To Be Loved

The vampire was hanging from the tree like a damn bat. The hunter advanced carefully, sure of each step because each step meant the end of the hunt and his demise. Vampires usually do the attacking after all, no one is mad enough to attack them. So, the hunter advanced with careful madness. Smooth as a shadow, he could barely hear himself moving. The air smelled fresh and the grass wet. He wore the night, and it fit him well. He circled around the tree, using its trunk to hide. He worried the excitement of the hunt would beat his heart too loud, like a mad drummer.

Around the tree he went, and in the revolution, he started to see his target once again, appearing like a dawn. The vampire had not moved, uncaring to start its own hunt. He knew that to reach his prey he had to climb the tree, but he had to do it fast because vampires had good ears. He didn’t give doubt the time to open its mouth, but he jumped and climbed, light as a leaf. And yet, in a moment, the vampire opened its wings, ready. But the hunter was faster and got the vampire by the neck, and broke it, making of flight a vain hope. They fell, but only one of them got up.

The hunter carried his dead prey, who had so arrogantly invaded his garden, to the house. The sliding French doors had been left slightly ajar, enough for him to get in without having to drop the corpse. She was sitting on the sofa, watching the TV as she was wont to do during the early stages of the night. He dropped the dead vampire in the space between her feet and the glass tea table.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I found a vampire hanging by the tree in the garden. It was going to attack us.’

‘It’s a bat, it’s not a damn vampire.’

‘You don’t know that, it could have change form at any time.’

‘I do know because it’s my job to know. If it was a vampire, it would have turned back. And let’s be honest, I doubt you could kill a vampire, definitely not by breaking its neck. Come on, Pumpkin, I told you so many times not to bring dead animals in the house, unless I need them. Why do you keep doing it?’

‘I am a cat, what do you expect, Witch? You shouldn’t have chosen a cat as your familiar if you didn’t want me to behave as a cat.’

‘You do have a point. Sorry. Can you just take it out now and bury it somewhere? Thanks, my little Pumpkin.’

He hated his name. He was a predator. Pumpkin wasn’t the name of a predator. Yes, his fur was orange, and she was a Witch and witches love pumpkins for some reason, but it was no excuse. And he hated even more when she called him little Pumpkin. She damn well knew he wasn’t little. Damn, why couldn’t she let him go, why did she make him his familiar?

So, this is how it happened. He was crossing the road – as all cats do because they own every place they walk and dismiss it a moment after – and it was almost dark, and a ball of orange fur should have been visible but it wasn’t, for the big car suddenly turning the corner. In its defence, the traffic light was green.

No matter, the car hit the cat whose bones made a terrible noise. The cat flew because it was a small object and ended lying still a few feet away. The cat was still breathing, but feebly, as if whispering introductions to death.

A woman came out of the car. She was pretty and elegant and small, compared to the big car, it was almost impossible that she could have been the one to hit the cat who was not yet Pumpkin. The woman fell to her knees and started sobbing and then crying and then even screaming. She had lost it, and it was so weird that such a small woman could feel so much pain. The cat wanted to console her, but he couldn’t, he was dying, after all.

Then a small child came out of the passenger seat. She must have been five or six. She was very pretty, with big blue eyes and long blond hair held by a bright, pink band. The cat thought such a pretty thing should have stayed in the car. Death can cloud a young mind, even when it’s just a cat doing the dying. She came to the side of the woman and put a hand on her shoulder, as if to reassure herself that that was her mum. ‘Maman, it’s okay.’ She had a very serious face, even when her mum started to hold onto her. It was a very beautiful picture.

After a moment, the cat lost it. What the f…, he thought, Maman? She ain’t French? And why is she crying? What’s wrong with me? Console her? I am the one doing the dying here, for f…’s sake. This is pissing me off. Why are they crying, I have never seen them before. I am just a cat for f … sake, I am the one dying here. You should hold me tight until my last breath and say sorry, or whatever you are supposed to say in these circumstances, and you are not even looking at me. She can’t even look at me. What are you doing to your child, woman.

These were the words the cat wanted to say but what came out was a mad shrieking as if he was possessed by a demon newly castrated. The mother and the daughter looked at him with fear now, as demonic possession was contagious as everyone knew. The mother finally behaved as a mother, picked up her daughter, threw her in the car and drove away. Leaving him alone dying in the cold and in the dark. This was when the witch came …

Pumpkin threw the bat away in the neighbouring property, they’d find it in their garden the following morning. He hoped to hear a shriek, a tiny sound of horror from the other side. They would know it had been him. It wasn’t the first time. No bodies were buried in his garden, he was a hunter, not an undertaker. Much easier to throw his victims over the other side. The neighbours wouldn’t say anything, they never did, because of the witch. Witches were useful, but too scary for everyone. Witches were lonely, witches were alone.

That’s why they had familiars. Pumpkin came back inside and sat on the sofa, next to his mistress. He stretched, making sure to leave some unremarkable marks on the faux leather and then he folded himself to sleep. The witch’s hand reached him. He recognised that touch. It wasn’t the way someone would stroke their pet. It was the touch of a woman. He shifted and phased and changed into a naked man with ginger hair. She took him by the hand, and they went to her bedroom where she undressed. There was no seduction, no gimmicks. It was more like familiar gestures in front of a man that has seen you at your worst but is still there with you. It goes without saying he was still her familiar.

