Bram Stoker's Dracula Retold

Jonathan's Journal - May 8th

I write this with an uncertain hand. It is uncertain as to what to write.

Strange things are taking place around me, and I’m feeling a little uneasy about myself. I am unsure whether it is just some reaction to the fact that I am sleeping more and more during the day, or whether some gas from the orang-utan is poisoning my blood.

Either way, the words I am about to write need to be written as I see them. Any I don’t see I won’t write, then whoever may get to read this will not be able to read them either. I feel I am gibbering – I did not know you could do that in written words. Perhaps if I had someone to talk to about these things I would be able to make more sense of them. Unfortunately, I have only the orang-utan, whose name I am still pondering (perhaps Boris?), and although he seems to listen intently, I do not feel he understands anything more than the language of a fresh banana.

I awakened this morning after only a few hours sleep. The orang-utan (Bob? Bruce? Buck?) was snoring like a nuclear explosion and the fallout from his all too frequent gas releases had pretty much the same effect as one. I decided to get up.

I made my way into the en-suite where I hung my travel mirror on the wall next to the window and began to shave. Suddenly I felt something brush my neck, and behind me I heard Dracula’s voice say, “Good morning.” I nearly shit myself and being startled had caused me to take a little chunk out of my neck with the razor.

I was at a loss as to how I had failed to see the Count enter the room. My mirror was hung in a way that allowed me to see the whole room in the reflection and yet I had not witnessed his approach. I responded with a “Good morning” of my own, then turned to check the mirror again.

I was not mistaken. The room reflected at me contained only my image. I realized I was standing too close to it and blocking out the rest of the room. I tried to casually step to one side without the Count knowing what I was doing. I stood on his foot by accident. When I looked in the mirror, I could still not see him there. I realised this was because he was on the floor holding his toes. I tilted the mirror. This time I could see for certain what I had been hoping not to – nothing. In the reflection the floor was empty – in the room the floor was filled with a grown man rolling around holding his foot.

I helped Dracula to his feet. He opened his mouth to thank me but no words came out. He stared at my neck for a long moment.

“Blood,” he said, his voice strange, distant and longing.

“Oh,” I said, remembering the cut I had made there earlier. “Sorry, does it make you feel queasy? I’ll just get the cloth and–”

I was unable to finish the sentence as Dracula grabbed me by the throat. He moved close to me, his face moving towards my bleeding neck.

“You should be careful with razors,” he implored. “They can be dangerous, as can the consequences of making voneself bleed.”

He had begun shaking me as he spoke, and in doing so the crucifix given to me by the hag at the Golden Crone fell loose. On seeing it, Dracula released his grip and took a step away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had a bad shaving experience vonce and it has never quite left me.”
“I see no marks on your face,” I said.

“I did not say I was shaving my face.”

I decided not to probe further. The Count’s habits were none of my business.

He walked by me a pulled my mirror from where it hung.

“This item is a vicked thing,” he said. “It is an item for ladies vanity and men who love nothing more than looking at their pretty-boy faces. It is not for you.”

He opened the window and moved to toss the mirror out.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “That mirror never harmed anyone.”

Dracula flung the mirror out into early morning. It hit a passing bird with a thunk, knocking it unconscious and sending it tumbling to the ground and into the mouth of a passing wolf.

“See,” Dracula said. “Mirrors are deadly veapons.”

Without another word he was gone from the room, leaving me alone with blood on my neck, a half shaven face and no mirror to aid me in completing my shaving.

I was about to attempt shaving without my mirror when the orang-utan flopped into the bathroom. I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at the razor. He grinned. I had an image in my head of a glinting razor in that big orange-haired hand and his grinning face looming over me. I decided to chance my own hand and let the orang-utan go about its business.

Later I sat at the table eating my usual prepared breakfast with pieces of toilet paper stuck to the cuts on my face. I doubted the orang-utan (Dave? Fred? Clyde?) could have done much more damage to me.

As I ate, I pondered some things about the Count. The incident with the shaving mirror had given me a sense of unease. I wondered just what bad experience he had suffered to make him so violently against my shaving mirror. I crossed my legs at the through that struck me. Maybe that was why he lived alone.

There are a number of small wonders I still have about him. Why does he never eat with me? Is it a problem he has sharing a table with a monkey? Why do I never see him during the day? Why did he cast no reflection in my sadly departed mirror? I will ask for answers on a postcard when I am able to leave the castle.

I do not through know when that may be. After breakfast, I chose to explore the castle as I had been granted permission to do. Although I could see many wonderful sights from the windows – wolves tearing small animals apart, wolves shagging in the bushes, wolves looking up at me in the window and licking their lips – I could do nothing but watch them from the windows. I have found many number of doors around the castle to lead me outside of its walls but all of them are locked. It is beginning to dawn on me that something is not right.

Dracula has made sure that I am unable to leave the castle. The orang-utan and I are trapped here, which can lead me to but one conclusion.

Which of us does the Count want to fuck?