Artful Devices

Viva voce

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 21:37:15 GMT

What is the essence of living? It is a complicated question, one of great magnitude, I know, and I shall not venture to look for the entire point of living. But just to live… It is unknown to me. Until recently I have been so focused on maintaining the balance that the significance of actually living, not just surviving, never held much importance to me. One might think that I choose an odd time for such explorations. But it is really the only thing I can do. And it is what I need to do. I must teach myself to enjoy life. Laughter. To enjoy the taste of food, and the satisfaction of fulfilled hunger. It will not be easy. But somehow it is a struggle that I look strangely forward to.
It is not all sensations that I have robbed myself of, not everything the rejection of which has been my self-inflicted punishment. I have enjoyed silence. The feeling of wind on my face. The strange, almost vulgar beauty of a sunrise or a sunset, obscene in its choice of colours, yet at the same time incredibly harmonious. The feeling of air, fresh or stale from having been incarcerated for ages, or polluted with sweet, harsh, killing smoke, being drawn into my lungs. Those rare times when art, mine or that from the hands of others, found mercy before my naïve, yet too well-considered standards and demands. And peace in my surroundings, if I could not find it in myself.
I have not mentioned those dark half-pleasurable sensations of cold, deprivation and pain, which I have long subjected myself to, though it shames me to admit it. I am trying to leave them in the past.

It has been a long time since I last chose to share my life. I am sorry. The words went missing, and I found it difficult to start writing again. Perhaps because there seemed to be so many subjects, so many complex situations and problems, new and old, that I had to process, to deal with. I did not know where to begin. Now I think I have no choice but to go on, though I seem to have lost some bits and pieces along the way. I think I buried them too deep, and forgot or suppressed the exact placement of their temporary grave. Maybe they will rise and return to me one day, and I can recount everything then.
But I cannot stop now, even if it feels so very wrong to ignore what I have lost. At least I can hope that the thoughts inspired by those memories and events are still kept safely hidden somewhere in my mind, even if I cannot or am not able to tell anyone about them at the moment.
Some do still appear as distinctly to me as the day they happened. Strange midnight visits, a startling encounter with my one old foe and a hidden dimension to a friend revealed. Of the three, the latter was far more important. Yet in some way entirely without importance. But he knows my thoughts and what I feel concerning that disclosure, so I suppose I should cast any guilt about refraining to write about the matter right now aside.
Then what will I write about? Those days that I am able to recount with no great obstacles, I suppose. One such followed not many days after my brief interview by the police.

As expected, they returned, asking me to come with them. I must have shown reluctance in my face, because the detective inspector flashed a warrant at me, and another to search my home. I had no choice but to follow along. I had a strange feeling that I should have been afraid, apprehensive or shocked, but I was not. As we left, the officers started searching my home behind us. I thanked whatever higher power that may or may not exist that my journal is only to be found online and not on the hard drive of my computer. I could only hope that they would not be so thorough as to go through my links, or my recently visited pages.
They drove me to the police station, placing me in a room that was meant to look like its prime use was for meetings, but it was clearly for interrogations. The rather large one-way mirror gave it away. The detectives sat down, one in front of me, one at the side of the table. A large and old electronic contraption sat on the table, meant to record what was said, but they replaced it with a newer and much smaller model. The detective next to me did not speak much, he merely looked at me, either trying to unnerve me, or maybe studying my reactions. His superior lead the interview, turning the recorder on and stating date and time and who was present. I will not claim to remember every word and the order in which they were said, but I believe what I recall is sufficient.
“You have to say it out loud. For the tape, you see.” He tapped the machine in question with his pen.
I nodded, as well as vocalised my reply.
He looked down at his pile of papers. A few questions about my date of birth, and other rather inconsequent subjects followed.
“You are 21. An interesting age… I see you went to… - ” He stated the name of my school. I nodded again. He smiled at me.
“Please say it out loud.”
“Yes, I did.”
“A very old, very prestigious school, isn’t it… Very interesting views on education and the upbringing of children…”
That did not seem to be a question, so I said nothing.
He nodded, mostly to himself, it seemed.
“You were a student there from 1997 to 2004, am I correct?”
I told him that he was.
“So you know Christian A-.?”
I told him that he had been in my year.
“Indeed. You did not find that important enough to mention when we last talked. Why is that?”
I told him that I did not really see the relevance at the time.
“Oh, on the contrary, Joscelin. It was and is highly relevant. You see, we know he was in that silo, for at least 12 days. In a place very, very close to your home. You are the only one who lives near that part of the harbour… And you went to school with him. Was that merely a coincidence?”
I told him that it could have been.
“Yes, but was it?”
I told him that to my knowledge it had been. He nodded and paused, leaning back in his chair.
“Did you know Christian A-. well at school?”
I shook my head.
“Joscelin, you need to say it.”
“No, I did not.” That was what I said, but my thoughts differed. I doubt that anyone really knew him. Yet I probably knew him better than most.
“But you must have talked to him. He was in your house, I see… You probably would have seen a lot of him.” If he only knew what he was asking. Perhaps he did. I did not reply.
“You weren’t friends?”
I said that no, we had not been.
“Enemies then…?”
Not that either, I told him. In truth, his only enemy had been himself, and not me.
“When did you last see him?”
I told him I had met him a few times since school, quite coincidentally.
“When was that?”
“Once in the spring, once in the summer,” I replied.
“Of this year?”
I said yes.
“On which dates?”
I told him that I did not recall.
“The approximate dates then?”
“In April… I do not recall the other.”
“But it was this summer?”
I nodded, looking down.
“In June then?”
I shrugged and told him that it could have been. In retrospect, I should probably not have been quite as reluctant to inform him of the dates. Because I did recall, and I must have seemed like I really had something to hide, by the way I chose to reply.
“Well then, let’s return to the subject of the happenings of June, shall we… On the 14th, did you see anyone on the harbour?”
I told him that I had already said that I had not. He nodded.
“Yes, but your memory seems to be quite poor when it comes to dates, so I thought I had better ask again.” He paused. “On the 14th… You did not see anyone outside… Did you then receive any visitors?”
I hesitated for long enough for him to get the reaction he wanted. I had meant to say no, but I could see in his face that he knew he was on to something. I told him that, yes, someone had come by.
“Oh, and who was that…?”
Someone from my past. He jutted down a note, looking down at the piece of paper.
“Christian A-.” he said, looking up at the last part to see the expression on my face. I kept it completely calm, and said nothing. Something close to severity had crept into his eyes.
“Joscelin, we found traces of his blood. We know he was there.”
I could not deny it. “He was.”
“And why was he there?”
To hurt me in order to make his own pain cease, I thought. But I shrugged, and chose a different reply. “He seemed interested in my art. Said he came by to say hello.”
“How long did he stay for?”
“I don’t know… Maybe an hour.”
He nodded again.
“And what happened then?”
“He left. I don’t know what happened to him afterwards.” I kept my voice slow and unagitated.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What did the two of you speak about?”
“School mostly… We do not have a lot in common.”
“For about an hour? You must have something in common then.”
I shook my head.
“Joscelin, why didn’t you say that you had seen him when you knew we were searching for him?”
I shrugged. I did not want any trouble.
“If you are telling the truth, you are not in trouble.”
I looked up at him. “I am.”
He regarded me for a moment. “You understand that you are very likely the last person to have seen him, don’t you? You need to be much more forthcoming with the information.”
I told him I was telling him as much as I could.
“And what can’t you tell me…?”
“That which I do not know.”
“Then by all means tell me that which you do know.”
“I have.”
“Yes, some of it…”
He paused, studying me.
“You did not get along in school.”
I shook my head.
“For the tape, Joscelin.”
“No, not especially.”
“He was your prefect, I see… And in that school such a position holds a lot of power, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“They are supposed to serve as a good example, keep order amongst the other students and are allowed to deal out punishment… Did you behave badly in school?”
I suppressed the slight wince. “I don’t know.”
“Well, according to your records, you did. I tell you, it was very difficult to acquire these. Under normal circumstances, it would have been impossible. But something about this case makes such things a little easier…” He looked slightly disgruntled. “In any case, you ‘acted up’, didn’t you?”
I shrugged, and kept my words to myself.
“That is what I’ve heard… Would you like to describe what happened in your own words…?”
I remained silent.
“Very well then… I guess I will have to tell you my thoughts on the matter, if you refuse to tell me yours. It wasn’t really a place for you, Joscelin. You were not made for that school… It churns out so-called future leaders, sons of a long-forgotten useless fossil of an aristocracy, stuck-up little king wannabes, and tries to crush a creative soul such as yours…”
I kept looking at the table, until I almost imagined I could see my feet through it. I was determined that if his policy was to try to connect to me in order to get me to talk, then he would not have much luck.
“Oh, I forget, you are one of them, aren’t you?”
That earned him an angry glare, before I turned my gaze on the linoleum surface again.
“No, I know you are not… Though you might as well have been, with your background. You did not like Christian much, did you?”
I told him the truth, which was that I indeed did not.
“And was the aversion mutual?”
That question was much more difficult to answer. In the end, I said that to my knowledge, it was.
“You seem a nice guy, if a little on the quiet side, Joscelin. Why didn’t he like you?”
I shrugged. “I… just didn’t fit in.”
“That is quite obvious, and might be something to be grateful for. But they didn’t think so… Did they?”
“I guess not…”
“So let me make sure that I understand. You did not fit in, that place strangled you and as the natural outcome of this, you rebelled. And the one in charge of correcting you, indeed the one who in some way saw it as his duty to straighten you up was Christian A-., am I right?”
My affirmation came with a little less surety than I liked.
“So you would have seen quite a lot of him at school… and though boyhood enmities often fade with the years, I have a feeling that yours didn’t.” He paused. “Very concerned with propriety, that Christian, I hear… Almost obsessed with obeying the rules, maybe… If that is true, I certainly understand why you did not like him.” He sent me a small smile., then returned to perusing his stack of files. “You did not graduate, I see… Why is that?”
I replied that I had been sick.
“In which way?”
I shrugged and told him I had just been unable to participate in the final exams.
“Very unfortunate. After all the money your parents must have spent on your education… But I suppose they can afford it.”
I could nearly hear the current of thoughts beneath the trivial words. I did not meet his gaze, but I am almost certain that the theories he had concocted, the ones he was merely hinting at, were closer to the truth than he knew.
“So why did he come to see you…” he mused, and sighed. “After three years, the scourge of your adolescence suddenly turns up… to berate you for the mistakes you made then, and to… taunt you for what you are now…?”
He was only theorising, thus no reply from me was warranted. His voice grew quiet and almost kind.
“You were elsewhere, you were free… And here this phantom appears, wanting you to conform to something you could never be. It was too much for you, Joscelin, was it not? You could bear it no longer… How did you get him to go to the roof?”
I shook my head, saying that I had not. He had gone that way on his own accord.
The interview went on for quite long. It touched upon subjects such as my art and whether it revealed some twisted recess of my mind. I tried to explain what it meant to me, but I am unsure that they fully understood. He kept asking the same questions over and over again in different variations, turning the words, using new inflections, trying a few possible trails of discovery. Then another theory seemed to dawn on him. Or maybe he had just been saving it for that moment.
“Joscelin, you were not alone that night, were you…”
I did not reply.
“You are… what, about 1,75, and you probably weigh in the vicinity of 60 kilos… Probably a bit less than that, no offence meant, of course. According to this…” he looked down at another piece of paper, “Christian A-. is 1,85 and probably weighs about 20 kilos more than you. And works out, judging from this picture. There is no way you could overpower him… Even if you knocked him unconscious you would still have had to drag him up the stairs. I don’t think you would be able to. So either you lured him up there somehow, or you had someone to help you. Who was there…?”
I could have told him the truth, I guess. I could have told him the whole thing. That the golden boy, the infallible prodigy had broken down in front of me, and tried to repeat what he had done to me time and again, ignored by those who were supposed to protect us. Yet it would only have implicated me, furthered their suspicions against me. I had plenty of reasons for doing away with him, and they did not need to know that. They knew too much already, or at least suspected. Besides, he would never have believed that some strange very strong boy had turned up and taken him away. Even if he believed in the existence of such a boy, he would deem me an accomplice, and I would be charged. My only option seemed to be to stick to my story. So I said that I really had seen nothing of Christian after he had left by the means of my stairs. And that there had been no person there to help me.
“So you are telling me that a thoroughly healthy, happy and balanced young man decides to visit an old school acquaintance, with whom he was never quite friendly, talks to him calmly for a while, then chooses to leave by the roof-top stairs, instead of the more probable main entrance. He then either decides that life is no longer worth living, and jumps off said roof, or he trips and falls. Now, though severely hurt by his fall, he somehow manages to crawl to a nearby silo, and tortures himself for nigh on a fortnight, before killing four policemen that have come to save him, and then escaping without a trace? Not very likely, is it, Joscelin?”
I kept looking down.
“Oh, and we should not forget that we have a witness who saw him on the street on the night of the 20th of June, all bloody and beat up… He told her he was being forced to hurt her. By you, Joscelin…?”
I think my face betrayed how horrible the thought was to me. “Of course not…”
He nodded.
“Of course not. You would not have the physical power to force him to do anything, especially not out in the open like that. And it is almost unimaginable to think that someone like him would allow someone like you such a strong psychological power over him as such an action would require… And even if he was near crippled by his fall, you would not have been able to do what was done to him in the silo…” He paused, seemingly contemplating the possibilities. “Then by whom, I wonder… You know something.”
It was a statement of fact, not a question.
I shook my head.
He spoke softly. “Yes, you do. What did you really speak of, the two of you?”
“School.”
“So you say. Would that really upset him enough to cause him to either take a conscious decision or become so careless as to fall off a building…?”
I looked up, hoping he would catch the honesty in my expression. “After he left, I really don’t know what happened… He was not my friend, but… I didn’t kill him.” I should not have used past tense in referring to him. I instantly regretted it. But he seemed not to notice.
“Then who did?”
I kept looking at him. “I don’t even know if he is dead.”
He sighed. “Too many coincidences…”
I have no way of knowing for how long they kept me in there. But the rest of the interview did not yield any usable results for this very persistent detective, as far as I could see. They wanted a blood sample from me, and they were welcome to take it. My blood should not be able to incriminate me in any way. If I had called my parents, a solicitor would have been present faster than they could ask me another question. But I did not want their help, did not need it. They could only keep me for 24 hours, I knew. In the end, they decided not to charge me and let me go. As they led me out of the building, I caught a glimpse of a once familiar face. Two, in fact, though from an angle that would not have sparked recognition had they been almost anyone else. It was only for a second or two, but I think one of them saw me. I spent the walk back thinking about what they would say. It could not have been their first interview, I believe. His friends would have been some of the first people that they would have spoken to. And someone must have told the police a little of what school was like for all of us. But clearly most of what happened then had been kept a secret. I found myself in between being grateful and strangely disappointed.

