Press "Play" and read on.



I don't know where I am. Or how I ended up here. But there are noises coming through the walls. They sound like screaming coming from far away, but distorted somehow. It is probably not screaming. And not very far away either.

The room is so dark, but from somewhere light is being let in. Enough light for me to see the walls. If it weren't for that I would most likely have died from fear of the possibility that those noises were right in this room with me.

There are no doors. No windows. No air vents. Whoever put me here did not want me to leave and sure as hell did not care if I survived or not. So where is the light coming from?

I blame being close to panicking for not realising that I must have ended up in here through some opening. There is one way in here. The square trap door high up in the ceiling. That's where the light is coming from.

They, or he or she or it, probably lowered me down slowly using cables or a small elevator. Otherwise I would have been alot more hurt than I actually am. So I guess someone wants me alive anyway.

The sounds from the other side of the walls have stopped. Good. They were freaking me out. And I need to focus in order to be able to get out of here.

Maybe the walls are weak enough somewhere for me to push through. I know it's a stupid idea since it's obviously keeping something out from this room. But I don't have much else to go on.

The walls are solid. My hand feels the rough structure of concrete and I shiver from the feeling and the sound my hand makes as is being dragged over the wall. I almost scream when I hear the scratching on the other side. And as I feel the vibrations from the claws through the wall, I do scream. It, whatever it is, is right on the other side. When I stop screaming, I hear the noises again. Or noise. The other sounds are just echoes of the noise being let out on the other side.

When I slowly push my ear against the dusty concrete, the noise once again stops. In order to hear something more I push my head so hard against the wall it hurts. I think it's made my ear bleed a little. At least it stings like an open wound being rubbed in with dirt. On the other side I hear heavy breathing. Breathing in the same pace as my own. It is playing with me, mocking me.

It moves away from the wall. I can no longer hear the harsh exhalations and the high-pitched inhalations. Instead I hear claws against concrete once again. The vibrations move up the wall and small pieces of concrete fall off almost every time a foot or a hand grasps the outside and pulls itself upwards.

I was never supposed to live very long in here. But I was supposed to be alive for something. The dust is falling from the ceiling instead of the walls now. My only source of light flicker as a shadow moves across the trap door. I hear my own heartbeat and almost see it pounding through my shirt. It hears it too and taps along to it with one claw on what sounds like heavy wood.

As I scream it opens the door.

[FINISHED, I GUESS]

March 23.

The text above belongs to Hemingway and is according to him his greatest work.

There is something beautiful in being able to tell a whole story with only six words. Of course it could be argued that Hemingway's short story is too open to interpretation, but what stories aren't?

I have myself many times wanted to accomplish the same thing but I do not seem to be able to pull it off. And for those of you who have been fortunate or unfortunate enough to read my short stories (see older posts below), you might have noticed that even though the stories themselves are fairly short they do not describe a whole lot of events. So let's face it; as much as I do admire Hemingway I will probably never be able to write like him. And no shame in that. I am, in all honesty, quite proud of what I've accomplished so far. To me, being able to sit down and actually write something using my own imagination is fantastic and whenever I have completed another story I complete it with a sense of pride. It might not be worth publishing, but it is proof that I haven't lost my imagination completely. Some people might see it as if I've lost my mind, but to hell with them. It's my mind and I will lose it as I please.

Like I am doing now. This sort of meta-writing is nothing but rants from myself but yet I can not help myself. It needs to flow from my brain, through my fingers and on to the computer screen. After all, it is the only freedom I have these days. Since the government banned public protests a while back due the violent protests at the EU meeting which took place in Sweden 2010, there hasn't been much of an outlet for people at all. Especially since they took over all the magazines and newspapers. Not that they were much to read anyway. Lately they've been nothing but puppets on strings controlled by the mass entertainment industry, so losing them to the government didn't really cause much of an uproar. Most intellectuals were glad to get rid of them. At least until we saw them turn into propaganda tools for the new right-wing government.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Election Day 2010 and this was the day when we would once again go back to leftist rule. But something went wrong. As expected, the Christian democrats lost a huge amount of votes because of the outcry and their jihad-like behaviors concerning gay marriage. The photos of Christian democrats raiding a gay wedding spread like wildfire online. And once the party leader defended the actions by the raiding bastards it was all downhill from there. So in all, the 2010 election seemed like it might be a walk in the park for the social democrats and their allies.

But everyone seemed to have forgotten about the Swedish Democratic Party, the nationalists...

Hold on, there's a knock on the door. I need to log off.

I'll be right back if all goes well.

No problems. Just a neighbor this time. So far no one from the bureau has dropped by, but let's be realistic; it's probably only a matter of time. And yet I can't stop writing. They got the brown-haired girl down the hallway a couple of months ago. I thought that was the last I'd ever see of her and then almost out of nothing she comes back. In a sense. The body, the shell, that once was only part of her old self is now all that remind me of her old self. Something had changed on the inside. Someone had changed something on the inside. She no longer says hello. In fact she rarely says anything at all apparently. All she does is stay in her apartment most of the time and when I actually see her, her face is almost completely blank. I don't know exactly what they did to her, but I sure as hell do not want it to happen to me.

Oh yeah, the nationalists. It turned out that disgruntled former Christian democrats and a whole bunch of other people had turned over to the really dark side and gave the Swedish democrats enough votes to get into parliament. A disaster in itself, but it did not stop at that. None of the other parties would be able to rule in majority without the support of those damn nationalists. Unless of course, the rightwing and the leftwing parties set aside their differences and decided to rule together. And it wouldn't be that difficult either to be honest. They've stolen ideas and ideologies from one another over the years anyway. But pride -- and stupidity -- got in the way.

So the rightwing parties formed their old alliance and the nationalists took the place of the Christian democrats and nothing changed for the better. New laws were passed and immigrants got a harder time, we all got a harder time. It turned out that the nationalists' ideas of public surveillance were not just their ideas. Maybe it is an effect of political power or power in general. What can be done to get even more power? For politicians, the opportunity to control people even more can be hazardous to their judgment.

And that's why we're sitting here today. No other un-controlled outlet for our ideas but the Internet. And even that is tricky. Mobile connections, special firewalls and software and websites which hide your IP address and even then there is always the chance of someone spying on you and providing the authorities with information.

But so far, no one has come close to finding me. Hell, I don't even think they're looking for me. There are far worse people than me out there. Hardly anyone read my blog, and those who do are mostly friends of mine. But every now and then, someone else finds this site and I get a short comment written in my guestbook.

To imagine the Internet, which was once in every human being's home and mostly used for stupid shallow communities and porn, is now being part of the underground movement in Sweden. It is more underground here than in China these days, especially since they actually managed to start some form of democracy there last year.

Well, it's time to get to bed. I have to get up early tomorrow and report for work. Being a teacher used to be more fun when there was more freedom, but at least it helps me put food on the table.

Good night.

***

March 24.

I woke up early. Bad dreams do that to me and the last couple of weeks they've gotten worse. I wish I could remember more of them. Only fragments, but bad ones. And the screaming in my dreams is what I hear when I force my eyes open. It is probably what my neighbors hear as well, but no one takes any notice of it these days. You always hear screams and loud sobs from the other apartments. The pool of sweat was even larger this morning. Along with the fragments I guess that's the only proof I have that my dreams are getting worse, because I sure as hell am not sweating from being too warm. In order to save energy, the government decided to pass laws stating the maximum temperature allowed in homes. I know it's just another way for them to control us. When you're cold, it's hard to focus on much more than getting warmer. Just like most aspects of life these days, it's all just become a game of survival.

