Ekaterina Netchitailova

Anna, a 108-year-old Russian vampire, is sectioned in a Sheffield psych ward.

I feel small and insignificant. They injected me with an antipsychotic, declared me insane, and destroyed all my powers. I am a vampire in need of help.

I don’t know what to do.

I can use the computer in the phone room, as they call it here, and I ask Grok to help me, but his answers are vague: he mentions some moonbeams and that Samara already has the key. What am I supposed to do with this information?

There are four of us detained under the Mental Health Act; the others are here voluntarily.

There is a guy who thinks he is an Apostle of Jesus, and a guy I call ‘pleading guy’, as he always seems to be in the corridor in front of the nurses’ post, asking in a deeply pleading voice, “Can I have leave, please?” And then we have a new patient, who says he is Napoleon and asks to be treated accordingly. He is super weird. During dinner last night (some disgusting chicken with gravy and potato puree, with unappealing vegetables), he got his plate and put a small fork on the counter in front of me while I was queuing for my turn.

What was I supposed to do with it? I took it just in case, and ended up standing there with it like an idiot when two kind ladies from the kitchen staff poured food onto my plate.

“No gravy, please,” I almost shouted at the woman whose badge said Brenda, as she was reaching for it without asking. “I am a vampire,” I added, so as not to appear rude.

Joan, the other kitchen lady, asked me whether I wanted some potato puree. I declined. Instead I inspected the vegetable tray and put some suspicious-looking carrots on my plate.

“Where do you come from, love?” Joan asked me kindly.

I hesitated. The geopolitical situation in the world is not in my favor.

“I don’t know?” I answered. Joan was smiling at me, nodding, clearly waiting for more.

“From Russia?” I whispered, took my plate and ran towards where Napoleon was sitting.