Duality

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 11:23:45 GMT

If I thought that my world had settled into normality, that this recent transformation of spirit was all I would go through regarding such changes, then I was very wrong.
A couple of days following the experience in the silo, the police paid me a visit. They knocked on my front door, now thoroughly locked and barred. I had a fairly accurate notion about who would be on the other side, and opened the door enough to allow me to look out, and them to catch a glimpse of me. The officer in charge stated my name, and asked if I was that person. I nodded. He wanted a quick word with me, asking if I would let them in. I could not really think of a good reason not to, so I did. It would have seemed suspicious if I had denied them entrance. We stood in the front hall. The detectives looked at the surroundings and especially at the paintings.
“So… I am sure you have noticed all the commotion outside during the last couple of days?”
I nodded.
“Then I am sure you have also heard of why we are here.”
I nodded again. He opened his notebook, readying his pen.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Some people were… killed.”
He nodded. “Yes… Some police officers. Four of them, in fact.”
I said nothing.
“But there is something else as well… Do you know why they were there?”
I shook my head. He regarded me for a moment.
“Well, we received a tip-off about the Christian A-. case… Surely you must have heard about that?”
I told him that I had.
“Yes, who hasn’t… Now, let’s see… Where you home on the… 26th of June?”
I confirmed that I had been. He nodded and scribbled a note.
“On that night… did you notice anything unusual…? A noise, lights, people…? Anything?”
I told him that I had not, not before the sirens in the early morning, and even them I had taken no particular notice of, being not far from a firestation. He nodded again and wrote yet another note.
“Well then… That is odd, because what happened on that night very close to here, should have made some noise at least.” He looked up from his notes.
I once again stated that I had not, the rather thick walls of the factory taken into consideration, it was not so strange that I had not heard anything.
“I suppose not…” he said. “And in the days before that? Did you notice anything out of the usual? Anything at all?”
I once again told him that I had not. He nodded slowly, endlessly writing notes.
“What about on the… 14th… Did you see anyone walking around on the harbour?”
I had not, seeing as I had not been outside that day. He nodded. His colleague just stood behind him, staring at the paintings.
After a few more questions, they left. As I walked them to the door, I noticed that there were more police officers outside, standing along the wall a bit further down my building. At that spot… I think the detective turned around in time to see my face. I said goodbye and closed the door. He just had time to say that they might be back with more questions. And they did return.

Disclosure

Fri, 24 Aug 2007 07:15:59 GMT

There are other subjects that I would rather write about at the moment. But I must follow the trail, write everything in the order it happened in. It has been too long since I last left off. But that night is nevertheless the point at which I must continue.

I do not know if it was right of me to ask Grae to come with me.
The police had by then begun a search of the entire harbour, running lead weights over the bottom and sending down divers. Their attention had moved somewhat away from the silo. They had closed off all of this area of the harbour to anyone but those with a justified reason to enter. So perhaps they did not feel the need to watch over the silo as intently as they did before. This might have been my only chance to look inside, if indeed I found myself able to get in.
It was difficult for me to ask him. It was after all extremely illegal, and potentially dangerous, and I had no wish to expose him to any sort of danger. He strongly feels the same about me, I think, which is most likely why he agreed to come with me, when he discovered that I would not change my mind about going.
He showed up well-prepared and seemed very professional. If I am ever to do something like this again, and I certainly hope I do not have to, then I cannot think of anyone I would rather have there with me than him. I mean that in several ways.
There was a single guard outside, standing a bit away, with his back turned. Grae got us in very quickly. I did my best to be as quiet as he, but I do not think I was amazingly successful. Yet we were not discovered.
As we got in, I turned on the torch that Grae had brought. The inside of the silo looked as one would derive from seeing the outside, the room was completely round. A staircase spiralled upwards, following the wall. There was only one door, the one we had entered though, and if the silo had any windows, they were so high up that we could not see them in the gloom. It was sparsely furnished. But the first thing the light hit, and therefore the first thing I noticed, was a large and old wooden tall-backed chair standing in the middle of the room. I approached it slowly. Running the torch over it revealed a multitude of cuts and odd holes in it. But the stains were the worst part. There was no doubt in my mind about what they consisted of. His blood. And so much of it. Down the chair. On the floor and on the walls. Tracing the trails of it with the cone of light, my eyes reached a table standing at one side of the silo. I walked closer. The tabletop was littered by countless metal objects, neatly marked with little pieces of paper, to proclaim them as evidence. What their uses were, was in some cases a mystery to me, but I had no doubt that their prime purpose was the advancement of pain. A scalpel was lying on the floor, the blade traced with blood. It had been circled in white. I turned away from the appalling tools, followed the light to the other side of the room and the bed. Part of the sheets must also have been taken as evidence, because neat little squares of fabric had been cut out. I did not deceive myself as to what they were evidence of. As we were about to leave, I almost tripped over a metal bucket. Looking down into it, as I regained my balance, I saw that it contained ashes and the remnants of coal.
We managed to sneak out of there undiscovered. At first there was only silence, in my mind and on my lips. As we arrived back at my home, the words, or rather the emotional reaction announced its presence. But it was different from what I think I had expected.
I have never wished such a thing on anyone, not even on him, though if anyone in my life ever deserved it, it was surely him. I did not know how to feel. He was so close to my home all this time. If I had listened for it, I might even have heard him scream. I was not sure how I should feel about the experience he must have gone through in there.
The place itself was largely as I suppose I had somehow expected. What surprised me somewhat were the certain similarities I think I saw. It was mostly the coal that triggered it, but the overall ambience of the place, one of torture and reveling in it to a more than perverted degree, it seemed too familiar. Almost too familiar to be a coincidence. I know that the proposed perpetrator of these atrocities reads or at least read my journal. So he would have known about it all. And if he did, was it then because of me that he took him? Not to avenge me, for I do not see that strange boy to be the type, but nevertheless, did Christian only become interesting to him because I wrote what I did?
The similarities may only have appeared in my mind anyway. I suppose that in essence, there can only be so many ways to torture someone. But even if what I wrote was part of the reason behind it, I cannot accept responsibility for anyone else's actions.
After a while, when I had digested these thoughts, a strange calmness descended upon me. I discussed my feelings on the subject thoroughly with Grae. I appreciated the sentiments that must lie behind his strong feeling of resentment, almost hate towards the person who hurt me. Though I could not help but think that it was not merely because of our friendship that he felt that way. But as we talked about that deep form of animosity, I discovered something about myself. I do not hate him. I do not wish for revenge. I would not allow my mind to have room for such destructive, all-encompassing obsessions. He is not worth it. It may be abnormal. But that is how I felt. I am not saying that I have forgiven him, far from it. But maybe... Maybe some day I can reach that point. And then I shall truly have moved on. If I felt anything in his direction at that particular moment, then it was something close to pity. After all, through all those years, he was the weaker one of us. I still did wonder if I would ever see him again, and how he would act towards me now, if he was out there, if he was alive. But it was not important.
Grae expressed admiration that I was able to not hate. I do not know if I deserve admiration for it, but I was grateful for his support and trust. As I am in all matters.
By now I think he knows he has mine as well.

Intricate

Fri, 20 Jul 2007 13:41:36 GMT

How does one describe the events that a life is comprised of? To me, there is no luck, only things that happen and things that do not, yet fate seems to be an insufficient word and term. You can go through life being almost entirely alone, yet you can never free yourself of the web of actions of the rest of the world, it will always return to impose its effect on your life. Not that I necessarily wish it to not do so. Every occurrence holds its own points of interest, no matter how terrifying it may be at the exact moment that it takes place, and no matter what devastating consequences it may seem to have at first. Every event, every thought holds its own chances. A chance and a choice to learn, perhaps.
To sum up, my life has been rather eventful lately, not just in my mind, but on a more tangible level as well.
I noticed the stir caused by police cars further down the harbour some days after my last entry. It is quite unusual to see one, much less such a multitude of members of the police force out here, so I instantly felt a touch of curiosity, though I told myself that whatever tragedy or drama their investigation centred upon, it hardly had anything to do with me, and I should stay away. I suppose I did have a subconscious negative feeling about it, but finally I could contain my curiosity no longer and went to look at what was going on. The activity was concentrated on a large long abandoned silo. Several vans were present, and people who were obviously scientists or technicians of some sort, dressed in white suits, the entire scene enclosed in tape telling people not to enter. Quite obviously something severe and extraordinary had happened. I found myself to be the only spectator there, so my presence did not seem to be instantly unacceptable to the police, though whatever the commotion was all about, it was most definitely serious in nature. It took me a long while to gather the courage to ask what was going on, as I stood a bit away, trying to look casual. I engaged a policeman who stood by the tape by himself. I was smoking and I had noticed that he looked hungrily at my cigarette when I approached. I do not believe in luck, but that craving in him was definitely conclusive to my case. I offered him one and he accepted it gratefully. In spite of myself I managed to hit up some light conversation, as people say, about the proceedings and he answered me without any airs, that he was unsure of what was going on, but that it had to do with a possible abduction case, perhaps even the Christian A. case. He told me with a grave face that four policemen had been killed there the night before. I think I managed to not disclose any emotion in my face at his words. I nodded and continued the conversation a little bit longer. They had received a tip-off, he said. Behind him, some of his colleagues seemed suddenly to gain an added edge of business. One of them quickly ran up to him and mumbled to him, and though the tone of his words was designed to make the message unheard by me, I caught the substance of it. That the blood tests had come back, and that it was definitely his. I needed not ask which the person they referred to, even if it had been appropriate for me to ask anything. They exchanged some complaints about how this was going to cause a lot of trouble, then he turned back to me and smiled joylessly and apologetically, probably realising that he should not have been talking to me, saying that he was afraid I had to leave now. I told him that it was no problem and went home, keeping the questions in my mind tightly sealed under a layer of uneasiness and resoluteness. A strange mixture, but it performed its intended function.
But I could not keep them away for long. What was that place and what had it to do with him? I had thought that surely he must have died from the fall or soon after. Yet his blood was in there, they said, and he could not have crept in there himself. But if he was mortally wounded, why was his body not present? A diminutive thought, aspiring to be rational, crept in, saying that perhaps it had been discarded in the harbour. It might be. Then another thought struck me, one that had been with me for a while, lying ignored, but now quiet yet strangely horrifying. The strange boy who saved me. When I met him that night between the buildings he said that he had a workshop down here, and gestured in the direction of the silo. Did that have any significance…?
I had a strong urge to go and see that place for myself. I could not explain it, and I still cannot quite. I wondered if they would have posted guards all though the night, and other things of an almost practical, yet entirely unrealistic nature. The impulse remained with me for days, as I stayed inside, working and reading, going about my life as usual. Usual in the way that I define the word, anyway.
In the end I called Grae.

