I'm wandering through Brussels-South again. It's Monday and HIV has taken up residence in my head as well as my veins. Maybe I'll see Emile here. Maybe not. I hope I do. I don't know how long this will last. Tomorrow, I might cough up my lungs, or pass out on the couch. My brain might turn into a mush of pain, pain, pain. It is a chant. Or a poem, like Dickinson's.

There is a pain—so utter—
It swallows substance up—

She knew how you can be but pain, pain, pain. Life is pain. Nothing new.

The wind penetrates my skin and bones. I shiver and sneeze. It's the most humanI've been since I'm not anymore. I wish I was, but I'm not. I'm heavy, heavier than ever. It's called dread, I think. I know terror, I know anguish, but dread is a first. Such a human emotion. I wish I wasn't stuck in this ambiguity of humanity and vampirism, but even if I became human now, I would always be the monster. Guilty. And even if I was cured of HIV, I wouldn't be cured of life. Only death can cure life and my lifelong sentence is eternity.

I glance around the station. The hustle and bustle of people I'm never part of. I'm always the immigrant, the stranger, from another country and another time and another reality.

I spot Emile. He hasn't seen me yet. I walk up to him and our eyes connect. I didn't realise last week how big his eyes look. He must have strong glasses.

"Dante? What are you doing here?"

"My evening walk."

"Do you always do the same one?"

I chuckle. "No, actually. I just... ended up here." I fall in step with him. "Do you mind if I walk with you again? I enjoyed our conversation last time." He looks at me for a few seconds before he agrees. We walk in silence until we are out of the station.

"How was your day?" I ask.

"The usual. A lecture, research."

That's a dead-end for conversation then. Another question. "I was actually wondering: how come you teach in Leuven if you speak French?"

"I'm bilingual, but it's Brussels, so I just assumed. Why? Do you speak Dutch as well?"

"I even teach in a Dutch-speaking school."

"Really? Is French your third language then? Or your second? How many languages do you know?"

"Second, I think." Third, if I count Latin. "And I know Italian, French, Dutch, English... Latin, a little Greek, and German, and Spanish."

"So you're a polyglot."

"I wouldn't call myself one. I don't speak them all on the same level." My seventeenth-century German won't help me if I want to order a drink. Or I'd get some strange looks.

Emile laughs. "Don't be too modest. You speak Latin, you said? Who do you speak with?"

"You'd be surprised how many people are nerd enough to speak Latin. It's mostly online, and there used to be some professors in Leuven. And there's a radio in Finland, and a newspaper, and translations."

"And your students?"

I laugh. "I wouldn't dare. I'd get sued! They don't want to do anything more than necessary nowadays."

"And we know it. Even in university, it's like that." He sighs, then chuckles."Hear us complaining like two old men. Even though we probably are in their eyes, I'd like to live a little longer in the illusion of youth."

"The illusion of youth?"

"That's just my dramatic flair. Youth is no more an illusion than old age; only it's easy to forget you will grow old, while your body will remind you every day that you're not young anymore when you're old." I don't know how to react when I've never outgrown the illusion of youth, but Emile continues: "You never appreciate what you have till you lose it. I should have called it the arrogance of youth: thinking you don't have to take care of your back because backpains are something of the far future." Up until two weeks ago, I was also still blinded by the arrogance of youth as he calls it, but I can't say that.

"Is that your philosophical streak?" I joke.

"No, just the bitterness of an old man," Emile replies in the same light tone.

"So the youth is arrogant and the elderly are bitter? I see how it is. A bit of a misanthrope, aren't you? Or a pessimist?"

He laughs but takes on a more serious tone. "Not really. I usually try to believe in the goodness of humanity, if the news bulletin allows it."

I recognise the streets we walk through while we chat about the news and we reach Emile's house sooner than I expected. What now? I forgot I'd have to go inside, unlike last time. I'm sure my pheromones are influencing him, but they can't make him do anything. They just give me the benefit of the doubt,a bit more sway, trust.

We face each other and I can see how he's gathering the words to say his goodbye and head inside. I have to be fast.

"I'm sorry to ask, but could I use your bathroom for a moment?"

The seconds tick by on my wrist, even though it's just my pulse. "No problem."He takes out his keys and opens the door. I follow him inside. He takes off his coat. "You just need a toilet, yes? It's right here." He points at a door on my left.

Should I still go along with my little lie? Or should I just feed, and look for the medication while he's in a daze? Better not to make him suspicious later on, so I enter the toilet. It gives me a minute or two to think over how to proceed. I'll drink a bit more than usual, so I'll have enough time and Emile will be too weak to pay attention. Where do people put their medication? In the kitchen, perhaps? Or the bathroom? If that's a miss too, I'll have to open cabinets at random. And come back another time, probably.

Shit, I could have said I needed a bathroom just now and I'd have had time to look. Let's hope the medication is wherever Emile is.

I flush the toilet, even though I've not used it. The hallway is empty, but one of the doors is ajar and I hear noise and there's light shining through the crack. I could look in the other rooms now, but I can't stay away for too long and if I went upstairs, he'd surely hear creaks because the wood looks old.

I follow the noise and find Emile in the kitchen, putting a pan on the stove and pulling out ingredients from the fridge. He startles when he sees me. He opens his mouth, but in a few strides, I'm in front of him and waste no time to bite him. I want to be out of this house. I want the nerves to run down the drain of the shower, Emile's voice and the "ugh" when I bite him, his home, everything drained away. I want to sleep, but I have to get this over with first.

When he slumps against me, I take one last sip and pull out a chair. He flumps on it and rests his head on his arms. His blood gnaws at my tongue, my stomach.

No time to lose. I scan the counters. A water boiler, glasses, a microwave. Mugspainted by a child. Best dad. A basket sits in a corner. In it is a yellow strip with the days of the week on it, and a few bottles and boxes. I sort through them and – yes. The bottle I was looking for was set a bit apart from the others. Stribild. Thanks, Wikipedia.

Do I take the whole bottle? I didn't bring anything of my own to put half of it in. Surely, they have a spare bottle. But no, it would be too suspicious if the bottle just disappeared.

I open a few drawers and find paper towels and a roll of plastic bags. It'll do. I shake half of the pills out on a paper towel, fold it carefully, and put it in a plastic bag and then my coat pocket. Everything back in order? All right. Emile is still lying on the table and I bring him a glass of water. I can't stay. That'll only complicate things, raise questions. And I won't be at ease till I'm home.