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After 126 years serving his master, he never would have thought himself stupid enough to try and leave.
But here he is, and he isn't sure just how stupid he is to think that maybe he could possibly leave. Or if he's just gotten so desperate to be something other than the horrible thing he's been for at least the last twenty years, desperate to not be afraid every second of every night and day that he will say the wrong thing or fail his master in some way.
Terrified of the violence inflicted upon him and the violence that he has to commit himself to keep his master happy.
He's desperate to not have to hurt anyone else for fear of his own safety from the wrath of his master. He's desperate to not be a murderer, stalking and dragging innocent victims to be meals for the Prince of Death.
Carol is sharing when he bursts in.
He doesn't mean to shrink back at the noise of the doors, but the hinges have not been properly oiled in a good long while and his ears have been ringing since he started his run here, straight from his master's current lair.
"Hello everyone," he manages to get out before his throat seems to close itself off. His desperation is apparently not nearly enough to feel comfortable interrupting her share.
"Renfield!"
Everyone in this group has led a much more fast-paced, shorter life than him.
He isn't sure what will happen to him if he succeeds in fleeing his master. But surely, if he has survived the past century, he can stand to wait five to ten more minutes.
"Are you okay?" Mark asks.
And as the coward he has been for over a century, he sits himself down in a chair and nods. He knows he hasn't fooled anyone but- but surely he can wait another five or ten minutes before he completely and utterly betrays his master.
It takes almost a minute before Mark focuses back on Carol and her share.
She speaks of... clowns?
Renfield is missing something, he's quite sure. But it is hard to focus on the woman's share with his master's plans for world domination echoing through his head, and his master's sickly sweet promise of forever ringing in his ears.
He feels as though he's shaking. This was perhaps a terrible idea. Why had he come here? what could these people do to help him?
The second Carol has finished he shoots up to his feet, ready to run again. Not knowing if he is going to run back to his master and beg forgiveness for the slight of contemplating betrayal or run further away from everything he's known for so long.
"Renfield?" It's Mark, calling after him.
He freezes. He can't just leave, after rudely interrupting someone else's share. These are good people, he should at least have the decency to-
"Are you okay?" Mark asks again, though Renfield is quite sure the man already knows the answer. He sounds like he does, at least.
"No." How had his throat opened? When had it opened? "I need to get out of a toxic relationship," he's said it.
He's finally said it. He never thought- he's gotten this far and his master hasn't immediately appeared to rip out his throat for his insolence. He- maybe he can get out of it...
"Well, sit down and let her rip," Mark seems quite excited. Renfield isn't sure if that is a good sign or if he's over-analyzing things.
"Thank you," he says, sitting down again, only then realizing that he had been expecting to be thrown out each time he had walked into one of these meetings. That he wants to belong and to be welcomed in this space.
He is sitting down now and everyone is looking at him and- How on earth is he supposed to talk about his 126-year-long toxic relationship as the familiar to a vampire?
"Why don't you just start with what brought you here?"
Oh, that, that he can do.
"I was on the job, for my M- uh boss, and um... I was actually following Bob because I thought he would make a very good uh..."
"Friend?"
"Yes, thank you, Bob," it is not at all what he was going to say but he knows that the enabling he has been doing for his own monster is far far worse than any of the people here have done for theirs. What with all the luring and dragging dozens of innocent and less innocent people to their deaths in this city alone.
"And I started to listen to your, all of your stories and... well, they were all so sad," he doesn't mean any offense, he hopes they know that.
The room chuckles.
"That's us," someone mutters with a soft laugh. He hopes he'll be able to look back on his own life and experience and find humor in it, someday, when he isn't stuck in it.
"And for the first time in years, I felt like I wasn't alone," oh, that's why he'd been coming to these meetings. Maybe hunting down other people's monsters had been an excuse to sit here and soak in the terrible, wonderful realization that there were people out there like him.
"You realized you were a codependent,"
"No, I knew, from the second the first share started I knew. I just-" of course, he knew he was codependent, that was what the literal definition of what a familiar is, "I just didn't think there was anything I could do about it."