Nebula

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 04:01:18 GMT

Yesterday I saw his face again, on the front page of a tabloid. He has been declared missing. I wonder if the police will find their way here. I have gotten thoroughly rid of any trace of him that I have been able to find, and his jacket was claimed by my strange rescuer, but I still fear that there is something I may have overlooked. But what could possibly lead them here? There is one thing, my portrait. As far as I recall, I did not sign it with anything else than a j. But… that nervous young woman, perhaps she knew that he was going here that day. If she did, she has apparently not told anyone, because I have not received any unwanted guests as of yet. Certain parts of her visit that day make more sense now. She must have unmistakably been his current girlfriend or something similar. I suppose I could find a few similarities between us on the surface. She had dark hair and a slender frame, not particularly endowed with female characteristics as I recall it. This likeness is what she must have seen in me, when she said that that of course I was the one she was looking for. And when she turned around and thanked me as she was leaving… Perhaps she thought that this painting would buy her some respite. What a strange relationship they must have had, for her not to leave him, in spite of the almost certain fact that she must have known at least a few of his secrets.
I find that I am not really worried about any possible visits from the police. After all, I really have nothing to hide, not that I am likely to tell them everything, unless it becomes necessary.
I have been back for a week now. As much as I really enjoyed the peace of staying with Grae and his family, I had a strong feeling that if I did not return to my home soon, I would never be able to. Not so much the actual place, but to the sanctuary I had created there, in mind as much as in matter. Though it may at times have been a place I sought in order to escape the pressure of making decisions, its good effects should not be completely disregarded just because my main use of it was once to do that. It is not just about running. It is about creating a platform where one can sort out one’s thoughts, and from which one can get ready to deal with whatever life has in store. Perhaps my home will even feel safer and better now.
I asked Grae to return to my home with me, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought of someone else’s presence there, and unnerved by not knowing what sort of reaction I would have when I saw that place again. He confessed to me that he had been to my home, while I had been staying at his, to ensure that it was safe, and had found no additional traces of any of them having been there. He was obviously unsure of how I would react to this, but I was only grateful for his great concern.
Coming home was not so frightful as I might have feared. After only a moment of hesitation I was able to open the door. I was glad to see my creatures in the great hall, whispering hello to them as I passed by. My room looked exactly how I had left it, except now I saw it by daylight, making the scene appear both more calming, but also more unsettling because of its normality. The bed was messy, a closer look revealing traces of the intruder, a golden strand or two amongst the ruffled bedding. I took the decision to quickly dispel any thoughts about ownership, claiming it all as mine, as it always had been, by discarding the old sheets. I let my eyes travel over my few belongings, over the walls, the stairs, the windows. Affirming that it was all mine. Afterwards, I asked Grae to go to the roof with me. I went to the edge, looking down at that spot. Where the blood had been, where the phantom of me had once ended its days. I imagined the situation up here that night, when I had been on the bed downstairs, unable to move. In the dark, he would have had no way of seeing the fire escape. Did he fall or was he pushed? Perhaps he is lying out there in the water, though I do not think a person should be able to crawl away after such a fall. He could surely not have survived it, and yet he was not there. Perhaps a friend had been waiting for him down there in the dark, the anxious-looking girl or someone else. Someone who carried his body away. Even though I would perhaps in some unpalatable way have appreciated the closure and knowledge of safety derived from seeing his body, I am also strangely grateful that I did not have to deal with disposing of it. These almost practical observations aside, I have a strange sense, almost a hope, that by falling from my roof he in a way took my place. Perhaps I do not have to have those thoughts anymore.
I was glad to share the experience of standing up there on the roof again with Grae. Somehow it seemed that the view had changed in some indefinable way. Grae said that perhaps it was time to look up. And he is right. A few nights ago, as I was up on the roof, smoking and looking at the stars through the clouds, I was for a moment entirely convinced that someone was up there with me. To such an extent that I almost turned around and looked. But I did not. I know that no one would have looked back at me through the dark. I chose to look upwards instead.

Constellation

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 17:22:39 GMT

I returned to my home earlier this week, having since done my best to put those measures I discussed with Grae into effect.
Staying at Vincent’s house was a very peaceful experience. I wonder if this is what having a family feels like. Just relatively unimportant things like having dinner, and feeling comfortable in the company of your dinner companions, listening to their conversations. It does make a difference. They have all largely left me alone, no doubt recognizing that I needed a break from everything. Not that I have minded their company in the least, quite the opposite. I am infinitely grateful for it.
I spent most of my time reading in Vincent’s study. He has quite an impressive collection of old books, many beautiful first editions. One of the days I stayed there, I once again found myself sitting in the large chair in Vincent’s study, having found a particularly cherished old friend among his books. The door opened, and Vincent stepped in. He smiled at me and said good evening, which I of course returned, closing the book, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought of him thinking I was taking up his study too much. I could not help but feel that his main reason for having this conversation with me was that it would be the proper thing to do, a host’s duty, not because he particularly wanted to. Not that I in any way would expect him to take any interest in me. But he is friendly in his own way, and the conversation was interesting. We share a love of Oscar Wilde, it would seem. He mentioned seeing some of my pictures in the magazine that Grae writes for. They did not seem to be to his taste. I may have made a somewhat defensive comment, but he did not seem to take offence, in fact he expressed interest in seeing my work at some point. He told me that he had once painted a portrait of Grae, making reference to Dorian Gray. Curious. Well, I suppose there is the name.
We talked for a bit about Grae. He does not seem to approve of the way that Grae chooses to dress, and I can see that it is quite different from how he himself dresses. He offered to get me some new clothes, in case I wanted something better than what Grae had lent me. Vincent could hardly know that what I choose to wear normally is probably even worse in his eyes, than what Grae wears.
It had rained earlier that day. The rain no doubt washing the blood away, down there on the wharf. Curled up in that chair, in that room, reading that book while the rain hit the windows. It was close to be a perfect moment, as I confided to Vincent, though it made me feel slightly embarrassed to do so. But I wanted him to know that I was very happy there. As I said to him, I have not been at peace like this for a long time. He mentioned happy moments and memories, things to look back upon with fondness when times were tough. It made me think of a quote from the book I was holding, though I am sure it was not quite what the author meant.
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
It reminded him in turn of an experience Grae once had involving the stars. One night that had seemingly somehow made a difference to him. I shall not reveal every word of our conversation, but there was a strong undercurrent of hope, and what was said seemed to strengthen the feeling of kinship with Grae that I hold. I think Vincent cares for him a great deal. He may not be an artist or a writer, as he himself said, but to me, just having a room such as his study reveals at least one very profound aspect of his soul. Because though a room may be furnished to purposefully show off an intentional image, I believe that there is much more to this particular one. And of course there would be. I am glad that I got to meet him as well.
Vincent said that perhaps if one looked closely at the stars, one would find that one was drawn to them to a degree that one could actually get out of the gutter. I do not disagree, it is definitely a thought to remember. There is always a choice. But when it cannot easily be found, or it is too difficult to make it, it is good to have the stars.

Refuge

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 19:40:37 GMT

I remained sitting there, just staring out into the air for a while. When the tingling in my fingers had begun announcing that the blood was returning, I considered writing to Grae. But he might not see the message until later, and I found I needed his help. He could not change what had just happened, but his presence might very well make a difference to my harrowed mental state. There was no one else to call, and even if there had been, I still think I might have thought of Grae first in a situation where I needed a friend as much as I did just then.
I knew I would be alright. But I was so tired, and I dared not fall asleep there. I could not find rest in that bed right then. What if either of them returned… If he could not fight that strange boy, then I surely would have no chance. But if the boy was speaking the truth, and I cannot right now see any reason for him not to, pertaining to the subject in question, then something serious must surely have happened to him. I cannot imagine that he would have been scared off so easily.
I took the sudden decision to go find a phone, call Grae and beg him to come, so I would not be alone. I grabbed my coat and shoes and hurried out of there. As I exited the main door, something in my peripheral vision caught my eye. There was a lot of blood in that very spot where I had once imagined myself to lie, lit up by that lonely streetlamp and a faint blue streak still across the night sky, as it often appears so close to the solstice. For a moment I stood there, transfixed by it. He was not there.
I hurried past the buildings of the harbour, at last reaching the place where I had met Grae the last time. There was a payphone there, and fortunately I found some coins in my pocket. I fought the uncomfortable feeling that calling him in the middle of the night and disturbing him called forth. When he picked up I almost sighed in relief. I cannot properly communicate the change of emotions I felt when he said he would come and get me, but it had to do with extreme gratitude. I stayed in that corner until he arrived, where I would be very close to a place where I could lock myself up, should any danger ensue. He was there quite fast.
He had arrived by car. As he opened the door for me, I felt a touch of uncertainty because I was going somewhere with a relative stranger. But that fear was not about him, not at all. I trust Grae. I really do. But there is still a thin thread of fear running through me that I cannot rid myself of. If he notices I hope he knows that it has nothing to do with him. I felt safer already, just for being in his company. He may not have known me for very long, but I believe, or at least I hope that we have some sort of connection. I still have that strange slight sense that I know him, though I know next to nothing about him. And this feeling has only increased after the conversations we have had today. Sometimes I worry that the things we speak of affect him more than he lets know. But I will have to rely on his own judgment as far as to how many of my troubles he finds he can deal with.
He drove me to his home. I felt like I was imposing terribly on him for asking him to do such a thing, but he said that he had offered it himself. His cousin who owns the house was waiting for us there, welcoming me.
Grae led me to the kitchen, finding food for me. My head ached from all the thoughts and words, grinding and crushing me. I was by then so exhausted that while I was concentrating on eating, my mind thankfully did not have room for any thoughts at all. It was quite a welcome relief. I wanted to tell him about what had happened, but I was too tired to speak. He offered me use of their guestroom, for which I was and am very grateful. I fell asleep very fast, hardly having even a moment to worry, before sleep claimed me.
When I woke up, I dressed in some clothes Grae had provided for me, and went downstairs. I found him in the kitchen. He had tea ready for me. After eating a little again, I was at last able to tell him the story.
Afterwards, he graciously let me have use of his cousin’s study, to enable me to gather my thoughts on the last 24 hours. That is where I am writing this from. He brought me that magazine, the one he interviewed me for. It suddenly did not seem to matter much. He was concerned about whether Christian had found me through that article, but I find it highly unlikely that he did. I am not sure how he managed, but I am quite convinced that it had nothing to do with Grae. We talked for a while, but since both he and I know of what we spoke, I see no reason to recount it here.
He knows how grateful I am. Perhaps I do not need to tell him anymore. Somehow I hope our friendship, if I dare call it that, has passed beyond that.
I wonder if this was the end. If I do not need to fear Christian and his effects anymore. That it should end so dramatically… I do not know if I wanted that. But perhaps I needed it. Though it would have been easier to let it fade away quietly, to avoid confrontation. Yet now it seems to be over. And I cannot even express how I feel about that. The truth is that I do not know what this emotion is. Perhaps it is a feeling of liberty. I would like it to be.

Precipitation

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 14:25:04 GMT

Since I now know that Grae is not alone in reading this, I suppose I should censor myself to a larger degree. But in this particular case I will not. Though I have no wish to provide any form of entertainment to certain obscure elements, I could never be able to fully imagine and comprehend what those types would find interesting, and I do not wish to spend much time thinking about it, therefore I shall continue to write in much the same way as before.

