As usual, I stand out like a sore thumb in church. For the most part, I can pass for anything from thirty-five to fifty-five – or if I stretch it, thirty to sixty – but among all these wrinkling and greying people, it's clear I'm not one of them. The only ones that look younger than me are a family with two young girls. They can't sit still and their mother shushes them every few minutes. I smile.

Over the years, my faith has waned because I am everything that should not exist, and I am not the devout Catholic I grew up as, but I'm still a Christian – even if my beliefs have changed – and I've been going to church for centuries. Those mornings, when the air vibrates with the massive sound of the organ and the light falls through the stained-glass windows, are when I feel most at rest, when I can almost believe there is a God – someone – that loves me. Then I go home, and I can cherish that happiness for a few hours more before it is but an empty promise.

I don't touch Bacchylides today. Instead, I draft a test for my fifth grade Latin class and I look through my notes for my lessons. The familiarity of my work is soothing and wipes out the memories of that awful dream I had yesterday. It is half past four pm and nothing has happened yet. Not even the smallest cough has wormed its way up to say: 'Here I am!'

I go to the bathroom and when I wash my hands, I look in the mirror. My face is swollen and red, spotty. I push on my cheeks and lips and there is more resistance than there should be. No pain, but pressure, thickness.

I feel queasy. It looks horrible. What the hell is going on? Is this another hallucination? It can't be. It can't. But it can't be real either, can it? I don't know what is worse: if it's real or not. Unfortunately, this time, I am sure I'm not dreaming because such lucid dreams are impossible. Why would I even dream about this? Dreams are not random.

I squeeze my eyes shut because I can't stand the sight of my face looking as if I am a child – with a beard – that has the measles. Maybe I should lie down for a bit. Or I ate something wrong. Or my immune system is suddenly working too well and I have an allergic reaction.

I open my eyes. My knuckles are whiter than the sink they are gripping and the faucet is still running. I let the water flow over my fingers, look at how it reflects the light, how it glides through my fingers in pretty rivulets. There are spots on them as well.

When my head hits the cushions on my couch, I am swiftly swept away to slumber, even though I wasn't the least bit tired just ten minutes earlier.

My nap lasts about thirty minutes. I pull up one leg and my trouser leg rides up. A red spot peaks above my sock. I blink twice, thrice, before it sinks in. The panic returns as an acquaintance instead of a stranger. I lose no time to get rid of my trousers. My legs are full of red spots, much like bloodstains on a white sheet. This is impossible. It looks like eczema or some other kind of rash. Why would I develop something like this now, when I haven't in the past centuries? I have lived in unhealthier conditions that are worse for the skin than a modern, cosmopolitan city.

I blink and blink, but the spots don't go away, they don't get smaller, they don't become less disgusting, less nauseating to look at.

Come on, Dante. Man up. You studied medicine. This is nothing!

Maybe this is why I wouldn't have been a good doctor, even if I wanted to: I have had the privilege of an almost perfectly functioning body for so long that it has become self-evident. I don't have the empathy to understand the emotional weight diseases have. It is easy to not feel anything when it doesn't concern you and you don't fear it ever will.

Yet, here I am. My infallible immune system is failing. Every time I see my own body, a whirlwind of emotions blurs the present and the past, one that should have dissolved into history long ago.
I take off my watch because it irritates my skin. It is about six pm. I itch all over, but I can hardly go out and feed naked and skipping another day is risky. Maybe, feeding and a good night's sleep is everything I need. If it's not better tomorrow, I can always go see a doctor or buy some skincare product.

***

In the morning, my skin is as unblemished as ever. I didn't hallucinate the rash, did I? Well, all the better. Let's hope this was a one-time thing that I will only ever guess the reason of.

I spend the hours till noon enthusing teenagers about Horatius, antique philosophy and Greek and Latin grammar. I'm free the hour after lunch and I chat with Gitte, who teaches Latin in the lower grades. I am tired, but I pay no mind to the heaviness of my head or the pressure on my temples.

The world spins and I waver, teeter on the edge of nausea.

