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For a long time, I stand staring at the door. It's like I'm paralysed, but I know it's fear that stops me. Which is pretty odd, when you consider it. I want to change – I know I do – but it's hard, taking that first step. The perfectly ordinary door leading into a perfectly ordinary building yawns before me like a huge black mouth, waiting to swallow me. I can feel the icy kiss of the rain as it falls about my head and shoulders, running in small trickles down my neck, and it's strangely comforting. I could stay outside, here in the rain, in the dark, in the cold. It seems... right.

But Herman is there beside me, and his pale hand is on my sleeve. Small droplets of rainwater glance off it and hit the ground; some others, having landed on his skin, run slowly over his knuckles and down his wrist, dripping off his hand to join their brothers on the dark pavement. There is concern in his eyes, concern that does not belong there. For a moment, I hate him.

“Come on, Victor.” His voice is soft, low, a sibilant hiss in the darkness, but forceful in its way, containing both persuasion and wounded pride, a hint of disappointment and rather a lot of encouragement. “You knew this would be hard, but it will be worth it, I promise you. The first step,” he nods at the door, waiting for me hungrily, seeming to grin at me, “is to walk through that door.”

“I – I don't think I'm ready.” If I hate Herman at that moment, I hate my own voice even more. It shakes with fear, fear which disgusts me the more because it's real, and I'm usually not afraid of anything. I hate it, and I hate that I'm letting it win. But I am afraid. “Maybe next week.” I begin to turn from the building, turning up my collar against the rain, more a symbolic gesture really as the weather does not in the least bother me. His hand on my arm tightens. I know how tight that grip can get, and for a moment my eyes flash a challenge in the gloom, reflected in the white sodium glare of the street light.

“No.” It is a simple denial, more an order, a refusal to accept my defeat. “No, Victor. Next week you'll feel the same, and if you walk away tonight you're going to feel like a failure, and I won't allow that.”

“You won't allow it?” Now the challenge is full-born in my eyes, a red anger rising in them that would speak, in other circumstances, of mortal combat. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I'm your friend.” The three words are spoken quietly, gently, but with commanding force. The strength of his forceful, gentle commitment defuses my anger, deflates my burgeoning arrogance, and shrouds me in shame. I nod.

“I know,” I tell him. “I know. But as my friend, you must understand how difficult this is.”

This time he nods, and looks back at the waiting door, an immovable object waiting to meet its irresistible force. “Of course I do,” he assures me, his hand still on my arm, as if, should he release it, I would be gone in a flash, disappearing into the night, leaving him behind, leaving any potential hope for salvation behind. He's right; I would. “But we've talked about this. Nothing that's worth doing is easy, and there are no quick fixes. You want to get better, don't you?”

This time it is he whose eyes bear the challenge, but it isn't the challenge of combat or that of resistance; his gaze dares me to have the courage of my convictions, to do what I said I would do, what I promised him I would do.

To take that first step.

I try to make my feet move in the direction of the door, but they are determined to carry me away from it. Only his grip, strong but caring, arrests me. I wonder how he can do it; this is not how we are. How can he be so understanding, so friendly, so, so... good? Do I want to be like him? I've asked myself this question a thousand times in the last few months, since he first told me of this program, of his experiences with it, and how it helped him. And I've swung between that's what he wants, good for him to can't I have it too? Eventually, after what most people would call soul-searching (though I do not use such a term, for why would I?) I came out on the latter side of the argument, and gave in to his repeated blandishments, allowed him to encourage, almost force me to accompany him to one of his meetings, hoping but not believing that I would gain something from it, that it would help me, that I would attain from it what he has.

Peace. Acceptance. Serenity.

What have I become? I sleep through the day, go out at night looking for my fix, my hit. And I get it, but it does nothing to assuage the hunger in me, the need, the desire for more. It's slowly destroying me, this addiction, I know that. But it's so hard to stop. If it's even possible. It's ruined my life, this thing that has taken over my every waking moment. It's made me hurt the people I love, do anything to attain that high, to feel that – that invulnerable, that strong – though I really know, deep down, that it's weakness that drives me, not strength.

