Rivulets sliding down. Trails of blackish paint run down the sink, gently staining the tips of my fingers.

I massage the paint-smeared brush until a greyish hue remains. It’s true when they say ‘things can’t go back to how they were’. 

More importantly… neither can they remain the same. It's better than. Better to ensure the future doesn't suffer. ‘Pull the weeds that would strange new growth.’ Perhaps I am the last of my lineage. Perhaps not, yet. 

I lift the brush. The water runs. 

I close my eyes and lean into the sound. 

Water 

      rushing down 

                 Around

  Tapping

Slipping 

   Dripping

It reminds me of peace. 

I reach and turn the tap off. A knock echoes. 

My eyes open. 

The man stands there at my door. 

“Charles? How unexpected. Did you need something?”

“I came for a favor. You see, my wife sent me to retrieve…well it must sound ridiculous …but she wouldn't leave me be about her notebook.”

 “Reall-y. You came for that. I thought you hated her hobby.” 

“Well… her nagging is quite something.  Do you mind if I step in?”

I open the door wider. “I will look for it.”

I leave the door open as I approach a paper littered dining table. These are my rough sketches of new art pieces. I lift and set the papers aside, knowing her notebook is shoved between the couch cushions, deliberately by Rita, though she didn't tell me. 

Charles, who was in the entryway, notices the ball of red yarn on the table. 

"Do you plan to make art with this too?"

He steps closer to pick it up. 

"Cats cradle," I say.

"Hmm…What about cats?"

"The string game you see children play. I bought the yarn as a gift for the child of my relative."

"I see. But I think the popular toy these days is a nice doll."

"Hmmm. I don't need my niece making friends with other dolls. This string helps to connect to people."

Here. I hold out my hand and he hands me back the red ball. I slip the threads over my fingers in a playful weave of a bridge. 

"Here. Slip your hand in the middle thread and give it a try. I used to sit on the steps of my house playing this. The neighbor taught me."

"Are you still close?"

Instead of taking the string his eyes move to the table of sketches. 

"She passed of a fever."

Actually, I had been hungry after my father's death. My dear best friend, I had strangled her with the strings and had myself a little snack. I could hear the sea gulls screaming long after.

Eventually Charles turns to the finished canvas propped in the corner.

"Did you paint that one too?" Charles asked.

The painting was of a man offering an apple to a boy. That day had been character studies with live models, but I had taken creative twist. The boy, originally in goat skin, now wore lamb. As the boy held out an apple for a man to eat, that man cupped his hands underneath as though holding water and leaned down to take a bite while a red scarf trailed down his neck. The boy conceiled a knife behind his back.

"Yes," I said. "It didn't yet sell."

"Why so dark?"

Because it was the truth, but I decided to answer the a sad story everyone would believe.

"When I was seven," I explained. "My father died with three bullets to the chest. My mother died of childbirth. It's difficult to see the world any differently."

"Of course," Charles said. "Monsters everywhere, hmmm."

There is a small plate of fresh cucumber sandwiches on the table. 

The phone behind me rings. 

“A moment, “ I say.

“Certainly.”

I got to the phone, while I amuse myself with Charles trying decide his stance. Do you think I've never been hunted before? What a foolish man. 

"Hello," I say.

"It's Rita. My husband will be over to get the notebook that I swore I lost there."

I hear a little click from behind my head. 

“Not a problem,” I assure her. 

I look up to a gun. 

"My father used to speak of vampires." 

My eyes remain impassive. 

"And you believe him?" 

I gently place my finger on the muzzle and point the gun up.

“I… are you truly not…” Charles mumbled. 

“Did he tell you. That vampires are stupid?”

Charles smacked aside my hand and pulled the trigger. A hollow click issued. Charles brought it closer to inspect.

“What?”

The door smashed open.

“Put the gun down,” the officer yelled. 

Charls holds his weapon to the side. 

“I said drop it.”

“There has been a misunderstanding.” 

“Drop it. Now.”

“I cannot. This woman is a demon!” he protests. 

“Painting is not a crime.”

“She has blood in the fridge. Check it. If I'm wrong… I'll put down my gun.”

The officer narrowed his eyes in distrust. “Mam,” he finally said. “Would you be so kind as to open your fridge door?” 

I almost sigh. Naive. I walk to the fridge with confidence and let the door swing wide. The interior was nearly empty. Sliced meat. Cheese. Tomato juice. Strawberry jam (for all they know). 

“Open them,” he demanded. 

Really. You want to taste them. A bemused smile graces my lips. I keep the sarcasm to myself. My heroic policeman hasn't even questioned my lack of panic. I pull the tomato juice, clutching it in both hands.

“I-”

Charles’ hand raises- A gunshot sounds. Another gun clatters to the ground. A metallic thud and a reddish substance seeps under my shoes.

“Ahyaah!”

Charls is on the ground clutching his wounded leg. My hand is to my face, my head turned away, the can dropped. I'm seemingly disgusted. I hide a wide smile. I feel a slight lurch in my stomach at the scent of blood. The policeman is soon pressing Charls to the floor, a knee to his back. 

“I told you to put the gun down. Bloody stalkers. Couldn't you have been satisfied with your own wife.” 

“You don't understand!” Charles screamed. 

A voice buzzes on the phone line. I bring it closer. “Pardon?”

A male voice speaks. “Is the artwork ready?”

I glance at a canvas half covered. There a man and woman gaze into a crystal ball while holding knives behind their backs.