Welcome to North of Normal: Day Drinker
Welcome to North of Normal.
North of Normal is an ongoing writing project. It’s a place for short fiction and observations that sit close to real life but lean slightly strange. Rather than hiding in a folder, I’m sharing them as I make them.
These stories focus on everyday dynamics. Power. Attention. Energy. The small interactions that shape how we feel after someone leaves the room.
Some pieces are funny. Some are uncomfortable. Most live in daylight, not darkness. The monsters here don’t hide. They blend in.
Each story stands alone, but they all come from the same place. A curiosity about behaviour and the quiet patterns we learn to accept. This is one of those stories.
Day Drinker
By: Caroline Anders
The vampire woke up late, which felt rebellious. Sun already up. Light slipping around the curtains. He groaned like a person with joint opinions. He rolled out of bed. Cold floors offended him. Immortality did not mean suffering free zone. In the kitchen, he made toast. Burnt one side. Scraped it with a knife. Ate it anyway. Waste bothered him more than death.
He poured coffee into a mug he bought at a yard sale. A photo wrapped around it. A family of seven. Struggling badly. Eyes tired. Weekend tired. Life tired. Not the energy he liked. Too drained already.
Still, a great mug. Good weight. Solid handle.
He drank slowly. Studied the photo. Wondered what happened to them. Probably fine.
Probably not.
Either way, not his concern.
On the counter sat a book. Witchcraft for Beginners. He pulled it closer with one finger. A quick spell perhaps??Something to take the edge off and maintain his subtle, or not so subtle, decisions.
Energy wanted subtlety.
Energy wanted access. And just to be sure, he put a salt line under his mate to protect him from others. He showered. Warm. Safe. He hummed while shampooing. A pop song built to stay in your head longer than it deserved.
He dressed for daylight. Long sleeves. Linen shirt. Hat with a useless little brim. Sunglasses that made him look friendly and ignorable.
In the mirror, he checked the effect.
Normal.
Harmless.
Like someone who would ask about parking.
Perfect.
He did not have a traditional job, but make no mistake, he worked. Don’t think he was on easy street or something. His motto, jobs implied an obligation. Obligation spoiled appetite. I mean creativity.
Instead, he stepped outside and let the town wake around him. Morning smelled like dirt, toast, and quiet resentment. He strolled. Not hunting. Browsing. A jogger passed him, jaw locked, breath loud. Running from thoughts. Too clenched. He passed.
A woman paced outside a café, phone pressed to her ear, whispering rage. Hot energy burned fast and left nothing. No thanks. A man sat on a bench feeding birds and muttering about town politics. Circular anger. Exhausting. He nodded to the birds and moved on. Parents gathered near the school fence. Coffee cups clenched. Group fatigue diluted flavour. He kept walking.
He stayed patient. Energy always announced itself. Not loud. Leaky.
He saw it halfway down Main Street.
Someone skipping along. A girl.
Everyone else moved. This one is skipping. Staring into a shop window. Not shopping. Thinking. Shoulders loose. Mind open mid-sentence. Open. He glided across the street slowly. Speed frightened people. People guarded what they noticed leaving. He stopped beside them. Same angle. Same window. Old books. Dust. Unused potential.
Nice day, he said.
She smiled automatically.
Mistake.
She replied politely. Her voice carried curiosity without armour. He felt the soft pull immediately. He asked a simple question.
What are you working on these days?
There it was. The pause. The internal drawer slides open.
She answered. Too honest. Words spilled out with light behind them, then less light, then none.
He listened as it mattered.
He fed.
Not greedily. Greed left marks. He took the edge instead, the forward pull, the sense of motion people mistook for personality.
He nodded and asked careful follow-up questions. The kind that sounded supportive and landed invasive. He let her story loosen, stretch, then fold back in on itself.
She laughed once. Then didn’t.
When she finished talking, she looked relieved. People always mistook emptiness for unintelligence.
“Sounds like you’re thinking deeply about things,” he said.
She nodded.
“I feel tired.
Weird tired.”
He smiled. Gentle.
“Big day.”
They parted. Friendly. Ordinary.
He walked on, full and steady.
Behind him, she stayed still longer than planned. Forgot why she stopped. Forgot the thought she’d been holding five minutes earlier. She would blame the day. Or sleep. Or herself.
She would never imagine a vampire passed her in full sun, wearing sunscreen, drinking coffee from a mug with a tired family on it, skipping witchcraft entirely.
Blood loss came with drama. Sirens. Stories.
Energy theft smiled. It asked good questions. It lets you think you chose it.
The vampire turned the corner. Sun higher now.
A good morning.
At the edge of town, he almost missed her.
She was kneeling in a yard, hands in the dirt. Gardening without gloves. Knees muddy. Hair tied back with something practical. Not performing. Just working.
A vampire looking at a girl gardening.
That mattered.
People who garden like that already want a distraction. You didn’t put things in the ground unless you’d buried something else first.
He slowed.
She looked up. Squinted into the sun. Smiled anyway.
“Morning,” she said.
Her energy didn’t leak. It hummed. Low. Steady. Earned. Built from surviving, rebuilding, and making things where there wasn’t much room to make them.
Interesting.
He stopped. Commented on the soil. Asked what she was planting. Asked how long she’d lived there.
She answered while packing dirt around roots. No pitch. No apology. Stories slipped out sideways. Small town. Long winters. Too much responsibility, too young. Creative work done between everything else.
He adjusted.
“So what shaped you?” he asked. Casual. Friendly. Curiosity disguised as care.
She laughed once. Short.
“Life,” she said. Then kept talking.
Loss. Staying when leaving would have been easier. People who took more than they gave. Learning to keep going anyway.
Trauma bonding always felt efficient. A shortcut disguised as a connection.
He mirrored just enough. Shared the outline of a story. Not his. Close enough to feel mutual.
She nodded. Kept gardening. Didn’t stop moving.
That slowed him. He preferred stillness.
“Do you ever feel drained by people?” he asked.
She snorted.
“Only when I let them stay too long.”
He smiled.
“Same.”
He asked better questions. Process questions. The kind that opened internal filing cabinets.
How do you know when to stop?
What makes something worth finishing?
What do you do when things don’t go as planned?
She answered thoughtfully. Honestly. A little too openly.
He fed.
Not on pain. On momentum. On the forward force that kept her making things after everything else.
When she finally stood, she moved more slowly.
“Huh,” she said. “I feel tired.
Weird tired.”
He smiled. Warm. Familiar.
“Big morning.”
They exchanged numbers. Of course they did. Although she didn’t really want to. Conversations like that always pretended they would continue.
He walked home full. Balanced. Pleased with himself.
At home, he poured coffee into his favourite mug. The one with the tired family from the yard sale. Still a great mug.
A message came in.
Good talking to you. That helped more than I expected.
He didn’t reply.
Not out of cruelty. Out of completion.
He muted the thread. Set the phone down. Made lunch. Took a nap.
Outside, she went back to the garden. Planted anyway. Felt hollow for a bit. Then annoyed. Then sharper.
She’d felt that shape before.
Inside, he stretched. Had a snack and a face mask. Energy steady. Day well spent.
He slept deeply.
She kept her gloves nearby next time.