The fragments I bring with me this time are the same as every night, only they get more detailed. It used to be only shadows, but now I see faces. I see faces of people I have never met, faces of people I've seen on TV and this night I saw my friends. And it's always the same. Torture, blood, flesh being ripped apart and the faces never stop screaming.

Speaking of torture, the bus for work leaves in a couple of minutes. We have yet another meeting without an agenda, probably discussing the implementation of something already implemented. It's like 1984 and the Naked Lunch no longer serve as a warning but as a guide book to those in charge. And it probably never served as a warning to them. They just waited for the right opportunity top set things in motion. Bureaucracy as a means of control and as a means of collective torture. And all of this because I need the money. So maybe it isn't torture. More prostitution.

Time to get going.

***

I think someone is after me.

***

March 26?

What has happened to me?

***

March 31.

God, I hope this computer is safe. In all honesty, it actually doesn't matter anymore. The world needs to hear my story, not the one that has been floating around the news these past couple of days, because it is wrong. It has to be. What they are accusing me of is not me. I have never hurt anyone. Not even by mistake. Of course I quarreled with my younger brother when we were small, but who the hell hasn't? And the step from hitting your seven-year-old baby brother at the age of ten to what I am now being accused of is not a step actually, but a giant fucking leap and I think you would all agree with me. At least I hope so.

It turns out someone was after me. I am not yet quite sure who it is, but considering what I normally write about here it might not be too much of a wild guess that it was political. Maybe not as high up as my theories of conspiracy led me to believe in the first place, but at least at a grassroots level. At the beginning I must admit I felt a bit hurt when I realized I was not being chased by the actual government. My ego took a small beating there, but knowing what these people I actually had to deal with were capable of, I do feel as if I got away fairly easy. Easy. Using the word easy for these circumstances could only imply two things. Either that I am pretty fucked up in the head or that something is severely wrong with society nowadays. And in all honesty, it's probably both. Being the prime suspect in a double homicide messes with your sanity in truly bad ways.

Just like almost all suspects in these kinds of crimes I would just like to begin by saying; I didn't do it. And like most people following these cases you are probably saying "That's what they all say" and perhaps adding something like "murderous maniac" or any other similar expression which is not necessarily an alliteration (repetition of the first letter in two words or more).

I remember going to work on March 24, just like any other work day. And just like any other work day, I had to skip a couple of buses until one with enough available space finally arrived. When the government forbade private transportation in the inner city in favor of public, I actually applauded them for thinking about the environment, but as always, it turned out the environment was not what was on their mind. Getting a monopoly on transportation in the largest city of Sweden is a lucrative business. Especially if you raise the prices and cut back on service for these buses. These buses hardly run, they are anything but environmental and the safety cameras are not there for your protection. Very few things are actually there for our protection, even though they of course claim it.

So, I finally get to work and there is chaos there, more than there usually is. We are under-staffed like all the other schools in the country. When people lose their jobs for having leftist ideas, there are not that many teachers who can take their jobs for granted. Let's face it, most of us tend to lean a bit more to the left. But we try to hide it as good as we can, but in the heat of the moment something may slip out during a class and if you're unlucky a student who is disappointed with a result or a grade will tell a parent and your teaching days are over and in most cases, so are your working days.

***

April 7.

Next time you open your mouth

I'll put my fist down your throat

So deep you can not swallow

I'll make your body hollow

You will enjoy the abuse

'Cause you've got nothing to lose

I swear I'll fist fuck your brain

Until I'm smiling again

Combichrist are playing in my head. It's the first music I've heard in over a week which isn't government approved. I feel safe enough to disappear into my head with music for awhile.

It's been almost a week since I sat down by a computer last time. I hope I don't have to leave in a rush this time as well, but get a chance to say what I have to say. Needless to say, I was almost caught while writing last week. A woman recognized me and called the police. She tried to hide it from me as good as possible, but she stared at me a little too long for me not to get suspicious. And I was right. Just a few seconds later, the cops showed up, but by then I had already made my way out of the community center where I was sitting.

These past few days the weather has improved. I guess spring is on its way. The sun is shining like never before it seems and my black leather jacket soaks up the rays and makes it almost impossible to wear. Funny thing, it almost feels as if I am not on the run. The weather is too good. It should be raining or at least be gloomy. I guess I have seen too many movies. The director is god and can choose setting according to mood, but out here where there is no god sometimes a man on the run will crave an ice cream and actually enjoy himself for a few minutes until he once again realizes the seriousness of the situation.

Beautiful spring weather also means more people on the streets. This means more people to disappear among but also a bigger chance of someone recognizing you. But so far, it all seems to have worked out in my favor. It also makes sleeping outdoors a little easier, though I wouldn't call it actual sleep. It's more like passing out from exhaustion. My credit card has been blocked, but fortunately my paranoia served me well, so I had plenty of cash stowed away. Well, plenty might be an exaggeration. There's not much left anymore.

My nights of unconsciousness keep feeding me horror. It always begins differently, but in the end, my dreams keep showing me the same images. The dark room where I stand in the middle. The faint light which hint that there is a dimmer switch somewhere and I know exactly where to find it. I have been here so many times before.

As my feet move across the floor I feel my legs hitting against furniture that should be somewhere else. I step on something which gives away a crunching sound, and a pain that should awaken me doesn't. The glass in my foot forces me to limp and jump towards the switch and I finally feel it and turn it.

There is a glitch in the dimmer switch in my room and it needs to be tapped on gently a couple of times to keep the strong light from flickering or staying too dark. I never tap on it, but instead fight the urge to turn off the light and disappear into the safety of the darkness, but I know it is too late. My eyes have already seen enough.

They have seen the blood smeared on the beige-yellowish walls I am not allowed to re-paint. Handprints my size, handprints of a woman's size accompanied by scratch marks and underneath them in the sofa broken off fingernails, stained by red on top of them and beige under them.

The first body is almost ripped apart from the stabs. One of my kitchen knifes are still stuck in the body, wedged between the ribs it is standing up, almost leaning against one of the breasts. Another knife lies next to the head, too small to get lodged in the eye socket apparently and the heavy handle probably didn't help it stand up either. Her open wallet shows her ID. Her name is Elizabeth, but I always called her Beth. Ever since we were small.

Of the second body I only see the legs sticking out of the kitchen. The stubby short legs of what my panicking brain first tell me is a midget or a dwarf, but the baby shoes make denial hard. One is still tied to the foot. The other one is still tied also, but it has been pulled off and the sock followed it half-way off as well. For sale: baby shoes. Worn.

As I scream, I move outside of my own body. I float around the room, watching myself terrified, in panic and the noise that comes out of my mouth is no longer human. And I finally awake.

***

I have never actually set foot in my apartment since that day I left for work. Police officers came to the school and arrested me. No one said a word to me as we drove to the station, but the hatred that glowed in the two cops' eyes as they looked at me in the rear-view mirror told me that I should be afraid. I decided that I would not try to deny any of the accusations of conspiracy against the government they would probably throw at me. The stories of torture I had heard from people online frightened me when I had read them. Now they terrify me.