She lay under her duvet and he joined her. Her white skin was so very white, as if of someone whose blood is a rare thing. He held her until they both warmed up, until their breaths met and synchronised. It was a thing of affection. He was her familiar, he was there to keep her company. Witches were lonely, witches were alone.

There was a knock on the door in the middle of the night. They didn’t move. The knock came again, even though the witch and her familiar were awake, again they didn’t move. At the third knock, Pumpkin changed back into a cat and the witch wore a thick nightrobe. Who was there, she asked at the door.

‘A vampire.’

‘Sorry, what?’ This was Pumpkin, who could not contain his surprise.

The witch gave him a look and opened the door. And indeed, there was a man so white in the porch light that he really looked like he had died and come back to life. He stood by the door with his hands behind his back. People who hid their hands were always so suspicious. But as long as he kept his canines where they were, everything would be fine.

‘How may I help you,’ said the witch.

‘Have you seen my son?’

‘No?’

‘He is very young and keeps going around as a bat and hunts small animals.’

‘Oh,’ said the witch. Shit, thought her cat.

‘Follow me,’ said the witch. The vampire followed and the familiar behind him in a procession that would have been solemn hadn’t they passed through the living room on the right, where people were laughing on TV and then straight through to the kitchen where the dishes needed washing and the table was full of crumbles.

The witch then opened the back door and went into the garden, circling around the house towards the living room again, as if it had been her bizarre intention to show her house to the vampire. She went to the fence bordering onto the neighbouring property. The fence was not high, barely chest high. The cat was shocked to realise the witch knew of his secrets. He could not understand why she had kept them locked in silence.

The witch gestured for the vampire to look over the other side, which he did. The cat jumped on top of the fence and looked as well. There lay the dead body of a child. His white face reflected the little moonshine that came. Everyone could see clear as day because one was a vampire, one was a cat, and the last one was a witch. It was the witch who break the moment.

‘You can take your son with you, now. It will save me some trouble with my neighbour in the morning.’

‘You won’t get away with this.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You’ve killed my son.’

‘That is a lie.’

‘How dare you?’

‘Vampires are sterile. You killed a child and made him into a vampire. You killed that child, took him away from his parents. Sucked his blood and made him into a vampire. What for? Paternal need from your previous life? I don’t care. You killed this child, tried to make him into a vampire and did a terrible job of it. My familiar is protected by my magic but a vampire that dies from a broken neck is pathetic. You’ve killed this child twice.’

‘No.’

‘Get out of my property.’

‘No.’

‘You have no shame. Who made you into a vampire? Maybe a woman? Someone who felt lonely, wanted to be loved? Is this why you turned a child into a vampire? Condemned him to be a child forever? Oh, I know, we are so cruel when we want to be loved. We trick ourselves into thinking we have love to give, that we want to love, when the truth is, we only want to be loved. We would do anything to be loved. Oh, I am no better than you. No less pathetic or shameless. I made of a dying cat my familiar not for pity but because I felt lonely and I wanted to be loved. No, I won’t kill you, even if you are nothing to me, no, it would not be right. I might as well kill myself. No, you go and take this twice-dead child. Take him and yourself away from here. Take this shame away.’

After the vampire and his child left, the witch and her familiar were sat on the sofa. Things were happening on TV, but no one was watching. The familiar had been shocked at the open rawness of his mistress’ feelings. And the revelation that he was an object of shame, when he thought he was an object of love. He was bound to love his mistress, and they both knew it. It was true he was an object nonetheless, no matter the feeling attached to it. And yet, this awareness didn’t sit right with him. There was a difference. He didn’t mind that he was bound to love. He loved to love. He had been a selfish cat before his almost death. Even if he it was magic, he was a better cat in this new life. What was the difference? It’s not like we normally choose who we love anyway.

‘What’s wrong with wanting to be loved?’ Pumpkin said.

‘Pardon me?’

‘What’s wrong with wanting to be loved? We all want to be loved. We feel good when we are loved. We are happy when we are loved. What’s wrong with that?’

The witch looked at him. She probably was not used to see him so serious. He was always light-hearted, a cat at heart. He didn’t normally care. That’s what she probably thought.

‘Do you feel loved, Pumpkin?’

‘Yes. And don’t forget, you chose to be loved by me. I still feel special in a way. And you are kind to me even when I bring you dead vampires home. (And I should add I was right, wasn’t I?). You are kind to me and yes, I have received little kindness in my previous life, so maybe I don’t know what I am talking about. But I feel loved. Maybe it’s not the same. Maybe kindness and love are not the same. But I feel loved. And I don’t want you to tell me what I am supposed to feel. I don’t want to know. I feel loved and there’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘Maybe you are right. We are both quite selfish. I understand what you are trying to say, Pumpkin, I appreciate it. I really do. But I am in a position of power here, I have the handle by the knife, I have the wand. As that vampire had power over that child. You or that child had no choice. I didn’t take death away from you, I took your choice. Is that really okay? You don’t choose to love me. You are bound to love me.’

‘You are not listening. I know that. Duh. The one that falls in love is always the powerless.’