I was lying helpless there, moments from degradation and perhaps even death. Then there was another sound, that was not issued from neither him nor myself. It sounded like a low laughter to my ears. Suddenly his attention was elsewhere, he was looking towards the door and shouting commandingly at the intruder, annoyed at being disturbed. I took the chance to try to breathe more deeply. He got off me and walked in the direction of the sound. I coughed and craned my head as much as I could to see what was going on. Someone was definitely there, but who was it? They were clearly arguing, though at that time I did not care about the exact wording, I was far too busy with concentrating on trying to provide my body with oxygen. I did hear parts of their quarrel though. The unknown voice said something about a friend who would be angry if Christian had killed me, and the stranger had been there, but what it meant, I do not know.
My eyes seemed to work better than my hearing though, as they moved further into my field of vision. I know I was not quite at my best just then, but I cannot question what I saw. Though rather small and slender, not much more than a boy, the stranger was definitely a great deal stronger than him. I caught a glimpse of fear and lack of comprehension in the eyes of my assailant. He must have rather quickly surmised that he could not beat him, and so he ran off, up the stairs to the roof, followed by the slight boy. What happened up there I have no way of knowing. While I was lying helpless there, I dared not hope that I had been saved. I turned my head, straining my neck towards the sound, when at last I heard footsteps coming down the rooftop stairs. I was not ready to feel relief yet when I saw that the feet were too small to belong to him, but at least the intense desperation was leaving me.
But once again, I was lying helpless while someone studied me with an unsettling smile on his face. I did not know whether to speak or not. He called me by my name. I tried to curl up so that I would be less vulnerable. I realised that I knew his face from somewhere. It was the strangely disturbing boy I had run into a while ago. Why he should find himself in my home on this night I do not know. He sat down on the bed next to me. I more or less voluntarily tried to move as far away from him as was possible, which was unfortunately not a great deal considering I was fastened very tightly to the bed. I asked him to release me. He told me that of course he would and proceeded to seat himself across me, a leg on either side of me. When he touched me, my whole body wanted to repel him. I asked him not to. He did not comply, instead he ran his hand over my torso and all the way up into my hair. This could not be happening. That I should be saved only to suffer further disgrace by my rescuer’s hand, it was incomprehensible. He asked me a very obscene question. I wanted to throw him off of me, but my entire power had been spent on the previous struggle. As he reached down towards my groin I was ready to scream, though my throat was adamant in declaring that it was impossible at the moment, but he merely pulled up my trousers and covered me. I felt strangely grateful for that, even for all his odd behaviour and the fact that he felt the need to lick my face after he had done so. His actions made numerous questions appear, but all I could press out between my lips was the one word ‘why’. He sent me a disconcerting smile and asked me ‘why what?’. This time I was able to form an entire sentence. Why was he doing this?
He said something about looking out for his own interests, and returned to that vulgar question he had asked earlier. I mumbled that I did not know what he meant, and he elaborated in an even more repelling way. After the humiliated silence this question inspired in me, I could not do anything but plead with him to stop asking such things. He said he would let me go if I gave him a reply. Though it was horrid to have to speak of such a subject, especially with this strange boy, I at last answered in as few words as possible. I should have known it would not be so easy. His next question was even more degrading. I felt a twinge of anger rising in me through the exhaustion. I told him to stop this right now. He persisted and ran a hand through my hair. I could not hide the desperation about the whole situation from my voice, as I at last told him what he wanted to know, and asked him a question of my own. How could he know about this?
He leant down, kissed my forehead, and reminded me of those few anonymous comments I had received through this journal. The anger building in me increased and I felt ashamed beyond what I have felt in a long time. I did not want to believe that he was the person behind those odd observations. I asked him if this was all some sort of sick game to him. He said that he preferred to call it research. The tiredness threatened to take control of my body. I managed to tell him that I wished he would find another research subject. He told me not to worry, that it would all be over soon, then he caressed my neck, before finally moving to free me. At last he began to release my hands, slowly, maintaining his corporeal closeness while doing so. As my arms fell down, so terribly heavy, he nipped at my neck and thanked me for the information. When at last he was done freeing me, I curled up in a sitting position, trying to at least keep a last measure of dignity, while waiting for the feeling in my hands to return. I rubbed my wrists. He got up from the bed. It would have been more appropriate to just let him leave, but I had to ask where my torturer was. He asked me if I really wanted to know, and if it was not enough to know that he would not hurt me again. I needed to know. He said that even if he did return, it would be very unlikely that he would ever be able to hurt me again. I so wished I could believe that. I asked him if he was still up there now. The peculiar boy said that it was safe to say that he had left. I assumed that he must have used the fire escape as it is the only other way off of there, except for the stairs in my room. I lamented that the very derelict staircase had not chosen tonight to be the time to fall apart. He said that he had come down rather quickly though. I felt an unknown malicious joy in this. I supposed that I should thank this strange boy, he did save me, though he had an odd way of doing so, so I did. He said no problem, and then leant in to try to kiss me. I of course drew back my head as quickly as I could. Such odd behaviour again. He straightened up and made some offhand remark about he how he still could not see what was so special about me, made a comment about my leanness and grinned at me. I tried to cover up my torso with my hands, as well as I could. I said that I wished that some people would just realise that there is nothing exciting about me at all. As he continued to look at me and made more remarks, I turned my back on him. He asked me if that had been on purpose. At first I did not know what he was speaking of. He specified what he meant by running a nail down the pattern of scars on my back. I drew back from his touch and said that I had never been told.
He said that he was not going to hurt me. I looked at him over my shoulder, finding this information a little hard to believe, considering how he had acted just a little bit earlier, and continued to do by running a hand over my cheek. I repeated my attempts to avoid his touch and thought intently about what it was that he really wanted from me. He said that he was still looking for what it was that made me so special. I asked him why he kept calling me those things, exciting and special. I wondered who had ever given him reason to think that I am. He said that he could think of a few who thought I was, and that I might even see that myself some day. I told him that whomever they where, they were most likely mistaken. He turned from me and picked up the discarded jacket belonging to my attacker, pulling it on, expressing some musings about how it could not just be my pretty face alone. I told him, and meant it, that people have strange standards of beauty. He asked me what it was I thought he found attractive about me. As is the truth, I told him that I had not the least bit of a clue of what his reasoning was. He made some derisive comment about my body again, and returned to the subject of the proposed prettiness of my face, adding to his previous sentiments that my appeal really was my innocence. I could not quite follow his definition of innocence. What he said next made the anger return, for which I was strangely happy. He used some words in reference to my past that I could not quite cope with. He said something I believe he meant as advice, about how it would be a good idea to get some experience, become wiser and less innocent. Then I might rid myself of that fatal attraction. I did not quite understand. Perhaps he meant that there was a certain air about me that made me a preferred victim, as I have believed before. I wondered about that out loud, though I do not know why I would do so in the presence of such a confusing boy. He again said that it really was my innocence that did it. I said that then perhaps I should not hide my strength anymore. I could see that he did not understand what it was that I spoke of, and I told him that it was nothing that would matter to the likes of him. But that it consisted mostly in surviving, in showing myself strong enough to somehow deal with whatever fate handed me, and most importantly that I knew now that I was not as broken as I had once thought. Not as broken as he had thought.
He nodded at that, and told me that perhaps I should stop flinching whenever people touched me. This is one area that is not predominantly important for me to change, and I told him that I was not sure I wanted to. He said it might keep people like him from seeing me as a challenge. I wondered what he meant by people like him. I suppose he meant the same sort of twisted mind as I had encountered in other people before. I hesitantly asked him who he was. He told me that I probably would not believe it, even if he told me. I felt no inclination to listen to any of his filthy secrets, so I told him that perhaps I did not want to know then. He turned towards the door, and said that I did not believe in monsters, did I? I maintained that I still do not, adding that I probably could not be blamed if I did though. As he left he said that I certainly could not.

Flagrancy

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 12:14:47 GMT

I am safe now. But yesterday… It was so close. The event I had feared more than anything else came to pass. He found me. He bought that portrait. Through that young woman who showed up here looking uncomfortable, barely three days ago. I feel upset with myself for not realising that it was a possibility. Perhaps a tiny part of me suspected that he was behind it, but I just did not want to believe it, could not let the fear rule me. There are so many questions rotating in my head. How did he track me down… Was it through my parents? What did he really think he would get out of coming here? What could he possibly want from me now that he had not already taken?
The paint fumes were getting heavy, and my windows are totally rusted shut, so to let in the soft summer wind, I had opened both the main doors and the door at the top of the spiral staircase in my room in the late afternoon. The wind made the old metal bits creak and grate against each other. That was why I did not hear that anyone was approaching, before the slight clank of footsteps on the staircase leading to my room let me know someone was coming. I turned from the work I had been trying to do, to stop whomever it was from entering my private quarters. Just before I reached the open door, his ascending form appeared in my field of vision over the top of the stairs. I stopped in my tracks, and the world stopped too.

“Ah, there you are, Josie!” He smiled. “It’s really not very sensible to leave one’s doors open, especially in a place like this. But never mind, it is only me. I thought I‘d stop by and say hello.” He stepped past me, into my room, and turned around to face me.
“You’ve led me on quite a chase! It was not easy to find you here. I mean… who would have thought that an heir to a company worth several millions would be hiding in a place like this? And when your paintings cost a pretty penny too… One would think you‘d find more suitable accommodation.” He must have seen the question in my eyes. “Oh yes, I bought one.”
I knew exactly which one. Just two days ago and here he was.
“Why…?” My voice sounded disused, dry and slightly desperate.
“Oh, I thought it would be quite amusing to have a little piece to remember you by. It is a very good portrait, you know. Looks just like you were then…” His eyes ran down my body. “And as you are now.”
I felt paralysed.
“Oh, those lost schooldays…” He smiled at the thought. He walked nonchalantly through my room, looking at my things, his hands in his pockets. He stopped in the corner where most of my recent work is stored. He studied my paintings for a while.
“I suppose that you did have some talent after all. You did not show much promise back then… In most fields.”
My stomach turned. My jaws were tightly clenched. He resumed walking, and looked into my bathroom. A wide, disgustingly knowing smile touched with what probably in his perception counted as nostalgia covered his face. He looked up when he got to the staircase.
“Where does that go? The roof?”
I did not reply. I followed his every movement intently.
He walked back towards me, stopping at the bed. He caressed a bedpost, following its lines with his eyes and a sliding hand, until he reached the canopy and the mirror it held.
“Ah… An interesting choice of bed. Quite a lot wider than the ones we had at school…” He looked back at me. “But it fits you so very well. Very dramatic.”
All I could hear in my head was screaming. My mind was squirming, the thoughts fighting amongst themselves and drowning in their efforts to surface.
“But really, Jojo, why do you choose to live in this squalor? I thought being friends with people of refinement would mean that a bit of good taste would rub off on you. I guess you are just as ridiculously stubborn as always.”
I forced the next words over my lips, in spite of how reluctant my mouth was in moving.
“Friends…? I… do not have much experience in friendships, but saying that is so… so amazingly perverse. Torture… is not a usual ingredient in friendship, I believe.”
Here was my confrontation at last. I only hoped that I would be able to say all that I wanted to.
He did not exactly show his surprise at my answer, but I know that it was there.
“Torture…? Really, Josie, you always were somewhat on the emotional side. It really should be clear to even a person as obstinate as you that we were trying to help you. As is the proud tradition of the school.” His voice was like that of a teacher who has repeatedly tried to explain something very simple to a dense student, overbearing and slightly impatient.
It seemed that now that I had said the first sentence, more could easily follow.
“As persistently stupid as the traditions of that school are… they were no match for your abuse.”
He looked questioningly at me, a little affronted.
“You needed to be chastised. You would never follow the rules.”
“I followed a multitude of rules, real or ones you made up on the spot, to make you stop… But you just went on and on…!” And so did my words.
“It was my duty. I had no choice.”
“That is a strange definition of duty… and you had every choice! You could have stopped your cruelty at any moment!”
“Cruelty? I am appalled at your choice of words. You should not use such words without regard. It is not considered to be in good manners, as you really should know by now.” He still sounded calm, but there was tension building slowly underneath what he said.
“I believe I have every right to use that word.”
“You would have all the rights in the world by your birth, if you had only bothered to claim them!” A slight raising of an eyebrow told me of his contempt.
“Being born privileged is not a great feat, and it does not create good people.”
“Well, well, it seems you finally learned to have a civilised conversation! Even though your choice of topic is somewhat distasteful.”
I would not go so far as to call the exchange thus. But nevertheless, it was passing strange to be having an almost civilised conversation with him.
“It is the only topic we could ever have to discuss,” I told him.
“Really, Josie, don’t be so childish and absurd…” The slight air of impatience in his voice had increased.
“What is absurd is your ability to distort both the past and the present.” Yet another thing I had wanted to say.
He looked a little bit more strained. Perhaps I could even get him to advance to anger.
“I do not see any rational reason for you to be this way.”
“I can give you a multitude of reasons! Every time you hit me, every time you forced me, every time you… hurt me. Every time I look over my shoulder, every time I shy away from someone‘s touch, every time I make myself do penance in mind and body…!” Saying those things were frightening beyond belief, and I wanted to stop myself, but just having said them felt exhilarating. It was true, and I had finally allowed myself to acknowledge this. That is why what he said next seemed even stranger.
“What you made me do to you, is nothing next to what you have done to me!” His voice was very fast.
I was dumbstruck, suddenly cut short in my tirade. I could not believe that he seriously meant that, but the tone of his voice told me that he did. He looked upwards out of the windows, his hands calmly in his pockets. His face was washed in ricocheting sunset light, white and golden, as he talked.
“You would always be there, your eyes burning holes in me. In every class, at every meal. Even at night when I was alone in my room, I could feel their gaze. Nowhere was safe, not a moment’s peace. From the first day I saw you… I tried to approach you, our background was similar, we should have formed a connection, that is after all an important part of going to our school. But you insisted upon being so arrogant, wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. You refused to acknowledge me! You made me so angry. You tortured me far worse than the trifles that happened to you.” He turned his face towards me. “And you still do.” He continued. “It was cruel… After school I made up my mind to never think of you again. For a while it worked. But every time I saw a picture of myself with yet another dark haired skinny girl on my arm, it became clearer! I could not get rid of you. I saw you everywhere. But I kept it under control, I shunned the images in my mind. And then suddenly, there you were, in front of me on the street! At first, I did not know if it was a hallucination. But it was you, in the flesh… And I wanted it again, more than ever. To possess you… I could not let this deterioration happen any longer. I had to find you. To expel you from my mind once and for all…” He paused. “You‘ve ruined me…”
I stared at him in disbelief. It took all the willpower I had to make my vocal chords work.
“…I ruined…you…?”
He clasped his hands to his head, turning halfway away from me.
“Yes! I’ve tried so hard to let go! I find these girls, these beautiful, perfect girls, and everything is great for a while… Then I find myself getting angry with them for no reason, resenting them, because… Because they aren’t…” He looked at me. “You made me hurt them. Your eyes, everywhere!” He lowered his hands. His voice was icy cold now. “Nature has surely played a cruel joke on me. You should have been a girl. You’re a freak, you know that. Your rude stubborn silence, never deigning to answer, your unnatural refusal of any acknowledgement of pain. You should not exist. Your whole existence is a descent into depravity. And you’ve decided to drown me along with you.”
There was a heavy silence between us. I managed to break it.
“No… No, I am not. Do not… blame me for your own inability to cope with your… desires.” I could not believe that I had just said that. I felt stronger for just having been able to do so.
“Desires…? Desires?!? I’ve never wanted anyone but…!” His brow was looking increasingly furrowed, the tone of his voice suggesting that he had suffered a great injustice. It should have been a great joy to see him fight so unusually hard for his composure, but his words left a cold fury in me. His indignation continued.
“I have suffered beyond what I have deserved! The horror of knowing I had once again unwillingly spoken your name in a woman’s ears… Their crying faces, not understanding what they had done wrong. Because they had done nothing wrong. It was you.” He paused. “That night… It was me who called the ambulance, do you know that? I could have just left you there to die, and no one would have been the wiser!” He looked at me like I should have received an epiphany of admiration and understanding just then. Then his face closed up. “Perhaps I should have… I would have done myself a favour, not to mention the world.”
I could not let this chance pass me by.
“It is not too late. Why don’t you just kill me now? You’ve done everything else you could possibly do to break me… What is left for you now?!” Common sense seemed to have deserted me. I should have remembered what could happen if I pushed him over the edge, but right then I did not care. I needed to say these things.
He stared at me silently, a curiously sad look in his eyes.
“Oh, Joss, Joss… Why don’t you understand…?”
“… Why do you have to take that name as well…?” I shouted it. “That one is mine alone, and I have not given you the right to use it. You always had plenty of other names for me, names to demean me and keep me down!”
“…but every time I said them… I wanted to say… I meant…”
“Shut up. Shut up! I will hear no more of this! You’re as sick as ever if you have really convinced yourself of that!” Shouting felt so good.
“Sick…? I? I come here… lowering myself… Baring my… And you… You dare! You disgusting little creep! Always staring at me with those unnatural eyes, never giving me a moment’s peace! Haunting me mercilessly!” He was right in front of me in a few short strides. He hit me in the face. I saw it coming and I did not nothing to prevent it, did not cower, did not wince. I merely straightened my head again after the strike, and looked back at him.
He was panting heavily, his eyes wide open. His desperate frustration was deliciously evident. But I was too angry and determined to enjoy it. I doubt I could have anyway.
He let out a sound in between a roar and a whisper. He turned around and stalked towards the other end of the room, where he sat down hard on the edge of my bed, his face in his hands.
My thoughts seemed strangely calm and collected at this point, as they recounted the possible outcomes of this visit. They told me that he might kill me tonight. He might at any time get up from that bed, grab any heavy object and cave my skull in. Maybe if I was lucky, that would be all he did. I was standing quite close to the door. I could run. But I would probably not get very far. He might push me down the stairs and I would have made it look like an accident for him. No one would hear my cries, open door or not. Or he might also just leave without any further words and I would never hear from him again. Anything I did or did not do, could provoke a reaction from him, whatever that might be. So I just stood there, staring at him.
Then I noticed something odd. His shoulders were softly shaking. I could not believe it at first. I doubted my vision. But it was true.
How was I supposed to react to that? I should have felt triumphant, but I was bewildered. I suddenly became very scared. There was no way he would let me go now. No way he would just quietly leave. Not when I had seen him cry. I would have to suffer for that.
Yet I retained my composure. I had to do something, but all my possible options seemed to end in my imagined death. After what seemed like forever, he stopped shaking, but his hands kept covering his face.
“Come here,” he said, from behind his hands.
My first impulses told me to follow his command. How deep was the fear he had installed in me… But I remained where I was, a little victory in itself.
“Do not make me say it again.” He removed his hands from his face and straightened his back. His face was empty, no emotion showed.
I neither moved, nor replied.
“Right. You want to play it that way? Well, it’s your own fault then.” He got up, removed his jacket and opened the topmost buttons of his shirt. My muscles tensed. I tried to stand firmer, move the little weight I have to withstand an attack.
“You can keep telling yourself that, but deep down you know it is not true,” I said quietly.
He stood by the bed, looking at me. His facial expression had changed into the mask which was unreadable. It confused me. I was not sure what was coming next. I should have remembered what this face meant.
“You’re wrong. Again. I know the truth.” He walked calmly towards me. “I know what the only true thing in the world is.”
He was very near now. His eyes looked strangely young. For once they actually reflected his real age. But there seemed to be no life behind them.
“Your suffering… is the only thing that rights the world.”
His right hand grabbed my throat and slammed me up against the wall. I tried to hit his arm away as it approached, but I barely managed to sway it even slightly from its course. My head wanted to reel after the impact with the wall, but I could not afford to allow it to do so.
He pulled me upwards, my feet almost lifted off the floor. My hands clawed at his arm in vain. He had obviously not become less strong since school. I think I managed to make my face change into a snarl. I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me try to press begging words out through my suffocating larynx. I tried to kick him repeatedly, but my legs hit mostly air. He turned me around, maintaining his grip on my throat, holding back my arms with the other hand, and halfway lifted me back towards the bed. I squirmed in his grasp, trying any movement to get loose. I think I at least made it somewhat more difficult for him. The exasperation within me was rising. I knew beyond all certainty that I would much rather die than have to go through that again. The choice of death would be so much easier, even for the endless pondering over it I have gone through, and the countless times I have stepped back from it. Now that I have finally reached the road to recovery, I could not let this happen to me again.
Perhaps if he had pressed a little harder on the fragile tendons of my neck, I would have died. He let go of me, and I fell halfway onto the bed. I turned over quickly to face him. He stared at me, radiating something which was not quite hunger, and not quite righteousness, rather it was close to religiousness. I tried to lift myself up by my elbows, but his hands were there, pressing me down, and pulling at my shirt. I very nearly panicked when it covered my face. He flung it aside. His hands were opening my trousers. I tried to kick him hard in the groin, but he used his weight against me. He grasped both my wrists with one of his hands. He had the other hand down there. Something snapped in my mind.
“Admit it, you bastard! You‘re going to do it no matter if I fight or not, but surely you owe me as much as to god damn admit it!” I wheezed angrily.
He paused briefly, a slightly puzzled look in his eyes, I do not know if he was surprised that I would swear at him, or if he really did not know what I was speaking of. Perhaps engaging him in an argument would make him rethink the whole situation. It was the only solution I could think of at that moment, and I needed to consider any idea that presented itself. I went on.
“There is no reason for your violence other than the fact that you can’t deal with your own sexuality and you know it! You make it into some kind of tragic tale of your own private martyrdom, but it’s not…” He punched me in the mouth before I could continue, my blood slowly invading its hollow cavity.
“Quiet,” he said. He looked around, apparently searching for something. He felt for a belt that was not there. He swore. I struggled uselessly to get loose, once or twice managing to upset his grip slightly. He retrieved my discarded shirt, and proceeded to rip it, while his knees were resting on my upper arms, holding me still. He tied my hands to one of the bedposts with the tattered remains of the shirt. I tried to make him bind them looser than he intended, so that I might be able to slip my hands out later, by relaxing the rags of my shirt, but he tied them blood-stopping tight. His full weight was bearing down on me. The horribly familiar helplessness descended over me, but I trashed beneath him, completely resolved to this time use any ounce of strength left in my body to fight this. At least this time I would have no doubt in my mind whether I did my utmost to fight him. In case I survived it, that is, which I was at that moment very much in doubt about whether I would. His suddenly grinning face was very close to mine. I spat out blood. Some of it hit his face, but he did not stop smiling. His hand pressed down hard around my neck and throat again, my breathing becoming hoarse and shallow. I could not make out where the other hand was and I am sure I did not really want to know. Above me, my mirror twin had fallen victim to the same fate as I, panic and anger in his eyes, his blood-smeared mouth open and gasping.