The interrogation cell they put me in smelled of urine and sweat. Bad things had happened there. Confessions had been forced out of people and I had no intention of pissing myself or bleeding all over the place. I'd simply just confess to the accusations, maybe get some community service time, lose my job for all eternity but at least be alive. My job had been taken away from me anyway and community service was in all honesty probably the best thing I could hope for.

The shock that came over me when the interrogations officer yelled his accusations in my face while forcing me to watch the crime-scene photos from my own apartment, which I had left only hours earlier, caused me to piss myself. And the cold sweat ran down my back and got soaked up by the lining of my boxers.

My normally semi-tidy apartment was nothing but chaos. As the officer pulled yet another picture form his pile of evidence, details began emerging and I finally saw the bodies. After the photo of the baby legs I passed out and these are the images which haunt me every night.

***

How I got out I do not know. My cold shivering body woke me up in an alley I've never seen before. Next to me was a newspaper with my photo on the front along with a photo of Beth and one from my old place.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

SLAUGHTERED.

MURDERER

ON THE LOOSE

IN STOCKHOLM.

They still run updates on the story every other day. The latest sightings of me. Places I have never been. Interviews with the people there who are staying indoors or at least not letting their children out to play. I cause a slight state of panic wherever I am said to be or have been and I wonder how many others' lives have changed into this. I can remember at least three stories like mine last year. Murderers on the run, being seen all over town. Mothers and fathers keeping their children inside and demanding more surveillance.

Of course, the easiest thing is to dismiss my theories as utter nonsense. According to most of you, I am a bloodthirsty maniac who does not deserve to live and keep poisoning your safe lives with terror and fear. If I could do this to a friend and her child, what is to stop me from doing the same thing from you to get what I want, whatever that is?

But my plea to you is to at least believe in one thing I have to say and hopefully this will give you some sense of disbelief in what is happening around you in your everyday life.

This is probably the last thing I write to you before I try to disappear. This morning a family was found murdered in a house in one of the suburbs. It is always families or at least parts of families, always children. It probably makes things scarier and most people can relate to that. Most of us are part of some family or know families with children.

The news has yet to report whether I am suspected for this murder as well or not and maybe I should take the blame just to make sure no one else is blamed innocently for this. But there is of course always the chance that this case is not part of a conspiracy to keep us scared and under control.

The thing I was going to tell you?

Beth didn't have a child.

It was a dark and rainy night in the town where little Timmy lived with his mother in a small apartment. He was lying in his bed and thinking about his family. Little Timmy had never met his father. Mother said it could either be a truck driver, a postman or a criminal who had escaped from prison who was Timmy's dad. Timmy hoped it was the criminal and proudly told all the other children at kindergarten about all the crimes his thought his father had committed.

"My daddy once took all the money from a big bank and he killed two of the people working there with a big knife. Mummy showed the pictures to me from the newspaper and there was blood everywhere."

"And then, one other time, he stole a car and the police chased after him. They almost got him, but he turned the car and ran over two whole families that were out walking. The police car stopped because the police had to throw up because of all the blood and arms and legs and heads and even a dead dog."

Little Timmy liked stories with lots of blood in them. He thought his father was a real hero. Like Robin Hood who was also a criminal. And a fox, which he saw when he watched the DVD one night when his mother was sleeping on the sofa after a hard day's work. Timmy's mother worked a lot because she could not get a good job that would give her a lot of money, so instead she had several small jobs. She sold coffee, she packed bags and she had some other jobs too that she never told Timmy about.

Some of the days, Timmy had to walk home by himself from kindergarten, but he lived so close to it that he never felt scared. He would never know what days he would have to walk home by himself. It was when he saw the grown up people at kindergarten begin to clean up after the day and put their jackets on that he would know he would have to walk home on his own. He always had a key with him and small piece of paper where the code to the front-door lock was written.

This evening when Timmy came home he was surprised to see that his mother was already at home. But why had she not come to pick him up? Then he heard a strange voice from the other room. There was a man here too.

"Oh, hello Tim-boy," his mother said. "There is someone here I want you to meet."

This was nothing new to Timmy. Over the years he had met many men who wanted to be friends with his mother and him. Different kinds of men, but all with one thing in common; they all disappeared after some time.

This time the man was tall and wore a suit. His hair was almost all grey and his eyes looked friendly. He leaned down and took Timmy's hand.

"Well, hello there, young man. It is nice to finally meet you. I have waited for this moment for so long."

"What does he talk about?" Timmy thought.

"Tim-boy," his mother said, "this is your father. His name is Glenn. He came to my work one week ago and he recognized me. We talked about how we met the first time at a bar and I told him that I have you, Timmy, and that he could be your father. So we did something called a DNA test and guess what, my son? He is your daddy!"

"Wow," Timmy thought, "my daddy?"

The thought felt strange in his head. Then he smiled and opened his mouth.

"How many people have you killed, daddy?"

His father's face looked in a strange way at him.

"What did you say, Timmy?"

"How many people have you killed? Was there a lot of blood?"

"Jeez, no, no! I haven't killed anyone. Why would you think that?"

"Because my dad is a tough criminal!"

His father looked at him and said in loud voice:

"I am most certainly not! I own a store which sells new and used sofas. I have never committed a single crime in my life!"

"When I met you mum," he continued, "I was working extra as a postman in this area. One day I was delivering a package to you mum and that's when you were made."

Timmy's head felt strange and he did not know what to say at first. He felt so disappointed and tears began running down his cheeks. With a shaking body and a trembling lower lip he finally shouted:

"NO! NO! NO! YOU ARE NOT MY DADDY! MY DADDY IS A CRIMINAL! HE HAS KILLED MANY, MANY PEOPLE!"

"Tim-boy! What on Earth are you talking about," his mother yelled, "this man is your father and he has come to take care of us and you behave like this! Little man, I think it is time for you to go straight to bed."

And so here Timmy was, under his favorite blanket with all these thoughts in his head. That man out there was not his father. He was sure of it. He was just a stupid sofa-selling person and his sofas probably smelled bad. Like he did. And they looked stupid too, he was sure of that.

From the small kitchen the sounds from Glenn -- not daddy -- and Timmy's mother made their way into Timmy's room. He hated every single sound and could not sleep at all. Why could his mother not see that Glenn was not his daddy? All because of some strange dee-enn-ai test, whatever that was. The test was wrong. Didn't his mother think that he would recognize his own daddy?

As the hours passed, the sounds from the kitchen slowly disappeared and he could hear his mother and Glenn kissing as they lay down on the sofa in the living room to sleep. Glenn said something about the sofa and they both laughed. Timmy was still awake and he knew that Glenn would stay. Tears once again rolled down his cheeks and onto the pillowcase where they left dark wet stains.

Outside the rain came down and made a loud noise when it hit the windows. Cars were still driving by. Timmy could hear them drive through the puddles and he imagined how the water splashed up against the walls of the houses. He was still upset, but he was also very sleepy. His eyes were closed when he heard the sirens.

The sirens came from far away, but the sound got louder and louder and perhaps there were gunshots too? Yes, there were gunshots. Sirens were nothing strange to Timmy, but this was the first time he had heard gunshots also. They must be chasing a very tough criminal. He opened his eyes and smiled.