Because he thought he never was going to do anything about it.
"What changed?"
That traffic cop, Rebecca, she'd seen him as something good. Something other than what he had been for decades. Something he wished he could be.
And he'd unintentionally inspired his Master to think grander in terms of the misery and violence he could inflict.
"My um, my boss, he's um, pretty delusional, he thinks he can take over the world. And he thinks that I'll help him; because I always have," he says, speaking freely about his master for the first time since he'd been shut up in an asylum 126 years ago, "I need to change- otherwise, otherwise I'm afraid he's right about me, that I will,"
"He's a Narcissist, Renfield, I think we all know how you feel," Mark laughs and smiles.
Renfield isn't sure if it could really be simplified to a case of narcissism, though his master had likened himself to a god...
"No, he's different," he's a centuries-old blood-sucking vampire, for one thing.
"He's in your head?"
"Well, yes-"
"You think he could kill you with the snap of his fingers?"
"Easily. Less than that even," he answers immediately.
"He controls rats with his mind?" An old man in the back speaks, the first time Renfield's heard from him.
That utterance gives him pause. He hadn't ever seen Master do that but that doesn't mean that he couldn't... Does turning into a horde of bats count?
"Don't worry, he's on medication," Mark dismisses, "Renfield, this is codependency 101! A narcissist will always take advantage of a codependent's low self-esteem, but you're the one with real power"
Renfiend does not believe a single word out of the man's mouth.
How could he possibly be the one with real power? He's more than human, sure, but all the power he has was granted to him through his servitude and came from his master. But maybe...
"All you have to do is take it back,"
Take back his power...
"How do I do that?"
"Focus on your needs,"
"How do I do that?" He asks again, "How do I know what my needs are?" How long has it been since he's even thought about his own needs? More than months... more than years... How many decades had it been?
"What would happen if you didn't focus on his needs?"
This, surely, is utter nonsense. Complete gibberish. But everyone is nodding and agreeing, patient in a way he is very unaccustomed to. (Even when in good moods, Master is hardly ever this patient).
"What would happen if I didn't-"
"Yeah, what would happen?"
His life has been nothing but fulfilling his master's needs for decades how can anyone in this room act as if this is a simple question?
"He-" oh, oh, "He won't grow to full power."
"Yes! Exactly!" Mark exclaims, "He won't grow to full power! Wow! Why did you phrase it like that?"
He doesn't know what he's being asked.
"It's almost like he's only at full power when you've given all of yours to him!"
Oh, he hadn't thought of it like that. It isn't correct, there had certainly been quite a few times his master hadn't been at full power and yet Renfield had still been powerless, a pathetic little stain underneath his master's shoe.
But maybe, just maybe, it is worth a chance. If he can't do it then...
Well then maybe being killed and cast aside is a mercy. (Unlikely, Master prefers to make him suffer for his insolence, tear him down... quite literally, then stitch him back together only to tear him apart again until he'd been satisfied that Renfield had learned to do better, to be a better servant).
It isn't as if going back to his Master and obeying him will keep him from harm. He has nearly a century's worth of experience to show that he is doomed to disappoint his master's high standards.
So then, there is only one question.
"How do I focus on my needs?"
The room is silent. He knows it's been a long time since he's focused on himself at all, he's an afterthought in his own life. He only sleeps every few weeks, maybe even every other month. He rarely eats, too preoccupied with finding his master dinner and figuring out the logistics of getting ahold of a lair for his master to reside in and hiding and disposing of bodies, and moving the great many things his master has, mostly antiques and fineries. He only has two suits, which he is careful to mend and launder, and even then they're fraying and coming apart. (He can't remember how many years he's had them anymore).
"Do you have a space of your own?" a dark-skinned woman in one of the back rows of circled chairs asks. Debra, her name tag reads.
"No," he answers, wringing his hands even though he knows that these are good people, that if anyone were to understand how pathetically dependant he is on his master, it would be them.
