The first three days I thought that I would have been better off dead.

They were the worst three days of my life at that point and I spent most of the time passed out on the bathroom floor, my pants permanently around my ankles. Vomit had sprayed around the toilet bowl, and I didn't even recall doing that, missing or even getting it in the bowl, but when your entire existence for three days is puking or shitting, then details are a little hazy.

Being on what I thought of as death's doorstep for three days brings things into clarity, but usually after the crisis has passed. Of course, the better description would have been on death's toilet, since that's where I spent most of my time. I had either been puking or shitting my guts out, huge stinking and sometimes bloody masses. This was from either end mind you. I was usually doing both at the same time. On the first night I had slept on the floor of the toilet, practically wrapped around the toilet bowl, never mind how cold it was. I had been sweaty and clammy, running a fever and in a definite state of delirium. Since Louise had disappeared I hadn't had much time for anything else, much less thought.

At times I wondered if she was simply having me on, but those thoughts never lasted long, and I'd either be puking again or passing into unconsciousness.

My dreams were no better, hazy fever dreams that left me feeling sick to my stomach.

On the second day when I woke up, I was still on the bathroom floor, but someone had covered me with a wool blanket and I had clutched it around me while I slept. As I woke I was aware of someone in the room with me and tried to turn to see them, aware that my pants were still down around my ankles and my ass felt like it was caked with shit. Definitely not at my best.

"Louise?" I tried to say, but the movement was too much.

When I woke up again I was alone.

On the third day, I dragged my weakened body into the shower, disgusted with myself for the state I was in. It took me almost an hour to get in there and another half hour to get the water on, but I was able to just lay under the water and after a while, I began to feel human again. I didn't know how long that feeling would last, but even if for just a little bit, it was more than enough.

It was the longest shower of my life and I made sure to take my time. It's not a good feeling to have shit caked on your ass, and I could partially relate to the disgust incontinent old people probably felt when they looked at a pair of Depends™. Hell at that point I could relate to an infant, who had no choice but to sit in their own shit until somebody cleaned their ass for them. However, I had a choice and I cleaned as carefully as I could.

I may have cried at some point. If I did, it's none if your business. And if I did cry, then I didn't know why, but it would have felt good to do so, just letting my despair out. But I didn't cry, and you can stop staring at me now.

Fact: showers have remarkably restorative powers. After a good hot shower, you don't feel as shitty anymore, no matter how bad things are. You feel as if you can take on the world. You're clean and restored and you can feel good again.

That feeling only lasts as long as you're actually in the shower. The instant you turn off the water, it comes flooding back. The weakness and the doubt have simply been kept at bay by the water and as soon as you step out, they're waiting for you like old friends, ready to start the party again.

When I was able to step out of the shower, but very carefully because I was so damn weak, I was more than a little shocked at the state of the bathroom. The stink was unbearable, more so than normal and my nose was a lot more than a little offended. I would have to get some kind of gas mask when I cleaned up this mess.

I stumbled out of the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that had been awkwardly placed without any thought, next to the television. I crept closer to the mirror, not sure of what I was seeing there. When the towel fell from around my waist I didn't even notice. All I could look at was myself in the mirror and remember Louise's words to me and the absolute impossibility of it all.

But most of all, the only thing I could think about was, what the fuck had happened to my eyes?

The eyes looking back at me were not the eyes I had grown up with and looked at in the mirror every single day. Oh no, those beloved eyes had been a dark brown, deep and thoughtful, soulful as my mom used to say. They had never ever looked like this, these freak eyes that now sat in my eye sockets as if they belonged there. Damn them, what had they done to my eyes?

The eyes that stared back at me, no matter how much I rubbed at them with my knuckles, trying to un-see what I was seeing, those eyes were a pale blue, almost luminescent in the dim light of the room.

This, of course, is the point where I freaked the fuck out.

Forget logic, forget pain. Forget sanity, just forget rational thought. Forget who you were or who you might have been. Forget everything, but remember these words because they may be the last words you hear. Forget it all because none of it matters. Forget the story, forget the songs, they were all wrong anyway, all lies planted like a seed of ugliness and fear, to feed the hunger, to feed the growing seed of myth that lies buried deep within. Forget everything you've known because it is a lie. Forget the truth and know that you are the truth. And know that you are also the lie.

"Louise pick up your fucking phone and talk to me dammit! Tell me what the fuck you did to me!"

I hate voicemail.

In between calling Louise and yelling at her voicemail, I'd stare at myself in the mirror, not wanting to see, not wanting to believe it. None of it. I couldn't be a vampire. This was just some huge fucking elaborate hoax, the onset of rabies or something exotic. Could you get rabies from a human bite? It didn't matter if you could or not, because I had something and it sure as hell wasn't normal.

When someone answered Louise's phone, I tried to calm myself.

"Louise you gotta talk to me. I'm freaking the fuck out here."

"Louise isn't here. Nobody by that name here."

"This isn't a wrong number. It's Louise's number."

There was silence and the sound of somebody fumbling the phone. Somebody mumbled something and there was laughter. I was about to say something when somebody screamed. It sounded just like Louise.

Click, and the phone hung up.

One thing that you can always remember, no matter how bad things may seem, is fear. It is your constant friend, waiting just out of sight, but always there, waiting to come back to be your best friend in the entire world. In fact, if it was your only friend, then that would suit it fine, just fine indeed...

I called back, my hand shaking as I listened to the phone ring. I prayed to a God I didn't believe in that maybe I had gotten the number wrong, but somehow I knew that I hadn't. I knew it deep in my gut, and when the phone was answered again, and all I could hear was Louise screaming--

This time I was the one who hung up.

I may have thrown the phone then, I don't know, but I started moving quickly, looking for my clothes, determined to find my damn pants and get out of there, get over to Louise's place as quickly as possible, I mean, she had to be there, right? And then what? Then what was I going to do?

I froze at the very thought, common sense kicking in. I stood there, one foot in my pants leg, screw the underwear, this was urgent! I realized that I was no action hero, I was, in fact, the worst person to be a hero of any sort. What kind of rescue was I going to pull off anyway? My friend was screaming somewhere... and maybe she wasn't even at her house. The best thing to do would be to call 911 and let them sort it out, right?

Fuck!

I spent the next few minutes trying to find the phone, dialing 911 and then hanging up, trying to amp myself up to be a hero goddammit, just be a hero for once, and then remembering the whole fucked up situation and the goddamn mess of the goddamn trashed hotel room. Action is its own inaction and vice versa and man I am so fucked up.

I sat naked on the floor of that motel room, my cell phone on the floor in front of me and I just stared at it, afraid to use it and sure, just so goddamn sure it was about to ring and it would be Louise and this time she wouldn't be screaming, she would be okay and none of this would be happening because it was all a big fucking joke and there was no way I was a vampire—

I caught sight of my eyes in the mirror and the reality of it washed over me, the full possibility taking hold at the sight of those fucked up blue eyes in my head. I was beginning to really believe it now, or at least the possibility of it. I think that maybe my believing it freaked me out more than anything else.

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QUESTION OF THE DAY: So: vampire psychic powers.  How do you think they would work in real life, and better yet, what other mental powers would they have that makes sense in a real world way?

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