It’s a fairly seamless progression of thought. Looking at the woman’s sallow skin and hollow cheeks, I imagine my own cheeks filling out and my skin being flushed with a nice warm color. I wonder how possible it might be for me to do the same thing in my own body; perhaps I could starve and weaken the demon and kind of flush it out. I puff my cheeks up with air.

Before I was turned, my human body sustained itself, albeit only for days. Something in me must have kept my heart beating and the muscles in my ribs tightening and relaxing, letting air into and out of my lungs. It’s completely possible that that human power is still there, only dormant. Perhaps there is actually a lot of human potential in me. Last night, as my body had been warmed by Ben, I’d felt alive in a way I’ve never felt before. My heart had woken up and was beating faster than the demon could ever pump it; I’d felt a pleasure better and more intense than eating; I’d felt Ben’s blood coursing through his veins but felt no desire to drink it, and only gratitude that he was alive and with me. It had been the duck that had repelled Ben—death had, essentially, repelled him: the remnants of my last meal. If I deny myself blood, perhaps the human side of me will get stronger until I can consume and live off human food, and I’ll attract humans to me too, and a human life for myself, and human love.

I go on Facebook and scroll absentmindedly, just taking in the shapes that the blocks of text make, and some of the pictures of people’s babies and dinners. Then I lock my phone again and just listen to Buffy, which is still playing on my laptop, and balance my phone on my forehead. It feels nice having it up there. It’s a pretty good weight. Gradually, I drift off into something like semi-sleep, half aware of the characters in Buffy talking about a plan to kill a particularly strong vampire, but with new images and other voices accompanying the dialogue in my head.

“Lydia, I’ve come back. I couldn’t stop thinking of you,” Ben says in my head, all soft-looking, and wet from the rain, standing outside my studio door. I peel his T-shirt off him and big chunks of his flesh come off with it. He’s made of cake. “I can’t eat cake,” I say, crestfallen. “I don’t have a properly working stomach.”

“Lydia, I’ve come back. I couldn’t stop thinking of you eating me,” Ben says in my head, all soft-looking, and wet from the rain, standing outside my studio door. I peel his T-shirt off him and he’s all weird and gray-colored and thin. I bite into his neck and drink and feel my body fill up and my energy return to me and then—“Quick, quick,” I say, and I hold up the puppet Yaga for him to drink from.