• I sat looking at the fire, burning bright against the blackened bricks, glowing among the ashes. It danced, and I was fascinated. The heat felt unbearable against my cold skin, but still I watched. It was the only thing I was still allowed to have in my room, the most destructive of all things they could have given me. But I wouldn't use it. They knew that.

    The flames were a brilliant red near the ends, reminding me of the horrible discolouration of my irises. I was still feeling the effects, and they were unpleasant, three years after changing ...

    I hear movement outside my door, and I know it's my father coming in with another bucket of blood for me. They know I'll attack them if they don't supply me with the disgusting substance. It's a good thing, then, that my father was a butcher. Unlimited access. If only my brother would come home, then he could cure me. But that's false hope. Mother and father told him that I died.

    The lock squeals as it's turned, and the door is pushed open. The smell of lamb's blood wafts to me, and I hold myself right where I am. I will not allow him the satisfaction of seeing me lose control. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he is in complete control over his daughter, a monster.

    He lets the metal pail down without care, liquid sloshing onto the floor, and leaves without another word. I glance at his face as he leaves, and I'm not surprised at the weariness I see there, the drawn, pinched way his face conveyed his stress.

    “Thank you,” I mutter as the lock grinds back into it's place. He doesn't hear me. He leaves too fast and too loud to hear me.

    I crawl over to the bucket, my stomach twisting upon itself at the prospect of my meal. It's disgusting. Inhuman. Necessary. I lift the bucket easily and swallow the crimson liquid, careful to keep from spilling even a drop. I only get one meal every two days. I savour each sip, however thick and clotted it is. Lamb's blood is my least favourite. It's too watered down in taste and always too thick in texture. Like the blood cells are bloated.

    When I'm finished, I replace the bucket right where it was left, inside the ring of spilled liquid. A stain there, black as the soot in the fireplace, draws my eye. It's been there a long time. I still remember what blood started the black splotch on the wood. It was pig's blood, that first time.

    I sigh and look over at the blazing fire. Even from so far away, I can feel the insufferable heat. There are no windows, so I don't want to let the fire go out. I can't see in the dark like they say. But I have no more firewood. They took that away, too.

    My stomach cramps up and I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling a cry. They told me it wasn't supposed to keep hurting, but it never changes. Always after I eat, when I start processing the blood. I curl up against the cool brick wall, clutching my stomach with one arm, my knees with the other, until it passes. By the time it's gone, my hair is sticking to my forehead, a light sweat coating my forehead. I wipe hastily at it, hearing the approach of footsteps again.

    I don't recognize one of the pairs of shoes. One is my mother, her soft, light, barefooted steps almost alien to me. The other is heavier, louder, heard soles sounding like gunshots. I wonder who it is. Maybe it's one of the many doctors, checking up on me again.

    I glance again at the fire, now only half as glorious as it had been a half hour ago, wondering if I should waste the last of my kindling on making it brighter. No, I decide, I'll save it for the morning.

    I move into the far corner, reluctantly, and hug my knees. Waiting. I hear whispering on the other side, a man and my mother, arguing. The man sounds angry, but I can't tell what he's saying from where I am. The mother is speaking in Russian to him, I can tell that much, her voice lilting and pleasant despite the anger of the guest. Only the doctors talk to her in our native tongue.

    As the lock slides, squealing in protest, I try to make myself look smaller, without success. I don't want the doctors to poke me with needles again. I don't want to answer their questions or do their tests. I want to be left alone for once.

    The door swings open, just as loud as the lock, I stare at the doctor at the door. He looks familiar, though I can't exactly place why. His eyes are hidden behind square glasses, but when he smiles I see his teeth. They're clean, but a little crooked.

    Not a doctor, I determine, seeing the way his upper canines looked different. He's the same as me.

    “Thea?” he asks, stepping into the room ahead of my mother. His accent is strange, but his voice is smooth. He speaks in Russian, and I reply in the same language.

    “Yes,” I answer, sounding small and afraid. I don't know him or why he's here, but no vampire has ever come to visit me with good news. I don't like that he hides his eyes from me, and I don't like the way his shoes sound. This strange man scares me.

    “Get up,” barks my mother, hands on her hips. She looks flustered, a rare thing. “You're being rude.”

    I stand up without complaint, without reply. I let the man look at me, stepping closer, and fidget on the spot. He opens his arms and puts his hands on my shoulders when I don't look up at his face. He says nothing, and so I say nothing.

    “You've gotten so big,” he mutters, tickling the bottom of my chin affectionately. I push his hand away, confused and angry. “You don't recognize me?” he asks, when I remove his hand from my shoulder as politely as I can muster.