Glenn woke up and in the dark he could barely make out the small shadow standing by his head. As he blinked with his eyes to see better he could see how the light outside the window was reflected in a part of the shadow.

"Timmy...?" he whispered in surprise as the small shadow lifted the bread knife above its head.

The shadow looked down on him and the small teeth were visible in the smile.

"Daddy is coming home soon and he is going to sleep there."

Fuck. I wish the sobbing and screaming would stop already.
What the hell do you have to lose anyway?

You've spent your entire life carefully walking down the same path as everyone else and here you are. If you had even once strayed from the path you most likely would not have ended up like this.

It's always the same. From an early age you began believing in the fariy tales told to you at bedtime by a parent who truly loved you and when they kissed you on the forehead calling you "their little princess" you took in every single little word. You were going to be a princess when you grew up with all that it meant. Even after you stopped believing in fairy tales the idea of once being treated like a princess still lingered in you mind. Without knowing it, it affected so many of the choices you made. You sat passively on a chair or in a sofa at all the parties waiting for some prince to come treat you like the princess you were, but all you got were men who liked their women passive, good looking and couldn't care less for any of your other qualities. And you deserved each and everyone of them. But somehow you never lost hope.

The fairy tales from your childhood years were replaced with fairy tales from the adult world. The ones which showed you, through glossy photos and shallow stories, the path that would lead you and everyone else towards eternal happiness. They made you believe that love would last forever if you only stood next to an altar or on the steps of city hall in front of someone who had absolutely nothing to do with your love and if you promised this person that you and the person by your side would love eachother no matter what hardships would come your way and that you would stay loyal to one another, that would also be the case. That would be the truth.

And the glossy magazines kept on showing you the way. You could not for your life understand religious fundamentalists who said they followed the bible or the koran when they did bad things and yet you followed these magazines with the same fundamentalism. You wore what they told you to wear and became interested in interior decoration simply because so many of these articles were about happy couples who had built their own little nests together. And where their smiling faces were you placed yours, either outside in front of their gigantic house or on a couch with a pot of freshly boiled tea and newly lit candles burning out of focus in the background.

These successful people told you early on that you needed a career. What exactly a career meant was never really explained to you, but it seemed to have something to do with moving up a corporate ladder in pursuit of more money and more responsibility. This would preferably take place in a financial or judicial institution. Become an economist or a lawyer just like all the other successfull people. Or if you were seriously into art, you could always become an architect or a designer. But no matter what, the road to success meant that you would get alot of money. Enough to keep your children happy and they would never have to miss a single thing in the whole wide world. Except their parents of course.

Because the glossy magazines promised you time for your career, for your home, for your free time and for your beloved children, but they lied to you. Both you and your husband were so busy walking down the right path, you simply assumed that your children were happy with their lives and their possessions. How could they not be? If you only did every "right thing" you were told to do, you would have the time needed to raise your children. And you had the photos to prove it. A new family photo every Christmas with everyone smiling around the tree and next to the fire. But if you had really looked at these pictures you they could easily have been made into a simple animated cartoon where you get older, your children get bigger and for each frame their smiles slowly fade away.

And now they are all grown up, have moved out and you wonder why they don't call very often and why they are so preoccupied with their jobs and do not seem to have any time for their own families. It is always easier to see mistakes being made by someone else.

Then one day it hits you right on the head as you find out that your husband's inability to have sex with you is not only from having too much to do at work but also from having someone else to fuck on the side. Despite his promise to you and despite you having followed every advise in these magazines on how to please your husband he still found someone else to have fuck. Someone who simply looks younger than you and is more passionate than you while in bed. Passion will get you further than any advise on how to dress up ever will.

And as the house of cards that is your life and is built up of glossy photo-edited pages falls down one page at the time, so does your life and behind the pile of false hopes and promises you see more paths reveal themselves. It turns out that if you had only looked a little to the side of your path you would have seen another one and beside that one another one still and so on. And in retrospect some of them look very tempting to you and you try to jump from the one you're walking down to the one closest but it is too hard. The distance between the two is too great and as you watch further along the road you se how all the paths fork out and the distance between them becomes even greater and this is when you realise that you once in your life had the chance to choose a path more fitting for the person you truly are.

So you head out during evenings. Disillusioned you hit bar after bar after bar, not really knowing what you are looking for and that's when you meet me.

I buy you a drink and you are all too eager to tell me your life's story and I listen to you and say all the right words. With tears in your eyes I take you home to my place and here we are now. And once again you have made the wrong choice.

And all he wanted was to go out for some fun instead of sitting at home this weekend as well. When he shaved and looked himself in the mirror he had no idea he would get more than he bargained for tonight. More than anyone could bargain for.

But here he was. He had followed that beautiful woman home to her place. He had been thrown onto the bed. He had been played with like toy and he had loved every second of it. He had fallen asleep only to wake a few hours later of a gargling sound and something which sounded like sticks breaking, only sharper.

And there she was. She was sitting on top of him again. She, who had that strangely compelling glow in her eyes when he saw her earlier tonight. She, who had practically dragged him home and had her way with him. She, who had fallen asleep next to him, but for some reason woken up. This time with another glow in her eyes and even though very little about her actually had changed, looked completely different. She, whose hands had broken through his chest and the gargling sound was the sound of his last breath of air escaping his lungs. Not through his mouth or nose, but through the holes her fingers had poked. The small puffs of air reveal themselves as bubbles build up on her fingers.

She looks into his eyes. He sees the red glow and tries to scream, but there is no air left. All he does is cough up blood, which lands on his chin, his already bloody chest and some drops even makes it to her face. She smiles a twisted smile, a smile of satisfaction, bloodlust, insanity and true happiness. She begins to move her hands downwards.

The last sound he hears is the cracking of his lower ribs as he is completely ripped open. With two steady hands, his chest and stomach are pried apart down the middle. She breathes heavily as she lowers herself into the bloody mess opened up before her. As she lays her head down, the seductive, attractive glow from earlier tonight returns. She falls asleep. The slow breathing from her nose blows little bubbles in the blood.

Once upon a time there were two young children living alone in a house once owned by their parents. A little more than a week earlier the parents were on their way home from a party at a friend's place when they drove off the road and into the river. Later the autopsy report would find that they both had alcohol in their blood and dad's pants and underwear had been pulled down. On his blue and pale penis the coroner found bite marks.

Afraid to be taken away by social services, the two children fled the house as soon as they had gotten the tragic news. For almost a week they lived near the local McDonald's, digging through the dumpsters after closing time for something that would not be too hard to eat. They always went to sleep hungry.

When after a couple of days they returned to their home. Carefully they approached the windows and peaked inside. No one appeared to be in there. They knocked on the door and ran behind the bushes to hide. But there was no answer at the door. They moved back in again.

The cupboards were still filled with groceries and even though none of the children could cook, they could at least eat the canned food, the bread and the other things that did not need preparation. In the freezer they found meals their mum and dad had prepared the last couple of days before the accident. When they were defrosted, they could be eaten cold.

