It was pulling her hair and she scratched her head, but she didn’t look. She didn’t believe me when I told her. I’m sorry, I really am. She just would have needed to look and it would have gone away. I didn’t want to hurt her, okay?
I need to get out. It can get in here. It always comes in when I look away. I need to look or it will come close. It can’t get close.
WHY WON’T YOU LET ME OUT?
Doc, PLEASE LEAVE THE LIGHT ON. Why do you always turn it off? I know you say this is just for me as therapy and secret, but I know you will read it. I know you will. Please, please, PLEASE leave the lights on, okay? Continue reading →
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They wanted him to be a good Christian and it’s my fault that they failed.
It’s my fault that they are dead.
The suicide was obvious, the evidence clear. But the police never figured out his motives.
I know the motives.
I know the meaning of his scribbled message, the message that no fourteen year old should leave before he pushes a shotgun against his head.
“Save yourselves now. Join us in heaven before it is too late.”
The police thought he had gone insane; that he had brought them down into the bunker and that he shot them there for a personal reason that only seems significant for a fourteen year old. Maybe bullying or parental pressure or a punishment he thought unfair.
I woke up. When I looked to my right Roxana was just climbing out of bed.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t respond. Her movements were slow but directed.
She started walking. Her hand pressed the door handle down.
My childhood wasn’t easy. First there was no father, then there was one, then my mother was gone.
They arrested her partner. I remember sitting in a large room with brown walls. Many people were staring at me. I sat at a small table. The old man that sat higher to my right scared me. An old woman kept asking me questions.
“Did you hear a fight?”
“What did you see that night?”
“Did he hurt you?”
At some point I started talking. I remember wondering what answers the old lady was looking for. Sometimes, when she seemed unhappy with my answer, I said I remembered something else. Continue reading →
I don’t usually talk much to my neighbours. There are just three apartments in our house but I can’t remember the last time I talked to Jude and Stella. I wasn’t exactly surprised that they moved out. And it’s not like I expected them to invite me to their farewell party, but couldn’t they at least have left a note?
Well anyway, now there is Ken. From the glance I got into his apartment he even kept most of their furniture. The only new thing was a painting. He had leaned it against the old sofa when I peeked in. It looked like an ancient map, ocre and beige patches that seemed to be marking countries. Thinking about it, he didn’t just keep the furniture, Ken even dressed a bit like Jude.
It’s strange that I never really got to know Jude and Stella. It was one of those weird neighbour-relationships where we greeted each other in the hallway. Occasionally we even promised to meet up for a beer. But somehow I never made the first step – and neither did they.
Ken is different. He came right on the first night, but I was already going out on a date. Actually he came nearly every night, but as things are when a new relationship starts, and the dating paired with the usual stress at work, I always had a reason to decline.
In the beginning Ken came frequently to ask for stuff. With a big grin on his face he would stand in my doorstep and ask for scissors or packing tape. He even borrowed my kitchen utensils “to prepare food for a few weeks”. From the smell of it he must be using a camping cooker – maybe the gas company didn’t connect him yet? Continue reading →