A light cough. Then a heavy, throaty cough. I still go to class. Still do sport. Still have too much to drink. The pain starts. Itching and a scratching sensation inside my chest and throat. The cough syrup makes my throat explode in flames of pain. A morning with a throbbing headache; two or three weeks after the first cough. I am eating cereal rings. Another cough. Something liquid and the taste of iron in my mouth. Another cough. The red slowly mixes with the white of the milk. Two hours of plastic chairs and blood in my mouth. I open my mouth and he presses the wooden ladle so hard on my tongue that I gag. “Wow.” Doctors should never say “Wow.” Continue reading
My girlfriend bought the eggs. It was at a big supermarket chain but I rather not say which one. She brought them home on Friday evening and Saturday morning I wanted to make crèpe for us. Crèpe, not pancakes, that’s been our Saturday morning ritual since Christmas.
I pulled the pack of eggs from the fridge. I opened it on the counter and took three eggs out. The first one was fine, or at least it looked fine, and went straight in the mixing bowl.
The second one felt much lighter but I didn’t think about that. I cracked it open on the side of the bowl like the first. The shell shattered into a lot of tiny pieces. It was empty.
It was a bit surprised but I figured that could happen somehow. Maybe the chicken was sick or something. I felt a bit disgusted but I didn’t think much about it.
I fished the shell out of the bowl and took the third one. It felt normal again. I bumped it carefully against the side of the bowl and had to try it four or five times until it finally cracked. The white and yolk flowed out perfectly normal. I examined it to make sure, but there was nothing wrong about it, there wasn’t even a fetus like you sometimes get with organic eggs.
But I needed three eggs. Without much thought I took another one from the carton and instantly froze. It was too light. I felt the shell give in under my fingers. Continue reading
It started with the tickling. I was always careful to wrap my arms and legs in the blanket. It’s something that I’ve been doing more or less unconsciously since I was a child. I can’t sleep if my body is not wrapped like an egyptian mummy, with only the face free for breathing.
I noticed the tickling a while ago. There was nothing I could see or hear, there was no reason to assume it was anything more than a problem in my brain. My feet and lower legs were wrapped in the blanket and still they tickled, like a soft air blowing against the skin.
I mean, of course I roll around at night. I never wake up as perfectly wrapped as I fall asleep. But for some reason my feet always used to stay under the blanket. My arms or even back was sometimes exposed, but my feet always needed the warmth and comfort and maybe safety of the blanket.
And I didn’t use to wake up in the middle of the night, at least not for that; not for a twitching in my toes. It felt as if needles had poked me while I was asleep. Continue reading