Unforeseen

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 00:54:24 GMT

It has been very hot these last few days. The door from my rooms to the great hall was open, to let in some air. If it had not been, I may never have heard her. I was in my room, standing in front of my painting utensils, wondering if I would be able to pick up the brush today. There was a slight creak from the main entrance, and a voice said hello, insecurely. I went to see who it could possibly be. A slender young woman was standing in the gap of the door. She looked up at me as I appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes almost shut in a scrutinizing fashion.
“Um… Hi. Are you…” She looked at a piece of paper in her hand. “Jo… Joscelin…?” She mispronounced it.
I confirmed that I was from my place above the stairs. She appeared to be studying my features.
“Yes… Yes, of course you are. I’m here to look at your paintings. Someone recommended you to me.”
I felt surprised as I descended the stairs. I told her somewhat hesitantly that she had better come in then.
She stepped inside, and winced when the door shut behind her. She looked as if she was in her early twenties, her hair was dark, long and with a healthy shine and her clothes looked somewhat on the expensive side. She had several discrete brand tags on her jewellery and bag. Close up she was wearing a little too much makeup, though it was hard to see in the dusty light. I was unsure of where to go from here.
“Well… These are the ones I have at the moment… Was there anything in particular you were looking for?” I asked her.
She had an apprehensive look about her, as she glanced over my works.
“Um… Portraits, I think.”
“I suppose several of these could be called portraits, but… the real portraits are those over there. But they are all of me…” I could not imagine who would want a picture of me hanging around. Yet she promptly steered that way. I followed.
“Yes… I think it will be one of these.” She smiled and looked at me, studying my face. She gave me a slight smile. “They really look like you,” she said. I did not reply.
She did not take long in deciding. She chose the one where the subject is facing front with a bare torso, looking out under messy hair, shoulders hunched, and arms hanging down, vulnerable, yet defensive. I thought about not selling it to her. It was suddenly too personal. But she seemed so happy and lively, and so determined now that she had found the one she wanted.
“How much?” she asked.
I named a sum which was somewhat on the outrageous side in my opinion. But she never even blinked.
“Do you take checks?”
I nodded. I apologised for not having anything to wrap the painting in, but she shrugged, and carried it out under her arm. Lucky for her, this was not one of the very big ones. When she got to the door, she stopped and looked back at me.
“Thank you,” she said, as she stood in the open door, a curious look in her eyes. Then she left.
I wonder who recommended me. I cannot possibly think of whom it could have been. To my knowledge my mother still does not know about me selling my art, but I suppose it must have been her.
Perhaps I should set up a bank account which is all mine, where I can put the money I have earned on my work. I quite like that idea.

Peroration

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 00:38:19 GMT

I wonder where I should go from here. I am done, I think. I have bared most of the filth of my past. There are more incidents, details too horrid, which I believe I will never tell anyone about. All they could do would be to prolong mine and any possible reader’s nausea. That would be pointless, and would not add to the story, nor to the purpose of it. I have told as much as needs to be told. It has been heartrending and has brought places to life within me that I did not know could feel pain anymore.
I have not described my thoughts in such detail as I normally do, I see. There are two reasons for this. The first being that it was long ago, and the logic I adhered to at the time, I cannot always easily follow today. The other being that my mind at the time was a great, indistinguishable mass of dread. My only escape was in art, the activity that allowed me to focus completely on another world. I shut away the bad thoughts. At times, I was nearly able to forget. So consciously undoing this repression has not been easy. But if I had not reacted in that way back then, I most likely would not have survived. I would have broken completely, as I until recently thought I actually had. But now I see that I was stronger than I thought, I had not succumbed as utterly as parts of my mind would have me believe. There were still areas of my soul which belonged to me alone, and which allowed me to live through it.
During the recounting of my past, there were several pieces I had to rewrite repeatedly. The words were so crude, making what was done to me even more base and deplorable. I believe that facing the shame was the worst part of my quest. In the end I had to realise that no matter how many times I rewrote it, it would not change what had happened. It was not the words in themselves which were crude, it was the actions. Nevertheless, I could not help but tone down certain parts, underemphasize them. Yet the horror of them still sound their atrociousness so terribly loudly to my ears. I think that it was important for me to go through this process, acknowledging everything that I had tried to push away, had tried to make less important. A part of me still insists that I complain too much over nothing, but it is the same part which would have me believe that I deserved it all. I do my best not to listen to any of its arguments, however persuasive they may be. I must tell myself that it is not my shame that has been exposed, but theirs, and most particularly his. I must hold on to this thought and allow myself to get angry. Directing anger towards others in not easy for me. But if anyone in my life ever deserved my wrath, it is most decidedly him. I have made a promise to myself. Should I ever be so unfortunate to cross paths with him again, I will not keep my silence. I will not let him keep his power over me.
Looking back, reading it all put down on paper, or on a screen as it is, there are moments where it is difficult for me to understand why there was nothing I could do, if it was running away, fighting back or even just telling someone. But it was a different world, the rules of my life were not what they are today, and my mindset had been controlled, perhaps in equal parts by him and by myself, ready as I were to sink into deepest self-punishing despair. Or perhaps it was even earlier. Maybe I had been prepared for supplication, for flagellantism, by the quiet disapproval I saw in my father‘s eyes, even when I was just a child. Often I have wondered why he was so ready to dismiss me. I have yet to come up with an answer.
I have been shutting my past out of my life for years, ignoring that it had any influence, and yet it was the foundation of my existence. So will starting over mean that I must erase the personality I thought I had? I do not think that it need necessarily be so. At least I hope not. Not every aspect of the person I have been these last three years, are ones that I necessarily need to rid myself of. Whether the process I have gone though has helped me in any way, I cannot fully say yet. At least I do not have to carry all of this secret alone anymore, though it is a burden I have not wished to lay upon others.
In the very early morning I woke up. I was convinced that I saw a shadow outlined against the dawn through one of my windows. Quite an irrational thought, considering that my windows are two floors up. But nevertheless I was sure that someone was there. I lay as paralysed, unable to take my eyes off the spectre. At last I blinked, and the figure had gone. It must have been the work of shadows and half light. Perhaps an old ghost, now finally banished.