For three days the children lived well on what was in the house. They went to bed when their parents usually told them to and woke about the same time every morning. They deeply missed their parents and every night they cried themselves to sleep, but during the day they could not help but feel quite grown up. Many were the times they had heard dad talk about how a grown up is someone who can take care of himself and others. Mum always added a "or herself" followed by that serious but still loving look.

When they went to bed on the third day they had finished all the bread in the cupboards and there were only two defrosted meals left. From now on they would have to save. They knew that much. But they also knew that in a few days there would be no more food. What would they do then? If they went to a neighbor, they were sure social services would lay their hands on them. They remember their dad talking about how the social services took care of children with no parents and one evening when mum was watching TV, they heard about how social services had taken care of child and given it to a family who had hurt it and killed it. And they would do anything to make sure that did not happen to them.

On the morning on the fourth day the slept a little longer than usual, perhaps because they were a bit hungry from last night. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Both the children woke up immediately. They heard a key turn in the door and it opened slowly.

"There you go, Mrs Henderson. Now you just let me know when you are finished in here".

"Thank you," a woman's voice said.

The sound of heel clicking against the wooden floor sent shivers down the children's spines. Could it be..?

A loud voice spoke:

"Hello! My name is Mrs. Henderson. I come from social services. Tommy? Billy? Are you in here somewhere?"

They looked terrified at one another. Billy wanted to scream, but Tommy quickly put his index finger over his lips. Billy swallowed the frightened cry. It hurt his chest on the way back down.

"Your relatives are mighty worried about you. If you are in here, please let me know so that we can take care of you."

There was no escape from their room. They knew that. The windows were too high up and the only way out was through the door and downstairs to the front door. The sound of the clicking shoes grew louder as they began walking up the stairs.

Panic began to spread, but they tried to remain focused. They had to, otherwise they would be given to a family that would hurt them and kill them just like on TV. A look was exchanged, and a nod.

"Please, if you are in here, let us know. We just want to help you and take you away someplace else."

The boys' room was at the end of the hall. Inside fear was spreading. Was this it? First their parents died and now they would die too?

Clickety-clickety-clickety.

The clicking shoes came closer and closer.

Clickety-clickety-click.

Suddenly it stopped. She was outside the door.

From the inside the boys could see the knob slowly twist. The door creaked a little when it was slowly pushed up, as it always did. A blue high-heeled shoe came into the room.

Tommy hit the foot as hard as he could with the baseball bat he and his dad used to practice with during weekend afternoons. The heavy piece of wood smashed into the bones of the foot and Billy could hear the crunching sound of small bones being crushed. He had never seen his brother swing the bat that hard and he was still too young to know how people seem to develop super-human strength in very stressful situations.

Mrs. Henderson's face took on a look of surprise and her mouth opened to scream, but her voice cracked and only a subtle gargle and a little air escaping the lungs could be heard. She turned around to run away but as soon as she tried to support her bodyweight on the crushed foot, she fell to the floor, not far away from the room she had just tried to enter.

Billy quickly ran out in to the hall where Mrs. Henderson was twisting in agony and panic. He jumped up on her back shoved the blade of the knife his mum got him when he begun boy scouts as far as he could. The handle stopped the knife from going in all the way. Billy could feel something warm and wet on his hand.

Mrs. Henderson turned over to shake Billy off of her. He fell into the wall and hit his head. That would leave a bump he thought and remembered for an instant how his mum used to kiss the bumps and cool them with an icepack.

Tommy saw the panicking expression on the woman's face and this time she looked as if she would be able to scream. The bat swung sideways and hit Mrs. Henderson on the cheek and over the mouth. Her head followed the movement of the bat and blood sprayed on the wall. She still tried to scream but the only sound Billy and Tommy could hear reminded them of the kitchen sink as the woman swallowed blood, bone fragments and the teeth that hadn't fallen out on the floor.

With the memory of his mum and the icepack quickly fading, Billy crawled back up on Mrs. Henderson. Sitting on her chest, he stabbed at all that he could stab. Over and over again. The face once loved so dearly by Mr. Henderson became more and more unrecognizable as the blade went into her head, throat, neck and eyes. Always leaving behind a trace of blood on the wall or on the floor. And sometimes even on Billy's face.

It was Tommy who realized Mrs. Henderson was dead. She had stopped moving sometime ago and just laid there almost accepting every stab from Billy. He put hand on his brother's shoulder and he took a deep breath and just stopped. He turned around to face Tommy and through the blood a smile could be seen. They had done it.

The police arrived on the scene early in the afternoon after the man who let Mrs Henderson in had himself walked inside to see what was keeping her and found a body he could only recognize from the dress she had been wearing. The house appeared to be empty, but there were small blood-red footsteps all over the house. Down the hall, into the kitchen, back up into the room and to the closet. To the bathroom and then to the front door where the footsteps ended. They never found the bat or the knife either.

This happened only three blocks away from here. Near the McDonald's where we eat after tee ball every Sunday. And two nights ago the Johnson house down the street was broken into when they were away. Only food was stolen. Their dog, Molly, you remember Molly, right? You used to play with her when she was just a puppy. Their dog, Molly, was found in the hall, beaten and stabbed to death and around her body; do you know what they saw?

Small footsteps.

Sweet dreams, son. Mommy and I are going out for a while.

What is there to look back upon? A life well spent? Most people would probably think so. High school, university, a well-paid job. Beautiful wife. Two kids. One dog. At least the dog makes me happy with his sincere demonstration of affection every time I walk through the door after yet another day of the same, same things. The never-disappearing pile of papers. When I moved up the corporate ladder last year, I thought things would change. No more paper work. After all, why would a move upwards career wise lead to nothing but a more interesting job? I was wrong. The whole idea of a career which fueled my entire upbringing was nothing but a fraud. A fake name for the same kind of job, only a little more pay but in return more hours were expected. The illusion of hiearchy where the people at the top -- the  ones we envy -- are in fact the real losers. I've never made more money in my life, yet I have never been so miserable. I need a drink.

The box of wine is almost empty even though we got a new one the day before yesterday. My wife's drinking more these days now that the kids are old enough to no longer be needing constant supervision. And with me on the job more often these days, who can blame her? She gave up a career for me and the rest of the family. I can sense the bitterness in her voice sometimes before she goes to sleep. That's the only time we've had for eachother recently. She misses her career. She would never believe me if I said that her dreams were better off as nothing but dreams. In her mind I'm living in paradise and she is stuck in this suburban hell. She is a bit of a drama queen, but her idea of the suburban hell is not all to far away at times. But the worst times are not when it's hell, but rather limbo. When it's nothing. The problem with complaining then is that there's nothing to complain about. But also nothing to be happy about. Maybe I'll leave the box of wine for her to empty tomorrow. Probably immediately after me and the kids have left for work and school. It's sad, but I really cant blame her. I promised her everything and she ended up with nothing. Something stronger than wine will be necessary for me to get some sleep tonight.

One of our clients sent me a whisky as an extra sign of appreciation. A 16-year-old whisky, which reeks of smoke and tar. Apparently, this is what I'm supposed to appreciate these days. A beer would be nicer. But I need the alcohol. The burning sensation so closely related to intoxication does little to help. This expensive, vile, stuff belongs more in the sink than down my throat.