"If you can, that would be a good thing to start with," Mark says, "Alright any other beginner advice?"
"Update the wardrobe,"
"Brush your hair," Carol says.
"Clean those nails,"
"Spa day, I'll go with you,"
"Get some food that you enjoy,"
He nods at each suggestion, feeling overwhelmed even though he knows just how small each one is. (He's been neglecting himself for so long, focusing all his energy on his master, leaving almost none to maintain and care for himself).
(If not for his master's blood, and the consumption of far more insects than he ever wants to think about, he may have worked himself to death).
Then, other people start to share little 'self-care' tips they used when they didn't have much but wanted to start. It ranges from a quick drink of water and a walk outside to meditative breaths or screaming into a pillow.
He's only seen the group like this a few times before. He's never been a part of it.
They're calling out their contributions, overlapping, and interrupting, but not out of malice. Out of concern, out of community. (He doesn't know how long it's been since he's been a part of one of those).
Then, louder than all the ruckus in the room and the traffic outside the building, a whisper cut through the noise.
"Renfield,"
His body seizes up, as if the gymnasium walls had been ripped away and the spring evening had turned to that of a cold winter night. As if he is suddenly thrown into icy waters, and he was freezing up just before he sank to the bottom like a rock and drowned in the frigid dark waters.
Why is his master calling him back already? Does he know what his familiar is trying to do?
Does he already know of the thoughts of escape and betrayal Renfield is harboring?
Had he sounded disappointed? Had he sounded judgemental? Had he sounded angry?
Fingers are in his hair, tugging. His shoulders are curling in, something pressing against his ribs, painfully tight.
Nails are digging into his scalp, his ears are ringing.
It's too soon.
Master never calls for him this often, this open-ended.
Why had he been foolish enough to think that-
"Renfield?"
He doesn't mean to flinch, it takes a few, horrid seconds to realize the voice calling him isn't his master. He-
His master isn't here.
Renfield blinks, fighting the stinging itch in his eyes and trying to swallow down the scratch of panic in the back of his throat.
He can't. It lingers, seemingly stronger than before.
"Oh, my servant, what do you think you're doing?" Master's voice is butter-soft in his mind, melting into his being.
With certainty and dread, the chill of death washes over him, seeping into every crack and pore.
How had he been so foolish to think he could escape? How had he been foolish enough to return to these meetings?
Renfield falls to his knees, the chair clattering behind him, Master will be here soon.
"You have to leave," he says, in a pathetic wheezing whisper. He knows that there is much noise around him, but he can't hear it.
All he can do is plead, his voice too weak to speak, "Please, he's coming, there's not much time, you have to go," he knows it's too late, for them, and for himself, "He'll kill you all."
Whispered warnings are useless.
Escape is a fanciful dream, completely untethered from reality. He'd come in here thinking his master was the delusional one...
He pleads with Dracula, hopelessly, in terrified whispers, begging for mercy for these people.
Master laughs.
Tears one throat open after the next.
Screams ring in his ears like static. Folding chairs clatter.
"I should skin you for your betrayal, but I am far too merciful when it comes to you, and you have finally brought me a satisfactory meal,"
"I'm sorry, Master. Thank you, Master," he whispers, an empty husk of a man, knowing that he's trapped, that these good people died for his foolish desire to be something more than the slave of a murderous monster.
"Did you truly think you could leave me, after all I've done for you?"
He shakes his head, tears falling, unaddressed, silent, as they always were.
Smack.
Clawed nails tear across his cheek after the slap, catching on the side of his nose.
"No, Master," he corrects, without further prompting. The thin cut lines stinging, unaddressed, as his blood mixes with the blood of the rest of the group, now dripping down his face, a brand of his guilt.
"What did I tell you Renfield? You need me, you need to be reminded of your place, you always hurt yourself so," Master says, wiping blood from off his own chin, "I am the only one who cares for you, Renfield, you know this,"
He nods, "Yes, Master," his voice far past broken, caught in a despairing whisper still. Far, far louder than the ringing in his ears.