Vitriol

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 23:07:25 GMT

They thankfully did not send me back to the institution, even though my father was all for the idea. Who knows if I would ever have made it out of there this time. I heard them argue about it. But I remained there, in that room which no longer felt like it was mine, if it ever had. My mother made sure I stayed in bed for most of the time, by the help of a hired nurse. She assured me that I was very lucky I had managed to do very little damage to the nerves of my hands. If I had severed some nerves, I could have lost sensation in my fingers. I am very grateful today that this did not happen. The nurse did not think the drugs were doing me any good and discontinued my prescription. She was right. When I had recovered sufficiently, I started my walks on the harbour. It was not long after that, that I found my new home.
We smoked at school, but we never drank alcohol. I guess partly because of it being one of the religious precepts that Miriam actually respected and adhered to, but also because I did not want to lose control. I had to be aware at every moment, never letting down my guard. At family dinners I always declined. So when at last I tried alcohol, I was nineteen. It was an instigator in the one huge confrontation I have ever had with my father. I suppose I have never actually engaged in a proper conversation with him, not before then and definitely not since. During each holiday when I was home from school, I did my best to avoid him, and he was always working anyway. I had a sort of quiet hostility towards him during my school years, and it did not improve during the time I lived at home.
I will not confess myself privy to the intricate workings of the relationship of my parents. Perhaps their secret is that they do not see each other much. But they must have at some point agreed upon not having additional children. Or maybe they were not able to. That could perhaps in part explain my father’s dissatisfaction in being stuck with me.
It was my birthday. The affronted silence at dinner just became too much. So I reached out and poured myself a glass of wine, since the appropriate glass always stood at my plate to complete the setting. If they noticed, they did not say anything. The first taste was strange. Bitter and rich. I kept drinking until I found a place full of equal bitterness in myself. I discovered a strange compulsion to want to start a fight. So when my father gave me a displeased look, I jumped at the chance with a somewhat rude comment. He did not deign to reply. I would have to try harder to get this argument going. My mother asked if I did not think I had drunk enough. I told her I had many years to make up for. My father snorted slightly. I asked him if he did not think I had earned the right. He said that I had earned nothing at all. I laughed cynically.
“Oh, believe me, if anyone has earned the right of one night’s nepenthe, it is me…”
“Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, it’s pathetic,” he said calmly.
“What is pathetic is your complete inability to understand anything, your total lack of compassion,” I retorted.
My mother said my name in a shocked tone of voice. My father took the bait and continued the argument, much to my satisfaction.
“You are mistaken, I understand completely. You have wasted the school’s time and my money. We gave you every chance in the world to make something out of yourself and you wasted it on wallowing in self-pity and mindless doodling! And you have the audacity to claim you have earned anything?”
“There are other ways to make oneself worthy of something than through monetary success…Through hard work and suffering for instance…” I countered.
“Hard work!” I could see obvious disbelief in his eyes.
“There is more than one definition of hard work, sometimes it happens in the mind,” I told him in a low voice.
“You’ve never done a day of hard work in your life! And as for suffering, you’ve only gone through that which you have chosen to lay upon yourself!” He clearly meant what he was saying, which made the anger rise in me.
“Believe me, I have suffered more than you would care to imagine! You don’t know…! You don’t know what that place did to me!” I almost rose from my chair.
“That place? I assume you’re talking about the school. Do not blame the school for your dramatic tendencies. If you managed to call any negative attention to yourself, I am sure it was all your own fault! When will you learn to take responsibility for your own actions?!”
I stared at him.
“You’re always right, aren’t you, father… You have convinced yourself that what goes on in your world, is the same as what happens in everyone else’s… Is it really so hard to imagine that everything is not all my fault, that I was not born a disappointment, that what happened to me at that school broke me…? And as for responsibility, you need not worry in that respect. Be assured that I‘ve taken what is most likely more than my share of responsibility upon me…”
“Stop this incessant complaining! I spent some of the best years of my childhood there! It made me the man I am today!” He had continued eating until this point, but now he put down his cutlery.
“Ah… You sent me there so that they could make a proper man out of me… But they made something very different, I don’t know what… You tell me…” I sent a venomous and unfamiliar smile at him.
“It is not their fault that you’re a failure!” It was a relief to finally see the repulsion come to the surface.
“Yes… Yes, in your eyes I am… I couldn’t even graduate from school, could I? Couldn‘t even manage to kill myself properly. Then what am I good for?!”
“You could have graduated. If you had only contained your ridiculous anxiety for another few months, everything would have been fine!” He was quite certain of this as well.
“Fine…? A few months would not change all the abuse I was subjected to…” My voice was close to a whisper now, though not weak in any way.
“Oh, stop your emotionality! A firm hand is not abuse! I’m sure that nothing happened to you that I have not also once experienced, and I have never once felt the inclination to hurt myself ever!”
I could not help but laugh at the absurd idea of my father going through the same experience as I had. I could not stop laughing. I laughed until my stomach ached. My father got up and left, almost turning his chair over. My mother just sat there, her face carved in stone, her mouth opened just a little bit, as if she had been about to say something. When I finally stopped laughing, I got up dizzily and made my way to the front door. My mother called out to ask me where I was going. I did not reply. It was winter and the cold was as acrid as the bile in my stomach. Thankfully I managed to reach out for my coat as I made my way out.
I walked down the wide, quiet roads of the wealthy neighbourhood, until I reached the street that leads all the way into the city. I turned down it and kept walking. At first the warmth of rage and the exhilaration of finally getting some things out in the open kept my head relatively clear. But the wine showed its effect in the unsteadiness of my steps. Yet I kept walking. There was a hint of sickness somewhere in the back of my throat, which I ignored, fascinated as I was by this new perception of the world. Everything moved a few seconds slower, each movement making the world flow past my eyes like a sluggish panoramic film clip. The frost sparkled and crackled in a different way, the sound was off, muted and metallic. The occasional piece of gravel or uneven flagstone on the uptown sidewalks upset my balance, but I sort of enjoyed the stumble and slow regaining of drunken equilibrium. As I walked down the inner city streets, it was so easy to ignore the people who walked past me, their voices becoming unimportant in their low and incomprehensible drone. If anyone commented upon me or my appearance, I neither noticed nor cared.
People were standing in lines on the sidewalk. People were dancing in the streets. People were shouting. People were fighting. I did not care. I walked all through the night. Through my dreamlike state, a voice told me that I could not lie there and sleep. I seem to remember moving. But whether that only happened in my imagination, or whether it was reality, I do not know. I had not truly comprehended that I had been asleep until I was woken by the touch of a couple of policemen and the harsh blinking light from their car. I had no identification on me, so they brought be along, asking me my name and where I lived. Through the haziness of my mind, I contemplated telling them I was homeless. Then they might put me in a cell for the night. But I mumbled my address. I think they exchanged a doubtful glance when they heard the postal code, but they must have decided to try it out anyway, because at some point I found myself outside my parents house. I wish I had been sober enough to properly see my father’s face, when he opened the door, and found me, held up by two policemen. One of them told him that they were sorry to bother him at such an early hour, and asked him if I was his son. I am somewhat sure that he took a moment to reply, but in the end he must have decided that it would be even more of a disgrace to deny it, when they would most likely find out later, than to admit to me being his progeny. I think he apologised to them for their trouble as I wobbled inside. He closed the door behind me and said my name, in his usual tone of voice but almost softly. I ignored him and walked unsteadily to my room, falling on the bed and sleeping with all my clothes on.
I was sick for weeks. Neither my mother nor my father confronted me with what had happened. I am sure they did not want a repeat of the discussion we had that evening. To some degree I do understand how they could avoid noticing that there was anything wrong with me. I was after all, always a quiet child, an introvert. How could they know anything had changed... But then again, they never cared enough to find out.

Respite

Fri, 08 Jun 2007 01:39:28 GMT

I woke up properly a week or two later. At first, I was in a normal hospital, in an emergency ward. I had several broken ribs and my jaw was fractured. The belt marks were faint, but still showed on my neck. My underarms were heavily bandaged, so I did not know at first whether I would be scarred or not. As for any other injuries, the pain had thankfully disappeared while I slept. Faces drifted in and out of my vision, medical staff and my parents. They watched me with pity and quiet disapproval. I was on quite a lot of drugs, but I remember seeing Miriam’s face once, I think. Perhaps it was just a dream or a memory.
When I became stable, they transferred me to a mental institution. I was relieved at getting away from the school, and I could not quite believe that it had happened at last. I did my best to forget. It was not until I had been there for a while that I discovered how much my broken self had craved this break. Not as in my body, though it healed slowly, but my mind. At school I was too busy just surviving to consider how I would function under different circumstances. I think that realisation was close to the only thing I achieved there, which was actually useful to me. Though I did never leave this break, I just stayed in that mental state, being content in it, as it merged into repression. Until recently.
I found out that Miriam had been allowed to stay on for the finals after all. Perhaps I was enough of a sacrifice for him, and so he talked the headmaster into reversing the judgment. Maybe he was even under the twisted misconception that allowing her to stay would somehow undo all that he had done to me. Though I doubt he has ever thought that he has made even one mistake in his entire life. I saw a picture of all the graduates in a local newspaper that my mother brought me. Somehow she had gotten the idea that it would cheer me up. Miriam was there, wearing the hat of the graduates, but unlike the rest of the people in the picture, she did not have a big smile on her face. It was relieving that she looked unhurt. He was there too, of course, standing in the middle of the image, holding court, a slender dark-haired girl from our year whom I recognized as another heiress, on his arm. He was listed in the article as having graduated with honours.
My mother came to see me a few times, but she always left very quickly. The place made her uncomfortable. I understood from what she did not say how disappointed my father was in me. I had known that he was for a very long time, but failing to graduate from his old school was somehow worse in his eyes, than attempted suicide. Though both were completely incomprehensible to him.
During most of the time I spent in the institution, I was in therapy for my supposed suicide attempt. It is sort of morbidly amusing that I never actually tried, until after I had been at the institution. How the school ever managed to explain all my injuries as self-caused, I will probably never know. But it must have demanded a wonder of public relations, not to mention the work it would have taken them to quiet down the rumours that most have flown around at the school. I suppose they explained most of my injuries as having been caused by the rightful chastisement I had received, which may have gone a little too far. And then they saw the belt and the slashed wrists as signs of me having tried to kill myself afterwards.
I rejected any pretence of accepting the therapy in any way, and therefore it had no effect. I spent a lot of my time at the institution painting, as this was greatly encouraged. After six months of painting and otherwise of uselessness, I moved back home. I had been on medication for a while. But to my knowledge the only effect was that I became more tired and lethargic. I could not be bothered to take it and I could not be bothered to stop.
I avoided my father at all times, and he treated me the same way. The few times that I knew he was sure to be home, I would go walking. All he had to say to me would be questions about when I was going to finish my studies, and all I felt for him was quiet blame. I could almost feel sorry for my mother just then. But then she would do something like telling me that she had seen a classmate of mine at a premiere, or she would leave a magazine with pictures from it open, and I hated her for unconsciously making me remember. He was in the tabloids now and then, some skinny young girl or other clinging to him. His family’s claim to fame was typical of those depicted in that kind of magazine, where being ennobled means instant interest. Adding the facts that he was young and rich made him one of their perfect subjects. My mother more than once called him handsome. It makes me queasy just to write that.
I had thought about it for a long time, in particular the methods and the differences between them. Pills were too easy, in a way. Jumping in front of trains too inaesthetic. Guns hard to come by and perhaps… too final, though I would not have admitted it at the time. The sea fascinated me, but having the water filling my lungs, strangling me, would make it feel all too obvious that he had won. Knives and blades of any kind I could not get myself to touch. I had a special relationship to tall places then as well. But in the end, it was the marble bathroom in my parents’ house that triggered it.
The mirror of extraordinary proportions in particular. It called me back to the countless times I had looked into my own puffed up face with loathing and tried to make myself look presentable. There was a large marble soap holder on the counter. It took three throws before I managed to break the mirror, and even then, I only managed to smash concentric rings of cracks in it. But it was enough to make some long shards come loose. They were not near sharp enough, and I had to press very hard to get them to pierce my skin properly, reaching for the arteries and veins below the surface. Three long gashes along each wrist, on top of the thin white scars I already had. The only thought that filled my skull was that he had been killing me for so long, that I might as well finish what he had started.
My mother must have heard the thumps on the mirror, because she was shaking the door handle.
“Is everything ok…?” she asked. There was silence for a while, while she waited for me to answer. Then she spoke again.
“Are you ok, darling?”
I decided to reply.
“No… I haven’t been ok for a long time.”
There was a slight pause before she talked again.
“Is there anything I can do…?”
There were so many things she could have done, but it was far too late now. Far too late to ask that question, and it made the bile rise within me.
“Yeah, you can piss off and leave me to die in peace!”
The silence was stunned this time.
“Jojo!!” she said loudly, the shock apparent in her voice.
“Never call me that, ever again!” I shouted.
“Oh my god, what have you done!” she cried piercingly. I could hear her frantically searching for her phone. I ignored the actual image of myself in the remains of the mirror, and found an odd sort of enjoyment in seeing the crimson red slowly stain the immaculate white tones of the bathroom.
She had found the phone. I could hear her shrill voice through the door, even though I could not hear what she was saying. She must have finished her call, because she was calling for the maid in a desperate voice. By the addition of her voice I concluded that she arrived soon after, joined by the gardener, who pounded at the door, trying to break it down.
I stayed upright at long as I could, taking in the colour around and below me. By the time he had broken in the door, I had fallen to the floor. I remember seeing my mother behind him, as he knelt down beside me, her shocked face half-covered by her hands. The ambulance must have arrived soon after, but I had passed out by then.

