The image of me in the mirror looked white and scared. I took a breath to steady myself. I wanted it to go away. I wanted it all to just go away. But I had to get the blood off her. I had to get her in bed with a pillow to cry on. I had to get her a cup of cocoa and a really good shrink. Did they have shrinks for abused vampires? I wondered as I put a hand on her shoulder.

“Ivy,” I coaxed. “It’s time to get cleaned up.” I looked at her bathtub where that stupid fish still swam. She needed a shower, not a bath where she would be sitting in the filth she had to get off her. “Let’s go, Ivy,” I encouraged. “A quick shower in my bathroom. I’ll get your nightgown. Come on…”

“No,” she protested, eyes not focused and unable to help as I lugged her upright. “I couldn’t stop. I told him no. Why didn’t he stop?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured, my anger growing. I supported her across the hall and into my bathroom. Hitting the light switch with my elbow, I left her slumped upright against the washer and dryer and went to start the shower.

The sound of the water seemed to revive her. “I smell,” she whispered vacantly, looking down at herself.

She wouldn’t look at me. “Can you take your shower by yourself?” I asked, hoping to spark some motion.

Face empty and slack, she looked down at herself, seeing she was covered in coagulated, vomited blood. My stomach clenched as she touched the shiny blood with a careful finger and licked it. Tension tightened my shoulders until they hurt.

Ivy started to cry. “Three years,” she said in a soft exhalation, tears running down her oval face until she ran the back of her hand under her chin to leave a smear of blood. “Three years…”

Head bowed, she reached for the side zipper on her pants, and I lurched to the door. “I’ll make you a cup of cocoa,” I said, feeling entirely inadequate. I hesitated. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, and I shut the door softly behind me.

Feeling weightless and unreal, I went into the kitchen. I flicked on the light, gripping my arms around myself, hearing the emptiness of the room. Her makeshift desk with its silver technology smelling faintly of ozone looked oddly right beside my shiny copper pots, ceramic spoons, and herbs hanging from a sweater rack. The kitchen was full of us, carefully separated by space but contained by the same walls. I wanted to call someone, to rage, to rant, to ask for help. But everyone would tell me to leave her and get out.