Strength, as Herman has pointed out to me, comes from wanting to change, not allowing this thing to define who I am. Strength comes from standing up, from saying no: this is not the way I want to live, this is not how I am going to live. I am going to do something about it.

As if he's reading my mind, he asks me “Do you not hate what you've become, Victor? Can you even look at yourself in the mirror?”

“No,” I tell him honestly. “No, I can't.”

I used to despise addicts. No will power, I would scoff. No self-respect, no control. The scum of the earth. I would, I arrogantly told myself, never be like them, grubbing around for my next shot, selling my very soul for the one thing that keeps me going, the thing I must do, the thing that has made me its slave. But it's funny how your perspective changes once you're riding the red horse. You see a whole different world from up there, and it's not a better one. You understand more, you realise what it's like, and despair eats your heart as you come to accept that it will never change, that you are trapped like this forever.

And then, in the darkest of dark nights, a torch shone through for me, and here I am standing beside my friend, a sinner at the gates of Hell, waiting, hoping to be admitted.

This is my chance, my chance to turn it all around, to turn my back on the life I have led and make my existence mean something. This is my chance to atone, to walk a different path, to step out into the light, terrifying as that seems.

But, as Herman has told me many times, this isn't like one of those car washes where you go in with a filthy vehicle caked in grime and muck and it comes out sparkling clean, good as new. It's not like confession, where the faithful who have sinned go in and repent, and come out with their souls as shiny and scrubbed as when they were born. It's a long, arduous process, and it takes time, and it takes commitment, and it takes perseverance. It's not easy, but it starts with one step.

If I can make that one step.

But I'm finding it a lot harder than I had expected.

Still, like Herman says, nothing worth doing is easy, right?

“I'm not going to try to force you, Victor.” His voice seems to come from a long way off, and I notice faintly that he has taken his hand off my arm. His eyes are serious. Are they ever any other way? Above in the sky, the eastern wind pushes a small bank of clouds from the moon and the half-full pale yellow disc illuminates us, standing outside the building like two penitents fearing to enter our god's sanctum. Well, one fearing and one trying to urge him. “But aren't you tired of living the way you do? Aren't you tired of hurting people, of hiding who you are, of the terrible agony that comes with every morning, the awful realisation that you've done it again? Don't you want to take back your life, take back control, be the man you want to be?”

I find it hard to answer, but I nod. My eyes shift towards the door again. Perhaps it's the appearance of Lady Moon, lightening the darkness, but somehow it doesn't seem as threatening as before. I believe I may be able to approach it.

“The first step in dealing with your problem,” Herman tells me as we stand in the hallway (I hear a low murmur of voices from down the hall, and a tiny sliver of light spills out from beneath a closed door, which we approach now), “is admitting you have one. They'll help you, as they helped me. But you need to be open to that help, and ready to change. Are you ready to change, Victor?”

I nod, uncertainly. “I want to,” I tell him honestly. He smiles, and knocks on the door. We are admitted to a circle of people, who do not look that much different from us, all sitting on plastic chairs. They welcome us into their circle, and I am encouraged, as a newcomer, vouched for by Herman, to introduce myself. I know what to say – what must be said – Herman has coached me in this, and there is a certain form which must be observed. It's hard to say it – hard to admit it to others, when you've spent so long hiding this secret, protecting it, guarding it, fearing that it might be discovered.

But this is it, now. I've come too far. I've made the giant leap, and it's time to make another one. I've lived in the darkness for too long. It's time to do something I never thought I would, and step into the light, even if it hurts.

I stand, clear my throat, look around at my fellow attendees, at Herman, and back.
“Hello everyone,” I say, a slight tremble in my voice. “My name is Victor, and I'm a vampire.”
“Hello Victor!” they all chorus.

I'm feeling more comfortable already.

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