"Ho!" Gitte grabs my arm. "Are you okay?"

"A moment. I have to sit down." The chair creaks. "Can you bring me my water bottle? It's in the front of my bag."

"Just water? I could also fetch some coke if you are dizzy."

I shake my head. "I just want to drink something. Clear my head."

"Alright."

The dizziness muffles my thoughts, my balance. Drinking doesn't help. I have another class in twenty minutes, but I can't teach when I can't think and the whirls and waves drain my energy.

"I think you should go home. Or go see a doctor, maybe."

"Yes. I'm going to notify the headmaster."

"Are you sure you can walk? I could go instead."

I shake my head. "I'll be okay. Leave me some pride." Gitte laughs. It's not a joke.

I knock on headmaster Dupont's door. "I'd like to go home. I don't feel well."

"Of course. You don't look well, either." He pauses. "Your old age is finally getting to you like the rest of us old men, huh?" I don't have the energy to laugh. "Take care and let me know if you will be absent for a longer period, so I can find a substitute."

"Will do."

***

I boil water for instant chicken soup, but I can hardly keep my head off the table. I sip on it in between bursts of dizziness. It's a miracle I don't spill it. I'm not that lucky to actually keep the soup down. I don't even make it to the sink. Parts of my lunch lie amidst a puddle of clear fluids. Some of it splashed on my trousers.

Would I know it if I threw up blood? How many of my red blood cells are already converted into white blood cells? Enough for my blood to not look red anymore? I fed yesterday.

I take off my pants and leave them on the kitchen floor. I somehow trudge to my bedroom. The walls are too far, too close, never where I want them to be. I'm falling, but I never touch the floor, only the walls.

Am I dying?

***

He draws on my skin.

"You are an artwork", he mumbles. "Look at all those beautiful red lines on your pale skin." Droplets roll down. I feel them. Sometimes, he holds a mirror above me and then I have to look. I am art, and I depict hell.

"I wonder if you'd die if press a little harder? If I open those veins of yours? Let all the demons inside you bleed out? Would there be any of you left?" I hope there wouldn't.

***

I live. Life is pain.

***

Everyone dies. Papà acts strange too.

"Stay away! Don't come near me, Dante." His voice is hoarse. "I'm cursed. Tainted." I don't say anything. Papà likes quiet. He's not cursed. I want a hug, but if I don't do what he says, he spanks me.

"You have to go to San Michele. The monastery. Tell them the Black Death has come for me."

"What's the Black Death?"

Papà moans. It sounds a bit like the air when he's blowing glass.

"Now, Dante. The Lord be with you."

***

He whips me. I have to atone for my sins. My existence.

***

He pinches my nose and pours hot liquid in my mouth. It feels like molten fire and I burn, drown, burn, cry. My intestines go up my throat and I puke and choke. I can't turn my head to the side. I can't breathe.

***

My blood is salty. Like seawater. Vile. I don't know when I last tasted salt.

***

I float in the dark. It is where I belong.

Am I dead?

The light spears through me. It is pain.

***

I heal. Fast. I don't want to, because it means I suffer.

***

I read Augustinus. The abbot says I have a talent for Latin. I want to serve our Lord too. There's no other place that would accept someone with my eyes and hair and skin.

Sometimes, brother Geronimo takes me to his room at night. I don't cry.

***

The scariest monsters are the ones that are too similar to us. I am the monster. He destroyed me.

***

Papà and I are in the Chiesa di San Rocco. The priest speaks Latin. I understand him. I'm nineteen. Papà hugs me.

After mass, I go to the cemetery. He doesn't have a grave. I do.

***

My bed is drenched in sweat. I'm dreaming. Dying.

***

There is a void in me and I need to fill it. When I bleed, I bleed white. I float in dark and light. In and out. Above the clouds. Lighter and heavier than ever. I can't feel my head. Can't think.

***

Papà brings home a piece of glass in red and blue.

"It's unclear. I wouldn't be able to sell it. And it's too small."

I use a piece of string to tie it around my neck. It's pretty.

