This First Meal
A little story about big change
He is nervous, perhaps even afraid — for the first time. Not that the old man would ever admit it, especially to himself. But it’s more than nerves, yes, in that he feels utterly alone — no, not alone, he feels so utterly lonely. The word is like a knife through his heart.
So, a change is needed . . . one that will give him a new direction. Yes, if the old man wants a fresh start, then he must let someone enter his empty existence. Then perhaps, with their aid, he can take that next step into the wider world. And though he’ll never feel part of society, he desperately needs to be around people. He craves their presence.
The old man gazes towards the ceiling and remembers how the morning sun had once made it glitter like gold. Like she had once made him shine, in happier times. Glorious days…. before darkness had entered their lives.
But the only person he ever, truly loved is long gone. Yes, the children occasionally visit, and even stay awhile — the girls’ company sometimes irritating, and sometimes welcome, and sometimes both. But even their presence isn’t enough anymore. No, the old man needs to bury the past. Memories now poisoning his mind and trapping him here.
Sitting up, he sighs and slumps back down again… just wanting to rest and forget about the outside world. But eventually, the old man rises and goes to another room; where a table is set for supper. He has laid out some of his best wine and cutlery — to impress as much as possible. Yes, he had even polished every knife, fork, and plate the night before — to where he could almost see his face in them.
The old man grins before doubt quickly kills it. Maybe this is all just a complete waste of time. Yes, he could make some excuse, put the whole thing off, and retreat to the safety of his routine. Yes, his safe, familiar… and ever stagnating routine. A slow rot that might even kill him someday, if that were possible.
‘No, enough,’ he says and leaves the room. Almost an hour later, the old man reappears, removes an overcoat, and lights a few candles. Making sure the table is set perfectly — for what seems like the hundredth time, he smiles and then departs again. A sudden knock makes him quicken his pace and finally reach a door. It is opened to reveal a well-dressed and handsome young man, standing in the darkness outside.
The old man remains composed.
‘Welcome to my home.’
‘Count?’
‘I am Count Dracula, and bid you welcome Mr. Harker.’
The first line of this story popped into my head one night, just as I was about to fall asleep, and I saved it on my phone. The rest flowed out the next morning, and I pretty much wrote it in one go. The Count has always fascinated me as a character, and I thought it interesting to see his preparations for Jonathan Harker’s visit — but from an introvert’s point of view. A vampire king who can suffer from insecurities, like the rest of us. Thanks for reading.
