood. Warm. Will do the trick for now.

She read the message, looked at the posters, then looked at the cup again, for longer this time before looking away.

Lem scribbled again. It's a lot worse when it's cold.

She looked away, but reached a tiny, pale hand across the table to slide the cup closer, then she raised it to her nose. She sniffed it, sipped it. Her face twitched like she wanted to cry, but she couldn't.

None of them could.

Melody looked at Lem through long, purple-orange bangs. He nodded his encouragement.

She drank. Three swallows, then threw the cup at the floor and curled up with her feet on the chair, burying her hands in her lap.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a wet wipe, and put it on the table. He made a dabbing motion at his mouth with his fingers.

Her hand closed over the wipe, and she pushed it against her lips as if she wanted to throw up into it.

Lem wrote on the pad again.

How much do you remember? From before?

She stared at her knees. Slowly, she opened her mouth and started to speak, but no sound came out. She bit her lip.

He pushed the pad toward her.

She put her head on her knees for a while, but Lem was patient. Eventually, she took the pad and pencil, and wrote. Her hand was flowing, erudite against Lem's tight, square letters.

I remember being dragged and waking up here. I remember some faces. I remember the name Ray. I think I liked him.

He took the pencil and pad back.

Is your name really Melody? He handed it back to her.

No. She started calling me that. That bitch at the desk. Because of my tattoo. She pushed the pad back to Lem, and her hand went absently to the musical notes on her neck.

Do you know your name?

She thought for a long time, but shook her head no.

It's normal. I don't remember much either. That was almost a lie. He still remembered the war, like still-photos and sounds from far away. None of us do. It happens when we change.

She read that, picked up the pencil, but didn't start writing. She bit her lip again. Melody looked at Lem, the question in her eyes. The same question they all asked on the first night.

What happened to me?

He took the pad and wrote the three words that all of them had to confront, the words that separated their old lives from the new one, from now on.

You're a vampire.

Sometimes they laughed, or tried to, their faces twisted in a silent grin. Others cried, or tried to, dry tear ducts denying them. Lem had thrown a chair across this very room and clawed the skin off his chest when Old Hitchcock told him what he was.

Melody just stared. She opened her mouth again, closed it. They sat like that, in silence, for a long time.

Finally, she picked up the pencil again.

I played the clarinet.

Lem pursed his lips, picked up the pencil, but stopped. He put it down, then closed his eyes and forced his blood to move again. He swelled his chest and strummed at his vocal cords, his forced voice echoing like the moan of an attic ghost.

"Maybe you will again."

Description
It was a tiny room lit by a buzzing flourescent light, painted eggshell white and interrupted with posters delivering passages from Scripture, social services information, and the Mission's rules. There was a folding table in the middle of the room, folding chairs on either side. Against a wall sat a smaller table with a coffeemaker cradling a dented, stainless-steel carafe.

Melody sat at the table, staring at her hands as they absently picked each other's fingernails. Lem poured a cup from the carafe, walked to the table and set the cup down in front of her. He dropped a legal pad and a mechanical pencil in front of an empty chair, and sat down.

The cup steamed. Melody looked at it, then back at her hands.

Lem clicked some lead into the pencil, scribbled on the pad and showed it to her.

I know you're hungry. It's pig blood. Warm. Will do the trick for now.

She read the message, looked at the posters, then looked at the cup again, for longer this time before looking away.

Lem scribbled again. It's a lot worse when it's cold.

She looked away, but reached a tiny, pale hand across the table to slide the cup closer, then she raised it to her nose. She sniffed it, sipped it. Her face twitched like she wanted to cry, but she couldn't.

None of them could.

Melody looked at Lem through long, purple-orange bangs. He nodded his encouragement.

She drank. Three swallows, then threw the cup at the floor and curled up with her feet on the chair, burying her hands in her lap.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a wet wipe, and put it on the table. He made a dabbing motion at his mouth with his fingers.

Her hand closed over the wipe, and she pushed it against her lips as if she wanted to throw up into it.

Lem wrote on the pad again.

How much do you remember? From before?

She stared at her knees. Slowly, she opened her mouth and started to speak, but no sound came out. She bit her lip.

He pushed the pad toward her.

She put her head on her knees for a while, but Lem was patient. Eventually, she took the pad and pencil, and wrote. Her hand was flowing, erudite against Lem's tight, square letters.

I remember being dragged and waking up here. I remember some faces. I remember the name Ray. I think I liked him.

He took the pencil and pad back.

Is your name really Melody? He handed it back to her.

No. She started calling me that. That bitch at the desk. Because of my tattoo. She pushed the pad back to Lem, and her hand went absently to the musical notes on her neck.

Do you know your name?

She thought for a long time, but shook her head no.

It's normal. I don't remember much either. That was almost a lie. He still remembered the war, like still-photos and sounds from far away. None of us do. It happens when we change.

She read that, picked up the pencil, but didn't start writing. She bit her lip again. Melody looked at Lem, the question in her eyes. The same question they all asked on the first night.

What happened to me?

He took the pad and wrote the three words that all of them had to confront, the words that separated their old lives from the new one, from now on.

You're a vampire.

Sometimes they laughed, or tried to, their faces twisted in a silent grin. Others cried, or tried to, dry tear ducts denying them. Lem had thrown a chair across this very room and clawed the skin off his chest when Old Hitchcock told him what he was.

Melody just stared. She opened her mouth again, closed it. They sat like that, in silence, for a long time.

Finally, she picked up the pencil again.

I played the clarinet.

Lem pursed his lips, picked up the pencil, but stopped. He put it down, then closed his eyes and forced his blood to move again. He swelled his chest and strummed at his vocal cords, his forced voice echoing like the moan of an attic ghost.

"Maybe you will again."