The stairs squeak under my feet and some extra focus is needed to move them from one step to the other. They're all sleeping. Tonight I came home so late that I didn't even get to see them. Tomorrow evening will be the same. A lifetime spent at workplaces around people who come and go on their way up whatever ladder to perceived success they are climbing at the moment. A lifetime with people who do not care about you other than for their personal gain. Days, weeks, months and years have flown by so that the ones I love would have the best life possible. So that we would have the best life possible. How I have robbed them of everything that truly mattered. Of course they don't say it and seem to enjoy the things I buy for them. But I know better. I can feel it and it makes me sick. Something needs to be done, but being trapped in this hamster wheel robs you of your imagination. I'll think of something.

Downstairs the dog is beginning to walk about. Something seems to be worrying him. Or he's simply just a little restless. He does, after all, have a life even more unfulfilling than my wife. How he manages to stay so satisfied and happy is beyond me, but I am glad for him.

Going down the stairs is even more difficult than trying to get up them. My head feels strange from the tar-smelling liquid poured into it not long ago. But while the legs are not working as well as they should, my mind is starting to see things more clearly now. Apparently this internal conversation with myself is somewhat therapeutical. Even though money is all I actually have, not having to spend them on a psychologist feels good. An old whisky and some serioius thinking does the trick. So many shrinks would be put out of business if people knew that.

The dog is standing by the door. Even though it's late he feels as if he will be allowed to go outside. Dogs are strange creatures. They can sense things. All animals seem to be able to sense things that we as people have no clue about. I wonder if we used to have that ability? Before we got stuck in what we today call life.

I walk to the door where he stands. He looks at me and then at the door. It's a simple but efficient way of communication. I take off his collar and open the door. One final glance at me before he disappears into the night. I go into the kitchen and leave the whisky glass on the kitchen counter. My hand reaches down the sink. The knife is still there. Fingers wrap around the handle. I bring it with me as I go back upstairs.

I det mörka rummet finns bara en källa till ljus. En för svag glödlampa hänger från taket i en sladd. Fönstren är sedan länge stängda och förseglade med träskivor. Spikarna i plywooden har nästan börjat rosta från fuktigheten i rummet. Glödlampan svänger fram och tillbaka. Det svaga skenet dansar omkring och avslöjar konturer och föremål som annars inte skulle synas. En trasig stol syns. På sitsen ligger ett bälte och någon sorts klädesplagg, men det är omöjligt att se vad det är. Ljuset dansar vidare och avslöjar hur tomt rummet faktiskt är. Förutom stolen syns kanten på en smutsig madrass och en liten vagn med en rostfri bricka på. Om man tittar riktigt noga kan man nästan se vilka verktyg som ligger på den. Alla är silverglänsande. Vissa är spetsiga. Andra är vassa. En del är gjorda för att gripa med. Smutsiga servetter ligger strödda på brickan. Allt detta hinner ögat uppfatta under ljusets färd förbi vagnen. Efter att ha lyst upp en mögelskadad vägg vänder glödlampan om och påbörjar sin färd tillbaks. Denna gång lite mer åt sidan än förut. Den del av rummet som nu visas upp är lika tom som resten av det. En större del av den smutsiga madrassen syns nu. Den är grå och fläckig av smuts, mögel och någonting annat. Likt öppna sår visar jack i madrassen upp dess inre bestående av gulnad stoppning och vad som verkar vara en rostig spiralfjäder. Ner i en av öppningarna rinner en liten strimma mörk vätska ner. Den sugs upp av stoppningen som blir nästan lika mörk. Fjädrarna knarrar och rörelser drar till sig uppmärksamheten. Innan lampan försvinner iväg igen går det att se dem. Men bara som allra hastigast. Det verkar i alla fall vara fler än en, men om det är två eller tre syns inte. De få sekunder som det tar för ljuset att återvända till madrassen känns som en evighet. en känsla av fasa blandad med nyfikenhet letar sig upp genom ryggraden till nacken. I höjd med nackhåren skapar den en rysning. Huvudet skakar till snabbt, men ögonen tvingas vara öppna för att inte missa allt och behöva vänta på ljuset en gång till. Det är två kroppar. Till en början så sammanflätade att de ser ut som endast en grotesk skapelse med smutsig hud som blänker av svett och färskt blod medan gammalt intorkat blod lossnar i flagor med varje rörelse och svävar ner på madrassen. Lampan har nästan slutat svänga och verkar vilja stanna mitt i rummet. Mitt ovanför madrassen. Mitt ovanför kropparna.

Tankar om hur länge de legat där dyker upp i hjärnan. Tillräckligt länge för att låta gammalt blod torka. De två kropparna existerar enbart för varandra. Omvärlden är deras sista bekymmer. Det kala, mögliga rummet skulle lika gärna ha kunnat vara en parkeringsplats utanför ett köpcenter en lördagförmiddag. Deras värld finns inom dem. Inget annat betyder något. Kroppar som rör sig nästan i takt med varandra. Bröstkorgar som hävs kraftigt och ryggar som trycks inåt för varje andetag. Den ena kroppens konturer avslöjar två bröst. Den andra inga bröst alls. Vem som är långhårig går inte att urskilja. Kanske hon. Kanske han. Kanske båda. Med huvudena tryckta mot varandra ser de nästan ut som siamesiska tvillingar, ihopvuxna med en hjärna att dela på. Och ikväll delar de verkligen ett sinne.

Två par händer greppar häftigt muskler, hud och kroppsdelar. Andetagen hörs allt kraftigare i rummet. De har inte sex med varandra. De har mycket mer än så. Deras ryggar avslöjar var blodet runnit från och var det fortfarande rinner från. Händerna smetar ut det och ryggens naturliga färg försvinner mer och mer för varje rörelse händerna gör. Det som händerna inte tar med sig tar madrassens sår hand om.

Mitt på de båda ryggarna finns de djupa såren. Ett på vardera sida ryggraden, cirka en decimeter långa. Fingrar glider ner i de blodiga dikena på väg över dem. Hud töjs och andningen bli tyngre. Känslan är sedan länge bortom smärta. Den är njutning. Den är äkta. För en sekund slutar kropparna röra sig. De viskar något i varandras öron. Med huvudena hårt tryckta mot den andras nacke letar sig händerna ner mot ryggens mitt.

Benen slingrar in sig i varandra. Svetten och blodet gör det nästan omöjligt att få något grepp, men med mer vilja än styrka hittar de ett läge där benen nästan låser sig. På ryggen svarar öppningarna i huden och köttet på varje beröring av fingrarna. De trycks lätt undan och återgår sen när fingrarna försvinner. Med tummen smeker den ena kroppen den ena öppningen. Upp och ner och sen upp igen innan fingret trycks in så långt handen tillåter. På andra sidan följer resten av fingrarna på handen efter. Kroppen skakar okontrollerat men hålls fast av armar och ben. Den andra kroppen skakar till nästan likadant och berättar utan ord att handen letat sig in även där.

Kropparna rullar runt med händerna fortfarande begravda i kött. Senorna på händerna vittnar om att de gör mer än är begravda. De håller hårt. Tummen har mött de andra fingrarna och de kramar. Varmt kött rör sig mellan fingrar och ben skrapar lätt mot deras insida. Andningen ökar i takt för att sedan övergå till allt tyngre och långsammare andetag tills det nästan verkar som att de inte andas längre. Men rörelserna avslöjar att de fortfarande lever. De lever mer än de någonsin gjort förut.

