I had to physically restrain Malachai, him pulling against my arms to lunge at the man if he got too close. At some point he would break free from my grasp, and when that time came, I didn’t want to witness a bloodbath. I told the mystery man to leave, but he stubbornly stayed, inching forward and back, waiting for an opportunity to grab Malachai. They were certainly related, the resemblance between them was quite clear, putting Malachai in his care was not something I could do in good faith at the way he reacted on sight.

He sat at Malachai’s table, not giving up, only changing his tactic. He said something quick, Malachai lunging at him. I tightened my grip on him, hoping it would be just enough strength to keep him from tearing his throat open. “Why?” He asked, speaking as if possessed, hands trying and failing to reach him. “Why did you do it? I was happy…I was happy and then you…and then you…you…” I caught one word as he switched languages: Blaga. Their conversation was beginning to cause Malachai extreme discomfort, his body shaking, his hands over his ears, repeating the same phrase. I let go of him a moment before he fell to the floor, curling into a ball, sobbing.

I told the man I assumed was Mr. Blaga to leave once more, or I’d call the police. He glared daggers at me, eventually relenting, but not without a word that caused Malachai to shake even more. He wasn’t responding to my voice, to the scent of my blood, he wasn’t going to come out of this on his own. I went to my bag, knowing I shouldn’t give him one of my anti-anxiety pills even though it was the same, only mine were a lower dose. I did anyway, forcing it in his mouth and down his throat, stroking his head and whispering whatever soothing things I could think of until he begun to calm down, to realize he was okay, and he was safe.

He grabbed my forearm, pulling me slightly as he licked the blood from my hand, at the cut I had forgotten about in the commotion. “Is…he gone?” He closed his eyes.

“Yes, he’s gone,” I said. “And…I’m here…if…if you want to talk.”

He pushed himself up slowly, putting me in his lap and resting his head on my shoulder. “August…I…I trusted Mr. Blaga,” he wrapped his arms around me, “and…he…I…” He picked his head up, hair ruffled and eyes glossy. “If you break my trust…I…I’ll hurt myself, or-or I’ll hurt you, August…and I…” Tears fell from his eyes, and I could hear everything he had pushed down bubble to the surface in his voice. “I…ate his heart. Every time…he comes back…he gives the same answer.” He pushed me away, my elbows hitting the floor, and he stood up. “The same answer to the same question and I keep eating his heart. I don’t know where he keeps getting them, August.” He walked into the table, but kept walking, raising his voice the further he got from me. “I just want to know why, why do the same things? I was happy and then!” He came out of his bedroom, a new pair of glasses on his face. “And then!” He wrapped a bandage around my wrist. “He tells me he doesn’t need a reason.” He sneered, “He’s just like all those in town. Doing whatever they want and blaming it on us when something goes wrong.

“His heart is so bitter, August,” he quieted himself. “It used to smell sweet, sweeter than the rabbits and birds.” He looked at the floor. “It fills with blacker blood each time. He should be dead. The wolves should have gotten to him—I wish the wolves would have gnawed him to bones. It was twofold.” He sat at his kitchen table, resting his forehead against his hands. “Ripping my happiness from me. The bats became my family when my mamă caught me and forced me out. I ate his heart. I was terrified, I carved my way to his blood—” He stopped himself for a few moments, placing his glasses on the table. “Don’t let him take me, August. I don’t want to know what he’ll do with me.” He looked at me, eyes red and brows furrowed. “I’m so stupid for thinking he wants to make amends. I still trust him…and I don’t want to…but mamă told me I could…and I’m…I’m just so…done.” He closed his eyes. “August…he made me this way.”

“What way?” I asked. “Do you mean…the, um, vampirism?”

“Yes, and…” His eyes shot open, glazing over. “When the…adrenaline wore off…all I could think about was…my hands on his still beating heart…having dug through his organs…the feeling of cutting into flesh…the sound his ribs made when they broke…It excited me…it hurt how much it excited me…and I…sinned and cried and prayed for an answer.” He flexed his hands, his gaze focusing on them. “Once I…I was so…fixated on that feeling of a heart in my hands…but I didn’t want to kill someone…I tried to tear my own out…I would do it again…I would commit suicide before I let Mr. Blaga hurt me again.”

