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?