Solarization, part III

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 01:14:45 GMT

That affected him like I had never been able to before.
“What are you saying? That’s preposterous! How dare you say such a thing to me?!” He stood up suddenly.
It was such a satisfaction to see him lose his composure. I am sure he must have been fighting hard all day to seem unaffected by the rumours that were going around, whatever they were. But this was too much for him to handle. Maybe he was even shocked that I would rebel against him so openly. But not as shocked as to not take action.
“I think everyone will agree that I’ve been very patient with you, but this time you’re out of line!”
He told his friends to seize me. They more or less dragged me out of the common room, while I struggled and shouted. Right then I did not care about decorum and what people thought about me. I am sure that most people in there actually agreed that I had been out of line, and therefore raised no objections to it. After all, he was the house prefect, and it was his right and duty to chastise me. He quickly followed us down the hall. My feet sought to complicate matters for them, holding on to the floor, as I refused to go quietly. They stopped in front of his room.
“No, not there!” He hissed. “His room!”
We reached my door. He grabbed my throat, just under the jawbone, pulling my face upwards.
“Where’s the key?”
I looked as defiantly as I could manage into his eyes and did not reply.
“Search him!” he ordered.
They ran their clumsy hands over my body until they found what they were looking for. Unfortunately I had kept the keys in the pocket of my trousers instead of in the jacket that I was no longer wearing. They pushed me inside and he turned on the light. Someone closed the door, and locked it. I had fallen to the floor, and I crawled away from them quickly, towards the wall. He was regarding my decorations.
“So this is what it looks like, your holiest of holies. It suits you. It’s as much of a raging mess as you are.”
He appeared to have become calmer, now that I could not embarrass him in public anymore. He stepped past me and pulled the curtains in front of the window. I got up, making the decision not to just lie there and be kicked this time, and he turned towards me. His fist hit my abdomen before I had time to react. I almost doubled over. I did not have a moment to recover before the next punch hit. I was determined to fight him, but it was a lost cause. He deflected my pitiful excuses for blows easily, pressing out sentences through clenched teeth between each time he hit me. His voice was stern and accusatory.
“How dare you?!” He hit me again.
“After all I’ve done for you…” Again.
“…you choose to repay me like this?!” Again and again and again.
“You’re the faggot!" He hissed.
I was on the floor next to the bed now. He began to kick me. This time he did not care where he hurt me or whether it left any marks.
“You should not have talked!” Pain exploded in my gut.
“Did I not warn you sufficiently?!” Quickly followed by more agony.
“If this ruins anything for me, then…” This was not just not holding back.
“…so help me God, I will kill you!” This was his version of uncontrolled rage, though his face was strangely blank. It went on for a while, I have no way of knowing how long. But it was long enough to make me lose any inclination to fight.
“…Christian…? Don’t you think…?” I seemed to hear one of his friends say.
“Get out!” He shouted at them. “Keep a lookout!”
There was a slight pause, and I heard the door open and close. He went away for a couple of moments, and I imagined that I heard the key being turned in the lock.
“I didn’t… tell…” I whispered. I tried to look up, and was rewarded with a boot to my face. I think I gasped at that, for the first time since we had entered my room.
“Disgusting,” he snarled. He took hold of me by the throat and held my face and neck upwards over the edge of the bed, my back bending at an almost unnatural angle. Blood was running into my mouth, and I felt like it could choke me at any moment. He was standing over me, his face mere inches away from mine. His expression was new and unreadable, his brow slightly furrowed, but his eyes betraying no emotion, no thoughts. Not to me at least. To think that I would find myself wishing he would wear his usual smile that I detested so much, instead of this terrifying expression. A detached half-bemused observation entered my mind. Was he about to kiss me just then…? He never had before.
“Unworthy,” he spat out. He ripped out his belt and strapped it tightly around my neck. He pulled me onto the bed by it and a firm grip in my school shirt, now hopelessly ruined, and turned me over, tightening the belt behind me. Mercifully, I think I the lack of oxygen made me pass out through most of it. Afterwards, when he cut my wrists, I was so far away that I could hardly discern it from the rest of the pain.

Solarization, part II

Tue, 05 Jun 2007 12:34:41 GMT

I pick up my post at the local post office every once in a while. I do not receive a lot of letters. But there was one today. It had apparently been forwarded by my mother, since it was addressed to my name, poste restante at the local postal code. The paper was a faint off-white and of a nice quality. I opened it with some anticipation as I walked down the stone stairs of the post office. It would have been understandable if I had reacted to its contents by letting out a gasp or if I had sat down suddenly, but I could not do anything. It was an alumni reunion invitation, and it was signed by him. I wanted to throw the loathsome thing away, but I could not let go of it.
I felt a tinge of gratefulness towards my mother for not having returned it to sender with my present address. It is not registered anywhere, there is no way he could find out if not through my mother.
…but what if he finds this journal? There is too much information here. Even though I have been quite careful not to mention any place by name, he should be able to deduce far too much about my place of residence. And he would most likely not be able to leave me alone, if he reads what I have written about him.
I suppose he is not likely to ever find it. But… If he does, he will know that I will not keep quiet anymore.
Not even about what happened that last day.

“Really, you should know better by now than to tell such lies. And so soon before the final exams too!”
He was standing in front of me, his unbelievably well-concealed agitation showing in a tenseness of his limbs, arms across his chest, if not in the tone of his voice. I was huddled against the cold white tiles of the bathroom wall again. One last time.
“Your insignificant little friend will be expelled, you know. I’ll see to that. She won’t graduate.” This cold, glossed over, displeased anger had always frightened me more than the apparent rage, which would have been natural to find in other people, could possibly have. He smiled.
“The headmaster of course did not believe a word the fat little upstart said. He could hardly get those despicable untruths across his lips. But nevertheless it could well be a blemish on my perfect record. Saying such things about a prefect! I know I have taught you better than that. I fail to comprehend why you deemed this necessary.” He vocalised every word clearly and thoroughly.
“Perhaps I will have to teach her a lesson before she is kicked out. It would not be responsible to allow her to go through life believing that it is proper to slander honourable people.”
I looked up for the first time, both to see to which degree he believed himself to be such a person, though I already knew exactly by which standards he measured himself, but also because the thought of him hurting Miriam was repulsive beyond all horror.
“Oh, you wouldn’t like that, would you? Well, it’s for her own good.” The conviction in his voice sickened me.
He turned around and left the bathroom. I was so surprised that he was not going to hurt me that I could hardly move for a few seconds. But the fear-induced adrenaline made me recover. I could hear their footsteps receding down the hall. I sneaked after them as quickly as I could and making as little noise as possible. I had to warn her somehow. They left the main building and thankfully headed towards our house. I turned towards the girls’ dormitories, avoiding the glances of the other students walking across the lawn. I felt a pang of shame and anxiety in my stomach at the thought of whether everyone had heard an inkling of these rumours, the content of which was hidden from me. To this day I still do not know what everyone was saying. I stood outside her house for a moment. Boys and girls were allowed to enter each others houses during the day, but I didn’t really feel comfortable in doing so. Yet I had to. I entered and quickly made my way towards her room. But as I was about to pass their common room, a girl from our year stepped into the hallway in front of me. I recognized her as their house prefect.
“What are you doing here?” She asked.
“I’m.. I’m here to see… Miriam.”
“She’s confined to her room, headmaster’s orders. You can’t see her! Now get out.”
I contemplated running past her, but I would not be able to make it far before she called for help. Besides, if she was locked in her room, she was relatively safe. Now I just had to keep them away.
I had completely forgotten about my appointment with the headmaster. The sudden insistent ringing of the bell reminded me. I thought about simply not going, but I knew there would be repercussions. So I went. I noticed a few curious glances my way from my fellow students who were making their way to classes, when I walked down the hall to the headmaster’s office. I knocked on the heavy oak door, and only just then remembered that I had forgotten my school jacket in the bathroom along with my books. I did my best to look presentable.
“Enter!” said a muffled voice from within. I obeyed.
“You are late.” He sat in his tall-backed chair, just looking at me. I looked down into the thick carpet that threatened to swallow me at any moment. I wished it would.
“Well, Mr. …” He always called us by our surnames. “I hear you have been telling stories. Frankly, I do not approve of having a quiet evening disturbed by young impressionable girls shouting at me. Neither do I find joy in wasting the morning on such a distasteful matter.” He stared at me over his glasses again.
“So…? Explain yourself, boy!”
I had no words in my mind just then. None that I could get across my lips in front of him, anyway.
“Have you or have you not been telling that young lady that Christian A., a fine student and a prefect no less, has been bullying and beating you for years…? ”
He mentioned his title as well, but his given name is as much as I can write here.
I studied the carpet intensely.
“…no.” I managed to answer. It was true, after a fashion. I had not told her in words.
“The young lady seemed to be under the impression that not only had he done that, he had also done actions so unspeakable with you than I cannot bring myself to utter them!”
More silence. I cringed when I noticed the little ‘with’ instead of ‘to’.
“I knew, of course, that it was a vile pack of lies, and should I ever have had any doubts they were most certainly dispelled by the young man himself, as he stood just where you are standing now, earlier this morning. He is a true and proper student of this school, his honour and friendliness showing in every aspect of his character! To think that such a thing could happen at this school…”
I am able to fully recall the pattern of that carpet even today, maintaining my face frozen in a perfect mask of no sentiment at all.
“So am I to conclude that you deny having ever said such things?”
After a moment, I nodded.
“Very well then. I have no choice but to expel the young lady. Such horrible slander… It really has no place here.”
I looked up. I wanted to say something to make him change his mind. But there was nothing I could do.
“You should watch yourself for the remainder of the school year. You may not have been involved in this little incident, but your classmates may not necessarily feel the same. Mr. A. is a very popular student, as I am sure you know. Dismissed.”
I should not have gone free. It was my surname again, I am sure. Perhaps he even suspected that there was some truth to this matter, but thought that if he expelled me, I would tell. I felt guilty for not standing up for Miriam, but I just could not tell him the truth. He would not have believed me, whatever I had said, anyway.
I did not go to math class after this, I went straight back to the girls’ dormitories.
I spent the rest of the day in the woods by her house, watching for them. But they did not come. After nightfall I went closer, so that I would be able to see through the dark. But still they did not come. I was not wearing my jacket and though the lower temperatures have long been a dear friend to me, the spring evening was chilling me to my bones.
In the end I had no choice. I went back to my house. I stood as paralysed outside. I did not know what to do. But a sudden and unfamiliar rage-tinted determination arose in me.
I did not realise until that moment that I had been crying. I must have looked quite a picture as I walked into the common room, my eyes red, my face drawn, and the dirt and leaves of the forest on my clothes. The fire was lit in the fireplace, and people were sitting in the soft chairs, talking. As did C. and his court.
I said something.
A few people heard me and turned their heads. The silence rippled through the room.
I nearly shouted it as I went towards him.

Solarization, part I

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 22:30:22 GMT

I have been contemplating the other possible outcomes. I suppose it could have just faded away, through having continued for the few months that were left, then I would have graduated and gone back to living with my parents. I might never have seen him again. Or more likely, he would have shown up at my door one day, all smiles and charm, and I would not have been strong enough to turn him away. But it is of no importance to be thinking about this, because what happened was very far from this indeed.
There were quiet periods, where they almost left me alone. As we went through our daily lives, there were many moments where I had no occasion to be particularly concerned about them. Yet they were always there, in the back of my mind, and they would always be present somewhere, in their physical form.
Miriam and I would try to find seats in the back whenever we had to go to church, since neither of us belonged to the protestant denomination, and we both found the religious proceedings ridiculous, because no one took them seriously. They were just a tradition to sit through with almost petrified faces and pretended attentiveness. He would be there, and he would glance backwards once, barely finding me, and in his smile, I knew he had perfect control of where I was and what I did.
I saw them sitting on the benches on warm autumn days, or the first days of spring, surrounded by whichever girls were doting on them at the moment. He would not turn his attention away from his admirers, but by inclining his head or the slightest movement of a hand, he asserted his power over me.
Sometimes I caught his eye over the crowds while he was in animated conversation with a group of people. He never changed his amiable expression, or his friendly smile, but there was no mistaking the message he intended for me. A promise of suffering to come.
He was always unnaturally composed. Few things could upset him, at least not to the degree of anger one would find in anyone with conventional thought patterns, anyone sane. He was as careful and articulate while tearing my skin with those well-manicured fingernails as he was the next moment when he would be talking about politics or finances with his friends, while I cleaned myself up in front of the mirrors.
They always seemed so careful never to hurt me too much where it could not easily be explained, as in any areas of skin not normally covered by clothing. I think he even experimented with how hard he could hit me without leaving bruises. But one time in the spring near the end of our twelfth and final year, he had gotten carried away, and my lower lip had ruptured. Miriam had been very patient with me since our discussion in the library, and even after what had happened at the ball, hardly ever voicing the questions I could see reflected in her face. But I guess this was too much. We were smoking on the edge of the woods, talking about anything else than my bruises. Though I had no way of knowing it at the time, that was the last time I saw her and my last night at the school. She seemed very calm. I should have known.
Right after we had said goodnight, she went to the headmaster, as I found out later. I never told her anything explicitly at all, but she must have guessed. She was not stupid. The signs were not always as well hidden as I would have liked. Judging by the reaction of the headmaster and my tormentor, she had told him more than just about me being beat up. This he would most likely just have dismissed as what healthy boys do, and what was his right as a prefect, and there would probably not have been made a case out of it, apart from a chastisement of Miriam for interfering in matters that did not concern her. But it turned out quite differently.
I overheard rumours of what she had done the next morning during the first class of the day, from the people sitting in front of me. We were in the classroom on the third floor. Apparently she had burst right into the headmaster’s living room, at a time when she should have been in her house. Then she had proceeded to tell him all kinds of stories, but what they were, the students in front of me appeared not to know. But I saw them throwing glances in my direction, so they knew it had something to do with me. It hit me like a physical blow what subject they were unknowingly discussing. I felt stunned, it was hard to breathe and I could not concentrate on anything but the strange hissing sound in my ears.
I looked towards the desks along the windows on the right side of the room. He was not in class this morning. I had a cold hard lump of fear and apprehension mixed with hope in my stomach. When the class was nearly over, he entered silently. He walked up to the teacher, whispering while he gave him a note, and then found his seat. He never once looked in my direction. I could see his friends bending their heads towards him, most likely to hear what the headmaster had wanted, for I learned later that he had been to see him, but he brushed them off with a movement of his hand. As the class drew to a close I became increasingly nervous. No matter what, I had to get out of there before them. I had my things packed long before the bell sounded. Then the most horrid thing that could possibly have happened at that moment took place. The teacher called my name.
“Joscelin, could I see you after class, please?”
I thought about just running out of there, but someone would probably step in my way. I had no choice but to comply. When the class was dismissed, I remained frozen in my seat. He did not look at me as he passed, and neither did his friends. When the room was empty, I picked up my books and walked up to the teacher.
“The headmaster wants to see you before the end of the recess.” He looked at me curiously, probably wondering what I had perpetrated. “Here’s a note, explaining this to your math teacher.”
I nodded, and turned around. The door to the classroom was closed. I had no way of knowing if they were out there. I must have stood there long enough for the teacher to wonder what I was doing.
“Well, what are you waiting for? You’d better get going,” the teacher said.
I began walking. Suddenly it seemed like the door was miles away. I hesitated again when I put my hand on the handle of the door. I contemplated if there was anything I could possibly say to the teacher, that would make him leave with me or let me stay. But I could not think of anything. So I pressed down on the handle and entered the hallway.
For a second I thought I was safe. But then the closing door revealed one of them standing behind it, and the other one came out of the bathroom. They had grabbed me and thrown me into the bathroom before I could make a sound. The door slammed behind me. He was standing in there, leaning against the wall, arms across his chest. He shook his head.