Mitt i en rörelse stannar de till. Händerna stannar kvar. Benen lyckas stanna i sina låsta lägen. Endast huvudena rör sig och nackarna ofrivilligt med dem. Svetten på deras kinder har torkat och klistrat ihop huden som sträcks när de sakta sliter sig loss. Spruckna, blodiga läppar smakar på varandra när de passerar varandra. Dimmiga ögon möts och trots grumligheten har de aldrig sett klarare eller djupare in i varandra. De har hela sitt liv sagt sig vara en, men aldrig någonsin egentligen varit det. Förrän ikväll. Sakta letar sig mungiporna uppåt i ett stilla leende. De har uppnått sin egen fulländning. Efter ikväll kommer ingenting längre att spela någon roll. Med en sista lätt kyss låter de händerna krama hårdare. Blodet är nästan slut och i dess ställe tar smärtan upp den sista energin och kräver än mer njutning av köttet. Ögonen slutar röra på sig, andetagen upphör, men det lilla leendet består. Madrassen tar emot deras kroppar, omsluter sig om dem och det enda ljud som hörs är knarrandet av rostiga spiralfjädrar.

De har båda långt hår.

Känn kroken tänja ditt kött. Tänja det en liten bit innan huden ger vika och kroken nästan skjuts ut på andra sidan. En liten strimma blod gör den sällskap och landar på din bröstkorg. Det är dags för nästa.

Tre krokar i ryggen, tre i bröstet och två i vardera vaden. Smärtan är nästan obefintlig nu. Kvar finns bara eufori och förväntan. I änden av varje krok sitter ett rep. Repen från ryggen leder snett bakåt och uppåt. Repen från bröstet leder snett framåt och uppåt. Repen från vaderna är förankrade i golvet. Adrenalinet och nervositeten får din kropp att börja skaka. Svett rinner ur alla porer. Du kan känna doften av dig själv.  Svett, blod och nåt som du aldrig känt förut. Du nickar mot dem.

Repen sträcks. Smärtan kommer tillbaks. Du ser huden på bröstkorgen tänjas snett uppåt. På ryggen meddelar nerverna att samma sak sker där. Mer och mer tänjs huden tills den inte kan tänjas mer. Tillräckligt med hud är sträckt för att lyfta din kropp.

Sakta börjar du sväva medan smärtan grumlar din syn. Du vill skrika men kan inte. Repen i vaderna börjar sträckas. Du försöker göra benen längre men det går inte. Kroppen skickar ut signaler om smärta blandat med signaler om njutning. Små rännilar med blod letar sig ner och du känner droppar falla när de når hälen. Alla dina sinnen är på spänn. Smaken från svett i din mun. Ljudet från huden som börjar sträckas för mycket. Doften av blod och svett. Synen av hud som nästan brister. Och känslan. Känslan av att sakta slitas sönder. Långsamt.

Innan du hunnit fundera klart på vad som kommer att ske, släpper huden på vaderna. Din kropp hissas återigen uppåt, alltmedan krokar sliter remsor av kött och hud från benen. Du hade aldrig trott att de skulle lossna så enkelt. Nere vid hälen tar det stopp en kort stund innan de avlånga bitarna hud och blod lossnar. Din kropp skakar av smärtan och blodsmak sprider sig i munnen. Krokarna slår i golvet med en metallisk klang. Slamsorna ger ifrån sig ett lite dovt, vått ljud. Du saknar dem inte. Du har aldrig känt något så intensivt i hela ditt liv. Och du kommer aldrig mer att känna något liknande.

Till slut kommer din kropp till höjden då krokarna på bröstet och ryggen kräver ännu mer hud. Men du har inget kvar att ge. Lungt och metodiskt dras repen för att inte belasta någon sida mer. Du andas in så häftigt att din strupe ger ifrån sig ett väsande ljud. Blod börjar strömma längs din kropp. Det är varmt och blött. Det rinner så fort att du aldrig hör droppar falla. Det låter som när en vattenkran står och rinner bara precis så mycket att den inte droppar. Det är inte långt kvar nu.

I dina sista sekunder har du glömt bort varför du befinner dig här överhuvudtaget. Vad det var som lockade dig hit. Dina tankar upphör att existera. Ditt liv kommer inte att spelas upp framför dina ögon. Allt du kan göra nu är att känna. Känna smärtan. Känna njutningen. Om du hade överlevt skulle du ha spenderat resten av dina dagar i livet i förundran över hur nära smärta och njutning står varandra. Så nära att de går in i varandra. Men du kommer aldrig att få chansen att ens påbörja de tankarna. För just nu känner du. Just nu känner du hur du brister. Just nu känner du blod stötas upp i din mun. Just nu känner du smärtan gå genom din kropp en sista gång. Och just nu känner du en evig tacksamhet.

Smärtan upphör. Njutningen stannar en bråkdel längre.
Ljudet av din kropp som slits i stycken följer dig in i mörkret.

Tack.

Del I

Hon är så vacker.

Smal, mörk, mystisk. Jag tror jag kan känna hennes doft från andra sidan rummet. Hon luktar ljuvligt. Men det är också problemet. Såna som hon har alltid låtsats om som att jag aldrig existerat. Men jag kan inte sluta titta.

Del II

Nästan halva kvällen har gått och här står jag fortfarande. Hon har varit ute på dansgolvet, men nu är hon tillbaks vid baren. Svettig. Andfådd. Jag är också svettig. Fast inte från dansandet. Det är förbannat varmt härinne. Hon beställer en drink lika mörk som henne. Den matchar henne perfekt. Jag har enbart stått vid baren och druckit öl. Det börjar kännas och det syns säkert. Ytterligare en anledning till att ignorera mig. Hon smakar på sin drink. Jag undrar hur hon smakar?

Del III

Min ensamhet börjar kännas och den blir inte mindre av att hon börjar få en liten skara män runt sig. Män som börjar leta strax innan det här stället stänger. En del ensamma, en del i par och en del i flock. De jagar. Hon är bytet. De vill bara åt hennes kött. De är henne inte värdiga. Jag har varit intresserad hela kvällen. Och jag vill ju så mycket mer än bara komma åt hennes kött.

Del IV

Jag nyper mig en gång till i armen. Försiktigt så att hon inte ser. Det gör ont den här gången med. Hon är äkta. Hon är med mig. Hon kom upp till mig. Jag som var svettig och luktade öl. Hon som var svettig och luktade liv. En doft som fortfarande ligger i mina näsborrar. De djupa andetagen berusar mig mer än ölen gjort. Men den här berusningen är upplyftande. Hon är inte som de andra. Hon vill föja med mig hem. Helt av egen vilja. Jag är så lycklig.

Del V

Äntligen är vi hemma i min lägenhet. Jag ångrar så att jag inte städade innan jag gick ut ikväll. Hon verkar inte bry sig. Det enda som får uppmärksamhet är jag. En av mina sopsäckar kommer i vägen för henne, men hon räddar sig med ett litet extra steg. Så full av grace trots att hon druckit nästan lika mycket som jag. Hennes ögon möter mina och jag slutar tänka för ett ögonblick. Mina planer och förväntningar slutar att existera för en bråkdels sekund. Men sekunden känns som år och jag kommer att minnas den längre. Hon drar mig mot sängen och mina förväntningar vaknar till liv igen.