Papà smiles.

***

A woman smiles at me.

Mother Mary.

I drink.

***

I am free and I quench my thirst. I drink in gulps until I'm full and I leave a brown shell. I am emptier than ever. He didn't exorcise the monster. He created it.

***

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Where am I? Am I dreaming?

I shiver. I'm wet and bathed in light that filters through my eyelids. I turn my head. My pillow is soft.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

My alarm clock grates on my nerves. I don't know how to lift my arm. Even thinking about it drains my energy. Can I sleep? How late is it? Nine o'clock. How long did I sleep? It can't have been for eighteen hours, but I got home shortly after two pm. No wonder I still feel tired. Too much sleep.

I don't feel hot, nor dizzy. It is like a cycle. I wake up just fine, I get sick around noon, I fall asleep, and I am cured during the night. If this is not a dream, at least. Maybe I only sweated so much because of all the nightmares.

Or maybe I am a new Prometheus. Liver eaten during the day and growing back at night, only to suffer more. Sounds like my life. No god appreciates an immortal human. It is hubris and I am a monster. Frankenstein's monster. Or should I quote Mary Shelley: 'Frankenstein, the modern Prometheus'? The irony: Prometheus creating Prometheus.

Why can't I forget? Am I to be haunted by memories and dreams for all of eternity? While I am physically fine, the fragments of my dreams are stuck in my skin like shards of glass. They weren't all memories, but it's difficult to remember when the details are already fading. They were likely just fever dreams, and there are more pressing matters to attend to.

Why in the name of God did I end up in this cycle of suffering? Why am I healthy for hundreds of years, through epidemics and wars and not always the best living conditions, and now – not anymore?

What do I have? I can't exactly go to a doctor when I have a different disease every day, am perfectly fine in the morning and I am not a normal human being. If they wanted to do a blood test, I'd be screwed. Especially since I didn't feed yesterday. Someone with an abnormally high count of white blood cells doesn't go unnoticed.

The only option left is to do it myself. I should still have the basic stuff somewhere, but that's material from the sixties. Not exactly foolproof anymore, but it's worth trying. My memory is not foolproof either, but that's why I kept my syllabi.

***

My morning is slow. I take a long shower and have a copious breakfast. It won't replenish my red blood cells, but I still need the energy. Maybe I should go out to feed now, but it's more difficult in the middle of the day. People are in a hurry and there are more passers-by who could get suspicious. It's almost eleven am when I've dug up the relics of my medical studies. I'd forgotten I'd put those boxes in my garage that I never use because Brussels and a car don't get along.

By the time I have a vial of blood, it's noon, and after lunch, I sense the first signs of another illness. It's just a fever, but it's somehow enough to stop my brain from functioning. I doze off on the couch while dusk is setting and when I wake up, it's too late to go out and feed. Technically, I could, but I have no intention or desire to get drunk or high and I won't meet many other people at three am.

However, this creates a predicament: If I don't feed, I won't have any blood to carry oxygen to my heart or brain or limbs. And then I'd probably die, but I don't want to think about that. Or about the other possibility my dreams so nicely reminded me of. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Should I examine my blood now? It's night, but I've just slept for more than nine hours. For once, I don't still feel tired. On the other hand, I don't want to mess up my sleep schedule. With all the sleep I've been getting during the day lately, I might become a true vampire who only wakes up at night.

For the next few hours, I look at every proverbial nook and cranny of the blood I took earlier, but I can't find any indication of what I might have. Nothing. It might be because of my outdated microscope or because I don't own the right research tools, nor can I make use of a good laboratory, but the nothingness is so complete I'm inclined to think there's just nothing strange in my blood. I have no idea where that leaves me. Enduring? Hoping it passes like the flu or a cold? After all, up to now, I've mostly had flu-like symptoms.

Since I can't cure what I don't know, I'll have to spend the time I'm well, wisely. Maybe I should pop in at the chemist's shop this morning. At least I'll be able to find something against coughing and sore throats. And some extra vitamins won't harm me either.