    “No,” I whimper, hugging myself and glancing up at his face again, “Please leave me alone.”

    The strange man takes off his glasses then, putting them in the pocket of his sky-blue shirt. It's a pleasant colour, but one I haven't seen in a long time. His jacket, a light brown, is open against the inferno I've created in the room, so I can see the holster he wears under his arm.

    “Come on, look at me,” he orders gently, tickling my chin again.

    Hesitantly, I do. I meet his eyes, a deep, rich looking brown that's almost black. They stare back at my own eyes, and my gaze moves to other parts of his face. His nose has a bump in the bridge, and something dances at the edge of my memory, flitting away when I try to grasp at it. Puzzled, I keep looking. Yes, I know this face.

    The slightly uneven cleft chin, only seen from up close, makes it all come back. “Theo!” I gasp, throwing my arms around his shoulders without warning. He reacts equally fast, hugging me back tightly and fiercely. He swings me in a circle without warning and I laugh. It's a sound that sounds alien to me, but I like it.

    When he puts me back down, we break apart from our hug, smiling broadly. “I'm glad you're still alive,” he says softly, so mother can't hear. “They told me you died, you know.”

    I see for the first time that he's going to cry. Reaching upward – I might have grown, but he shot up like the determined seed he is – I touch his cheek. Don't cry, it says, and he puts his hand over mine. “I'm glad you came home.”

    “They shouldn't be treating you like this, Thea.”

    I shake my head, taking my hand back. Brother or not, he's been gone too long, forgotten the discipline of the house. No, I had no choice. I couldn't tell him that, though, I couldn't tell him everything I felt about the room, the attachment I had for it. I couldn't convey just how much I liked the fire here, the freedom I had to dream and just be.

    Theo smiles ruefully, sighing. He turns towards our mother, sending her a scolding look, and puts his arm around my shoulders, just like he used to. “Mother,” he says, leading me toward her. I try to fight him without breaking from his hold and being rude. “I want to take Thea with me to Canada. I'll pay for everything.”

    “No,” she says, looking panicked. “No, I already lost one child. Why must you take the other? She stays, Theo.”

    Removing his arm from my shoulders, he reaches into his pocket. “Then I'll give you some money so you can clean up this room. You can't keep her locked up like an animal. She's still human.” Shooting mother another scathing look, he thumbed several large bills from his wallet. Enough to pay for several month's rent.

    “I won't take your money,” she growls, slapping away his outstretched hand. “She's happy here. Thea is fine like it is. Right?” She sends me a look of venom, and I nod meekly. I can't go against mother, even if I want to. I don't want to break her heart again.

    Theo stuffs the money back into his wallet angrily, shoving the wallet back into his coat. “Don't make this hard, mother. She will be taken care of in Canada. I have a good home, in a good place. I can send you money every month. We can visit as often as you like.” He licked his lips, getting excited. I took a step away from him, towards my dying fire, torn between being reunited with my brother and listening to my mother. “Please,” he said, “Listen to me. At least talk with father about it.”

    Mother paused to consider this, but shook her head several moments later. “No. Not Thea.”

    Frustrated, Theo stomped his booted foot, cracking the wood underneath him. “You treat her like an animal in here! You don't want to accept that she's not something you can control any more! You're being cruel.”

    “Stop,” I whisper, surprised when Theo turns toward me. “Please, don't fight. Not over me.” Hugging myself again, I back toward my fire. It's down almost to the coals now.

    “Let Thea decide, then.”

    Staring at Theo, I can't think of anything to say. I don't want to decide, I want to shout, but I keep silent. I look at mother, who is pleading with me silently. Don't listen to him, she doesn't say. I'm torn between them. I don't know what to say.

    For a moment, I say nothing. Then, “Can I talk with Theo alone for a moment?”

    Reluctantly, mother nods and leaves the room, not quite closing the door.

    “You'll be free of this place, Thea,” says my brother, spinning to face me and crossing his arms. “It's a good deal. I promise you can come home if you don't like it overseas. Please? I want you to help me run a clinic.” He pauses, then adds, whispering so mother can't hear, “I might be able to cure you of the virus, too.”

    I hesitate before nodding. If Theo can cure me, maybe I can be like normal again. Maybe I can go back to being loved by my parents and not locked away like some abomination. If I can be cured, maybe my parents will forgive me for abandoning them.

    “I'll go with you,” I say, a rock of guilt settling in my stomach. It feels like I'm betraying my parent's love, going with Theo, but I know it will get better once I'm cured. Once I can come back normal.

    Once I can be really loved again.