Del VI

Hon smakar salt. Men inte för salt. Det är behagligt och känslan går från min tunga ut till min nacke där håren reser sig av välbehag. Det är bättre än vad jag vågat hoppas på. Hon ligger på sängen och tittar på mig. Jag tittar tillbaks. Djupt in i hennes ögon där själen bor. Smaken sitter kvar i munnen. Men nu börjar tröttheten smyga sig på. Alkoholen tar ut sin rätt och till min fasa inser jag att jag inte kommer att ha kraft nog för att hålla mig vaken. Än mindre ta del av henne ikväll. Men hennes ögon säger mig att det gör inget. Leende smakar jag på henne igen. Nackhåren reser sig nu också. Med slutna ögon stänger jag munnen. Och sväljer. Biten glider enkelt ner. Hennes kropp är fortfarande mjuk när jag lägger mina armar om henne, kysser hennes stilla läppar och säger att vi fortsätter imorgon bitti. Blodet som rinner längs min kropp är varmt.

Jag somnar och sover djupare än på länge.

Del 1

Nånting fattas när jag vaknar upp. Igen. En känsla som blivit alltför bekant den senaste veckan. Jag undrar om kameran fick någon bild inatt? Någon, eller något, besöker mig om nätterna och jag vaknar med en tomhet. En tomhet och känslan av att allt inte står rätt till. Det är inte enbart ensamheten utan nåt fysiskt med.

Del 2

För tre dagar sen fick jag nog av vakna med den här känslan. Jag gick till en läkare. Kanske kunde jag få en tid hos en psykolog på det sättet. Under hela mitt liv hade jag aldrig varit i behov av en, så jag hade inte en aning om var jag skulle börja leta. Läkare hade jag behövt förut, så de visste jag var de fanns och jag visste var det fanns en bra sådan.

Hon sa att hon tyckte att jag såg blek ut. Jag berättade att jag sovit dåligt och om känslan då jag vaknade. Hennes första reaktion var att skriva ut sömntabletter åt mig, men något i mitt utseende övertalade henne att undersöka mig också. Jag poängterade att jag bara behövde få träffa någon att prata med. Hon stod på sig.

Hennes instrument och hennes händer utforskade min kropp noggrant och professionellt. Men ändå kunde jag inte låta bli att känna en viss upphetsning. Kontrasten mellan de varma händerna och det kalla stetoskopet fick mig att andas tyngre än vanligt. Hon märkte det. Hur mycket jag än försökte dölja det. Det var alldeles för länge sedan någon rörde vid mig.

Vid midjan stannade hennes händer. Hon klämde och undrade om jag kände något. Inget. Förutom hennes varma händer. Hon frågade om jag varit donator. Nej. Hon tittade konstigt på mig och gick iväg för att ordna en tid för röntgen.

En patient hade avlidit under natten och hans tid för röntgen behövdes inte längre. Det var skönt att slippa vänta.

Bilderna visade nästan hela min överkropp. Jag kunde se mina lungor. De kände jag igen. Den nedre delen av mitt hjärta syntes också. Och en massa annat också, som jag inte var helt säker på vad det var. Läkaren var bekymrad och förbryllad. Inte över det som var, utan det som inte var. Det fattades en njure. Och min lever verkade vara mindre än den borde vara. Tomheten fanns inte enbart i mitt huvud. Den fanns bokstavligen inom mig.

Läkaren ville göra mer tester, men jag hade verkligen ingen ork för det. Något i mig ville slita mig därifrån och hem. Min försök att stå emot gjorde mig illamående och inte förrän jag lydde mina känslor släppte det.

De följande dagarna vaknade jag med samma tomhet. Jag ville gå till läkaren igen, men känslan kom tillbaks. Jag blev fast i min egen lägenhet. Jag kunde inte äta, men jag var heller aldrig hungrig.

Igår morse kunde jag för första gången själv se vad som höll på att hända med mig. Mitt ansikte i spegeln fick mig att vilja skrika, men det gick inte. Hålet som jag stirrade in i hade inte varit där när jag gick och la mig. Eller det hade varit där, men då hade det suttit ett öga i det. I min panik började jag tänka på vad som tagits bort inom mig natten innan och natten innan den.

Framåt kvällen började jag kunna tänka igen. Nånting händer med mig om nätterna. Jag vet inte vad det är, men kanske går det att ta reda på det. Om jag håller mig uppe tillräckligt länge. Men de senaste nätterna har jag somnat så fort jag lagt huvudet på kudden, utmattad efter en dag av ingenting. Risken finns att jag somnar lika fort igen inatt.

Jag rotade igenom mina lådor. Den fanns där nånstans. Jag hade inte använt den på två år, men den borde fungera utan problem.

Den lilla kameran med mikrofon låg där jag trodde den skulle ligga; i lådan med andra datorprylar som jag inte längre använde.

Del 1

Mina tankar rusar igenom mitt huvud och kroppen vill slita mig ur sängen och iväg mot datorn. Jag somnade inatt också. Men kameran somnade inte. Jag öppnar mina ögon och inget händer. Paniken tar tag i mig igen. Det är fortfarande mörkt. Alldeles för mörkt för att bara vara natt. Skuggor och siluetter jag borde kunna urskilja existerar inte. Lägenheten är varm och jag hör trafiken utanför. Det hände inatt igen. Och den här gången kommer jag inte att kunna upptäcka det i spegeln.

Jag nästan ramlar ur sängen när jag tar mig upp ur den. Jag famlar omkring, slår emot saker som jag egentligen vet att finns där. Jag stannar upp och gömmer mitt ansikte i mina händer. Ringfingrarna på båda händerna svävar i hålen. Inget finns där. Den här gången kan jag skrika.

Hur jag tar mig till datorn vet jag inte riktigt. Troligtvis slår jag i en massa saker på vägen dit, men jag känner inte det. Den smärtan får komma sen. Med känselns hjälp hittar jag tangentbordet. Trots att det var två år sedan jag använde kameran och programmet sist, så verkar tangenttryckningarna sitta i min ryggrad. Jag hör det välbekanta syntetiska ljudet som spelas upp då kameran slutar spela in. För ett ögonblick imponeras jag av mig själv som lyckades stänga av den. Sen inser jag att det är någon som hjälper mig. Samma någon som tvingade mig hem från sjukhuset. Samma någon som hålit mig kvar i lägenheten. Någon vill att jag ska ta del av det här. Inspelningen går igång.

Under en halvtimme hör jag mig själv gå omkring i lägenheten. Jag tror det är en halvtimme. Det känns som det. Sen hör jag sängfjädrarna knarra lite. Jag klarade av att vara vaken en halvtimme. Min sömn består nu av långa djupa andetag. Hur länge jag lyssnar på mig själv sova vet jag inte. Då och då hörs en bil. Sen sången.

Jag har inte hört sången på två år. Jag har inte hört rösten på två år. Den sköra rösten.

Sen hon dog har inget varit sig likt. Tomheten efter henne har varit allt som existerat.

Och nu är hon tillbaks och det jag längtat efter i hundratals dagar gör mig tommare och tommare.

Jag undrar vad hon tar inatt?