“Malachai,” I said softly. I was having trouble forming my words, he had told me so much. Told me some things I was sure he hadn’t even told Dr. Chase, probably hadn’t even spoken out loud until now. There were two conflicting thoughts, to be completely empathetic to him, and to tell him I’d have to tell Dr. Chase that he thought about hurting himself. He was waiting, stewing in his own thoughts, I had to say something. “I’m sorry,” was all I could get my mouth to say.

He grabbed his glasses and stood up almost violently. He didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge my existence, just walked away. I followed him at a distance, watching him close his bedroom door without looking at me. I gave him a few minutes, pacing while I looked things up on my phone, before opening the door slowly to check on him. I felt some relief when I saw he was only sleeping, no obvious signs of self-harm. I closed the door slowly and holed myself up in his bathroom to make a phone call.

“He might have to be hospitalized for a bit,” Dr. Chase said after I explained the situation to her.

I dug around his cabinets, looking for any and all prescriptions he might be hoarding. “I doubt he’ll go.” I checked the dates on bottles and packs, looking for anything relatively recent. “He’s afraid. He’d do it out of fear if anything.”

I went through his bag next, sitting a pill bottle on the floor next to me. “I understand that” she said, “but can you keep him feeling calm? What if he lashes out at you?” I pulled out a little book, a log of every day and time he took his mood stabilizer. “He tore a piece of flesh off you, August! At least try to get him the right help.” His log was inconsistent, taking them at random intervals and different times. That was until the day I was supposed to lead his session. They were more consistent then, him taking them every day, at the same time. The week I was at Chirizukakaiou’s were missing, so was yesterday and today. “August?”

“Sorry,” I put the log down, pressing the heel of my palm into my forehead. “Have you seen his lithium log?” She was silent, answering my question without needing to speak. “Dr. Chase will all due respect, I spent weeks with him. He was fine, he was taking them regularly. Then, he stops, for whatever reason, and has—”

“August,” she said. “There’s no guarantee he won’t attack someone at a trigger even if he’s taking his lithium. Try to get him admitted, even if it’s for a short stay. Don’t sacrifice your life for his.” I bit my tongue, telling her I already somewhat did that wouldn’t help matters. “I have to go, August.” She hung up, and I ran a hand down my face.

I packed Malachai’s things back up, taking the full anti-anxiety bottle and the lithium tablets to the table. I started poking around his kitchen, looking for any misplaced prescriptions. Digging through a drawer, I found an old journal. Yellowed pages, faded writing, it had been both well-loved and well cared for. There was a dogeared page I gingerly turned to, looking over the script. It had been written over many times, in an attempt to keep the words from fading. I could tell it was a recipe of some sort, what it was for was a complete mystery to me. It had been written in at least two different languages, one of which used the Latin alphabet. A word had been crossed out, almost illegible under the thick ink, and above it was written “Malachai” at the top of the page. I pulled my phone out to see if I could translate any of it.

It was a recipe, the header reading Malachai’s Favorite Challah. I took a few screenshots of the translation and turned the page to find a paragraph written in a different hand. I held my phone over the page, waiting while the translation loaded. When it appeared, I took a screenshot and read over it. Remember, it read, this is the only thing that’ll lift his mood. If only it could be shabbos every day, then my baby could be happy all the time. I would do anything to make him happy, I love Malachai to pieces. I leaned against the counter, looking between the book and the recipe’s translation on my phone. I began rummaging around his kitchen in a different way, my mind made up to make this bread I’d never heard of before. It could get him in a good enough mood to take his lithium, if there was even a chance of that, I would take it.

