Anzolo Madonia was a normal, everyday Italian man. It was difficult for the 20 year old recent school graduate to find anywhere to apprentice, other than in his father’s “company”. His father had a small business, if you could even call it that, of renting rooms of their house out to tourists and calling it an inn. It made a fair amount of money, but not enough for his father to hire any employees beside himself. After his mother’s untimely death four years ago, it was just the two of them divvying up all of the work. He was the cook, bellboy, maid, and occasionally a receptionist and he hated it. His one desire in life was to get out of the house he had been living in since his youth and finally do something different than the occupation he had grown up with. Then, one day, his prayers were answered, but by some cruel twist of fate, not at all in the way he expected nor was hoping.

“One room?” he asked a customer tiredly, as he stood behind a new, cluttered, wooden desk his father purchased a few months ago to add to the authenticity and professionalism of the inn. The foreign man nodded, standing alone at the much larger and always depressingly empty much larger section of the “lobby”, his dead eyes set hungrily in their pale face, with dark bags underneath, never letting Anzolo leave his sight. Anzolo was unphased, he had dealt with enough unique people in his lifetime, he wasn’t sure anything would surprise him anymore. He would find out shortly that he was wrong. “Nine florin,” he said quietly. The man fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out the due amount of gold coins in exchange for a dangling metal key. He then handed his cloth sack filled with his possessions to Anzolo, who took it with a sigh and led him to his room. “Do you need anything else?” Anzolo asked desperately hoping for a no, and dropping the bag right outside his door.

“May I speak to your master?” The man asked in expected poor Italian, his voice was croaky and Anzolo recognized a faint English accent, and Anzolo noticed the man had inordinate canines set in his jaw. A sense of panic flooded through Anzolo, not from the almost threateningly unusual jaw, but from the request. Whenever someone wanted to see his master it was almost always to complain about his service. He thought he hadn’t done anything wrong this time.

“He’s not here right now,” Anzolo lied calmly, “Do you want me to tell him you were asking for him when he returns?”

“It’s not that important,” the man smiled suddenly, clutching his large bag and lifting it slightly. He opened the door with the key in his left hand, then pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside the room, dragging his bag behind him. Anzolo paused for a minute, wondering if there was anything else to say, then shrugged and started to walk away, though no more than three steps later, he heard a large crash in the room.

He turned back around. “Sir, are you alright?” He asked into the open door. The man said nothing, but laid silently on the wooden ground, his stomach and face was towards the ground and his hand twitching occasionally. Anzolo after minor hesitation, ran inside the room and tried to help him up. Before he knew what was happening, the man had in a swift movement, pulled Anzolo down and shoved his horrifically sharp teeth into the poor boy’s neck. Anzolo tried to let out a scream, but the pain mixed with the surprise left him quiet, though his mouth gaped open in horror and agony. He felt the initial bite, and the blood leaking quickly from the interstice made in his fragile neck. As the blood continued to leave his veins, his heart beat betraying him every pump, he felt light headed and dizzy. He was unfocused, and the world was about to turn black…

Suddenly there was a sound. Footsteps, the unique gait of his father was coming down the hallway. He focused on that sound and that sound alone. The evil man heard it too. He removed his teeth from Anzolo’s neck and whispered spitefully in very poor italian into his ear, “You lied to me,” he paused, “Listen to me. Now, you are a freak of nature, like myself. I was going to end your misery, but after what you’ve done you are stuck like this for an eternity. No one can know what you are. No one will accept you. This is a secret you must not share.” before stepping up and leaning over Anzolo’s barely conscious body and wiping the blood evidence off of his own face. Ippolito, Anzolo’s father, reached the door and looked in.

His face went pale with regret as he saw his son’s body, clearly in agony, a puddle of thick red blood surrounding his head. “M-my son!” Ippolito yelled, running to the scene and picking up the limp body in his arms. “What happened?” he asked the man.

“He fell. Cut himself on nails in the floorboards. I tried to help. I’m sorry.” the man lied, still leaning over the scene, his eyes flashing over the puddles of blood with hunger. “He will be fine. Just needs rest.”

Ippolito nodded, and left the room, his son still in his arms, and placed Anzolo in his bed, cleaned the wounds, and let him rest. Days later, Anzolo finally woke up, with a raging pain still in his neck. He noticed another difference about himself. He brought a shaking hand up to his teeth and found two large fangs in place of previously normal sized canines. He lowered his hand to his neck, and slid it underneath the cotton wrappings blocking more blood loss. He felt two small, fang-sized scabs. He knew what he was. A vampire. A monster. He suddenly remembered the man’s warning. Feeling dazed once again, he covered his fangs with his lip, stood up slowly and walked down the narrow stairs in the house.

He began to smell a putrid smell that strengthened the further downstairs he walked. He sneered and covered his nose, walking to where he heard movement that he presumed to be his father. He reached the kitchen where his father was humming and working, and realized the source of the smell. Several heads of garlic were scattered among the tables and counters of where his father was working. “What is that?” he asked in disgust.

In surprise and joy, his father dropped the wooden spoon he was holding, and ran to give Anzolo a hug. “My boy! You’re awake. I made your favorite Bruschetta." Anzolo was at the point he could barely stand breathing in the strong smell of the cloves. He feared he may faint again. “What’s wrong?” Ippolito asked, giving him support. “Do you not want any?” His hands smelled of garlic. Anzolo said nothing, trying to block out the smell. He focused on other senses, like hearing, he heard something he was never able to before. The steady, though nervous heartbeat of his father. He could hear the blood flowing through his veins, and he felt a hunger. A strong, instinctual hunger. He lifted Ippolito’s arm and felt the blood run under his fingers. He was so hungry. He leaned closer. Then backed away. He tripped backwards and fell against the wall. He hit a cross hanging on it as decoration. His bare arm began to burn with the contact and he yelped in pain. He looked at his father's eyes and saw a different pain, one of confusion, sympathy, and concern.

Anzolo was in so much pain, both physically, and emotionally, he was hurting his father acting this way, though he was unable to explain his mannerisms. He walked backwards, slowly, towards where he knew the front door was. “What time is it?”

“Nearly 9. It’s night.”

Anzolo closed his eyes. He was lucky for the time, yet somehow still felt unfortunate at this realization. He walked towards the front door still backwards, and faster. “Father. I can’t stay here. Don’t ask why and don’t follow. Goodbye. I love you,” he said truthfully, to Ippolito as tears began to fill both of their eyes. Before his father had a chance to respond, Anzolo, swung the door open and took several shaky steps out into the dark night, the only light coming from the moon and the warm light of candles emanating from the windows of his house and those around it. He was on his own now, just like he wished he would be, though not like this. He wondered if by leaving he was thinking of himself or of his father. Did he do the right thing? He did. He was a monster. It was too late now for any regret. Feeling the moonlight touch his cold skin, he ran, not looking back.