I am not myself. I am a boy, perhaps 8 or 9, and my mother is a combination of Patricia Arquette and Tilda Swinton and is a vampire. She wears a long black dress and large black sunglasses.

She is worried that I am growing up maladjusted by her vampirism. She teaches me to compose music by drawing rigid square shapes on graph paper with a thick black pen and dotting empty spaces with coloured ink.

A machine reads the grid and plays back music. It is abstract and harsh and each new piece I draw is harsher and darker. My mother is afraid.

She keeps me after school to meet with a very old Iroquois woman. Her hair is gray, long and bushy and a her face very round and wrinkled. She carries graph paper compositions of her own.

"Your compositions are too rigid, too square. Why do you draw locked rooms with no exit?"

I shrug and tell her that that was how my mother taught me.

"I will teach you to flow. You must flow."

She shows me some of her graph paper: it consists of smooth, elegant spirals and many coloured dots. I prefer my rigid rooms and get quiet and cranky. I wake up after looking up at my mom and her fangs and how pale and sad she is.