Once I had the recipe written in a way that was easier to read, I got to work. I was never the best cook, my mother even banning me from the kitchen when I burned rice. I was going to give this my all, it was one thing to go through his things while he was asleep, it was another to mess up a recipe that seemed dear to him; it was the only one still legible enough to make, besides the obvious addition of his name. I was most worried about the dough rising properly, I had never made anything that was supposed to be so glutinous. Before I had been barred from the kitchen at home, I had only helped with simple things, cutting, boiling noodles, things my mother didn’t think I could fail at.

It was odd that I had to braid the two loaves before baking it. I had never seen anything like it, and the internet searches I did on the word “challah” was filled with words I struggled to read. What I was able to gather, it was used in some sort of religious context. I hoped it wouldn’t upset him even more by taking it out of its meaning. It hadn’t been long since I took them out of the oven, golden brown on top, that he whipped his door open, it hitting the wall hard enough to rattle even me in the kitchen. 

He stopped and stared at the bread, eyes then moving around the kitchen, landing on the journal I forgot to put away, at his medication on the table, and finally on me. “You…went through my stuff?” He rushed over to the still open journal on the counter, grabbing it and holding it protectively. He flipped through the pages, assessing each and every one. He let out a sigh, “Why…did you? This…This is the only thing left…” He stopped on that paragraph, reading and rereading, mouthing three words.

“I’m sorry.” He picked his head up. “I know I shouldn’t have, but you lied to me, Malachai.” I picked up his log, his eyes following. “I was worried when you became manic, I just…I want to help you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I lied.” He looked down, “I’m sorry, I’ll…I’ll take them and…and I won’t skip a dose, so…please…please…don’t leave me…” Malachai set the journal on the table, turning his back to me while he took his medication, showing me the empty square when he was finished. “Everybody leaves…I don’t…I don’t want…you to go…”

“Okay,” I said, “I won’t leave.” He seemed to visibly relax, even if he assumed I was only saying it to make him feel better.

Over the course of the next few days, Malachai took his mood stabilizers at the same time each day, even going so far as to show me the empty squares in the packet. He wanted me to write everything down as a way of keeping him in check. He spent most of his time crocheting or knitting, putting his finished pieces in boxes he took with him when he left for his therapy. I stayed holed up in his apartment, sending emails back and forth with my advisor, biting my thumb in wait for his replies.

Someone banged on the apartment door, startling me out of this anxious behavior. I opened it a crack, barely having enough time to get out of the way before Mr. Blaga threw the door open with enough force it would have broken my nose. He looked around the space, finally acknowledging my existence. “You’re…You’re the sweet blood,” he said. “Where is Malachai, sweet blood?” I told him to leave, but he pushed further into the apartment. “Did he tell you? Are you protecting him?” Every fiber wanted to ask what it was Malachai supposedly told me but getting him to leave before Malachai came back was starting to win the little argument in my head. “Oh, he didn’t,” he filled the silence when I took too long to answer. “Even without knowing, he can still find pity, I see.” He grabbed my shirt collar, insurance that I wouldn’t run away the first chance I had. “His ta—”

“Mr. Blaga,” Malachai grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. His timing was almost planned, if I wasn’t scared they’d start at each other’s throats again, it would have felt I was in a movie. “Don’t you dare.”

Mr. Blaga let go of me, and I gave myself some distance from them. “Let me enlighten your little friend, you certainly don’t remember something from so long ago.”

“No,” he said. “I remember it in striking detail. Every sight, every taste, every smell. How it all felt…Mr. Blaga, leave. I want nothing to do with you.” He loosened his grip just slightly, a show of mercy. Mr. Blaga took that show of mercy as an act to wiggle free, turning around to face Malachai. His voice was too quiet for me to make out, Malachai staying surprisingly calm throughout their conversation. That was until Malachai punched him in the gut hard enough for his opposite to cough blood. While he was momentarily reeling from the pain, Malachai took the opportunity to drag him out of his apartment, locking the door as an extra measure. “Are you okay, August? Did he hurt you?” I shook my head, still a little out of it that he was so strong. I knew he was, but this was a different kind of strength than the one he used to punch me with. He was holding back then, it was frightening in its own right. “Good,” he came over to embrace me, “I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you.”