Saltation

Thu, 31 May 2007 21:38:10 GMT

I could go right to the end now, but I think this one should be included. There is something significant about this episode, though I am not yet quite sure what it is exactly.
The midwinter ball was the great and compulsory tradition of year twelve. I had just turned 18. I went with Miriam, just as friends of course. It was a formal event, and everyone was decked out in their finest. Miriam tried hard, but she just did not feel comfortable in ball gowns. She looked awkward. We must indeed have looked an odd couple, her in as fitting a dress as she had been able to find, and me in a suit my mother had bought me, which was of good quality, I suppose, but a little too big. People strode into the great hall in couples, enjoying their seconds in the doorway, when everyone would be looking at them. Miriam and I walked through as fast and inconspicuously as we could. She had wanted to take her time, and look proud and defiant before everyone, but I managed to make her understand how important it was for me not to attract any attention. We found a place in a corner. Everyone was supposed to dance, but thankfully we were able to sneak out of it. I suppose we would have messed up their pretty picture anyway. The rehearsals had been bad enough.
From the moment we entered the room I had been very aware of where they were. I followed him with my eyes through the crowd, dancing impeccably with his date, a pretty blond girl from our year.
We entertained ourselves with making bitter remarks about our classmates, or rather Miriam made most of the comments and I laughed. It made the evening close to bearable. Until he cast his inevitable attention upon us. They mingled their way towards us. This was one of the few times that alcohol was allowed at the school. He had a champagne glass in his hand.
“There you are, Josie! We missed your performance in the dance… You should show your date a better time, after all the trouble she went through to prepare herself for the ball.” He turned his eyes on Miriam, smiling mock-charmingly.
“You look… smashing.” Her face reddened, and anger showed in a shakiness of the sides of her mouth. He continued. Nothing could ever get him to stop talking.
“Very lucky that they had a dress in your size. And a suit in yours too, Josie. Though perhaps you should have opted for a dress as well. You might have succeeded in actually looking like a girl.”
His friends laughed. His date looked slightly embarrassed, but smiled anyway. Miriam tensed and made a slight movement. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“There, there, miss… Don’t cause a scene now. Please remember what happened the last time you lost your temper.“ That remark was meant more as a warning for me than for her.
“Also, I am a prefect now, as you would do well to remember. I shall not hesitate to exact precisely the right measure of punishment, should that little incident repeat itself.” He sipped from his glass, looking at me.
“You’ve forgotten to provide your date with refreshments too. Oh Josie, will you ever learn…” He shook his head. “Come with us, there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.”
I came along. For several different reasons, I think. I did not want to cause trouble for Miriam, and I most ardently did not want to repeat the bridge incident. The other reason was because he told me to, though it still makes me mortified to admit it.
I know that Miriam was hurt that I walked with them without a word to her, but I could not have done it any other way.
I followed them to a table across the room. He handed me a glass, and waited for me to drink. I pretended to, letting the sparkling liquid barely touch my lips. There was no way I was going to let him get me drunk. He had apparently had more luck in getting his date intoxicated. She was giggling like a fool. He had a friendlily condescending air towards her, perhaps touched by impatience.
I was standing in a large group of people and saw no escape. They were talking and laughing over my head, having apparently forgotten about me. On both sides of the great hall there was a gallery one floor up, with a view over the room. They were reached by small, almost hidden staircases in the corners. I was clutching my glass, and waiting for whatever was going to happen next. So when he turned halfway towards me and nodded in the direction of the door of the staircase, I knew it was an order for me. I considered running, losing myself in the crowd. But I knew he would be watching me sharply. So I excused myself to those people I needed to pass, and went there. When I reached the gallery I paused by the balustrade. I looked down at the cheerful people. Miriam had remained in the corner across the room, her arms crossed over her chest. She must have been watching me, and noticed that I had ascended the stairs, because she met my gaze right away. She was obviously and rightfully upset with me, but she caught the quiet pleading in my eyes that was meant for her. She had a questioning look which turned to anger right as I felt him step up behind me, placing a hand on the back of my neck and playing with my hair. He steered me behind one of the pillars, and smiled down at me.
“Did you enjoy the champagne? I found it quite invigorating.” His one hand was clasping my chin and jaws, and the other was under my jacket. Mine were firmly pressed against the cold marble behind me.
“I told you not to hang around with her anymore… Why do you persist in doing such things?” His speech was slightly slurred. I realised that he was somewhat affected by the alcohol.
His skin felt very warm. He pressed his hips against mine, his hand sliding down my shirt towards the line of my trousers. I wanted to say please, not here, but I denied my own pathetic inclination to beg. His breath blew warmly over my neck as he leaned over me. What was this strange unknown softness about his touch?
“Christian…?” A voice behind him. It was his date, a perplexed expression on her face. It was doubtful how much she actually saw, as we were mostly covered by his back, but he quickly drew back his hands and turned around. He said her name and gave her one of his most blinding smiles. She smiled shyly back at him. He pulled her into an embrace. I saw my chance to leave, stepping around them as fast as I could. As I went down the stairs, I turned around quickly and caught his eyes over her shoulder as they kissed. They were staring right into mine with a curious expression in them.
Miriam met me below the stairs, quickly pulling me away and out of the hall. We stopped in an empty classroom. She told me that she had informed his date of where he was. She had an air about her of knowing, but I looked away. I was infinitely thankful for what she had done. But though I knew she must by then have had more than a vague idea about what was going on, I could not tell her.
In the end, she was the one who told.

Animus Revertendi

Wed, 30 May 2007 21:03:49 GMT

After we returned from the summer holidays, the first event of the school year was the appointment of the new prefects. There was one for each house, all chosen among students of the class which was to graduate that year. It was not a surprise to anyone that C. had been chosen.
Something about this made me rebellious. I guess I did not want him too feel too secure in his position. I knew he would abuse it anyway, so I might as well feel that I had done something worthy of the punishment I would be dealt. Again I underestimated the extent he would go to.

This time I had disobeyed a direct order given in front of others. Actually it was several. I do not recall everything, but I do remember a few examples. He told me not to run in the hallways, which I had not really done, though I admit that I walked quite fast. I ignored him. He told me not to make a shortcut through the rose garden, through the bushes. I ignored him. I did not ask to be excused from the dinner table and ignored him when he told me to come back and do so. Each time there were several other people present, so he could take no immediate action. But as I left the table that evening, he stood up slowly, in front of everyone and told me that he would take no more of my insolence.
The prefects had their own office or meeting room of sorts, in the main building, on the little used third floor. It was typically wainscoted with dark wood, was furnished with a great long table and thick carpets. At the end of the table was a group of chairs and a sofa in front of a large fireplace. He had the key to this room.
I had been told to be there at a certain time, later that same evening. I knew he would make me wait, so I did not bother to be there on time, yet I still arrived before him. But he must have been watching from somewhere, because he knew I had not been there the entire time. He scolded me for it. He was carrying a tray with coffee, which he told me to hold, while he unlocked the door. When we entered, he nodded at the coffee table to signify that I was to put the tray there, which I did. He sat down in a tall-backed chair and poured up coffee for himself.
“Light a fire.”
I was confused as how to do so, but I tried. He looked at my preparations in silence. After several tries, I managed to get a somewhat proper fire going. He set aside his coffee cup and got up from his chair. He chose a poker from a rack by the fireplace, and preceded to rustle it apparently aimlessly about in the fire. I just stood there. He left the poker lying halfway into the fire, and stood there looking down at it for a while. Then he picked up the other two and arranged them in the same way. It dawned on me what he had in mind. He sat down again, and poured himself another cup. I remained in the same position, staring into the fire. It was getting darker outside. He did not say a word. Very slowly the iron took on a tinge of dark deep red along the edges. I had no illusions about the pain I was going to suffer. It would no doubt be excruciating. I made up my mind to do my best not to scream. No one would hear me anyway, it was getting late, and everyone would have left the main building. Besides, we were on the largely disused third floor, behind thick age-old stone walls and a heavy oak door. It would be useless, and I had another reason to be silent as well.
“You know what to do.”
Pretending ignorance would only delay the pain, not prevent it. I removed all clothing from my upper body. He had taken off his own jacket, and bent to find a pair of gloves in its pockets. He rolled up his sleeves and put on the gloves. This had been planned. He looked at me calculatingly.
“Will I need to tie you up?”
I honestly did not know. I shook my head.
He picked up the poker which had been put in the fire first, and went to stand behind me. I stood still, with my arms hanging down. The anticipation was awful. But if I thought that was terrible, it was nothing against the pain of the glowing metal. He ran the point of the poker slowly down over my spine. My skin sizzled nauseatingly, a rank burnt smell invading my nose. At that moment it was worse than anything he had ever done before. I could not keep my silence, but it was at least not a proper scream. Neither could I keep my body from moving instinctively away from the source of pain.
“Don’t move!”
I tried hard to steady myself. But when he repeated the same movement, my legs buckled and I fell to my knees.
“Very well. Are you going to stay in that position then?” He waited for a reply that I could not give, since I was busy concentrating deeply on breathing so that I would not scream. He stepped in front of my vision and pulled my face upwards by my hair.
“Are you?” He slapped me.
“I… don’t know.” I managed. I honestly did not.
“That’s not a proper reply. A gentleman must keep his resolve at all times.” He walked behind me again. The third time he moved the poker down along my spine, I crouched down on the floor, opening my mouth in a still silent scream. He made a small sound of discontent.
“Get up.”
I could not at that moment. The pain took too long to leave, and my mind could not perceive anything else while it was present.
“Do you hear me? Get up!”
I slowly began to rise, limb by limb.
“Are you going to stay standing this time or am I going to have to tie you up?”
I straightened my back as much as I was able to, and stared into the carpet.
“You’re going to stand…? I have my doubts about that, but we shall see…”
He exchanged the poker for another. This time it did not make it past the third vertebra, before my body tried to escape.
“Yes, that’s what I thought… You’re so disappointingly weak, Josie.” He sighed. “What will we have to do then?”
He had moved in front of me again. He slapped my face hard.
“I said; what are we going to have to do?” He grabbed me by my chin, and moved the poker close to my face.
I knew what he wanted me to say.
“You’re… going to have to tie me up.”
He nodded.
“Yes… See how much easier everything is if you just listen to me? To the table.”
I turned around and stumbled over to it.
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as he said. He ran a length of rope from one of my wrists, under the heavy table and over to the other, and tied it tightly around it. I was fully aware of how defenceless I was, lying there. But if I ever thought I could defend myself at any given time, I was deceiving myself. He loosened my trousers. I was almost relieved at the prospect of him already getting to this point, so he would not burn my skin again. But he moved away. I could only see him from out the corner of my eye from this position. He picked up a poker again. I hoped he would soon tire of them. This time he ran it horizontally first over my right shoulder blade, then over my left. I bit down hard on my lip. He continued in this way, slowly, in some intricate pattern down my back. I screamed in my throat, my lips closed tightly, my jaws clenched. Then he went away to change pokers again. I heard the faint ceramic tinkle of a coffee cup being put down. I allowed myself to gasp and breathe during the short break. He returned to the trail he had made down my spine. This time I could do nothing but scream. He just continued. And he did not stop tracing it along the ridge, moving lower. I managed to rear my head from the table, and beg him to stop. He looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
“Is that too much for you…? Well, I am reasonable. All you have to do is to desist in being so persistently stubborn all the time, and I will stop right now.”
I was not sure what he meant.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Your ridiculous insistence to never let a sound pass your lips, not allowing your body to feel what it does… Just let go… You know you have no control anyway.”
Well, if what it took to make him stop burning me, was my screams, then this time scream I would. He ran his fingers down the wounds of my back to encourage further sound. I felt so sullied by having complied with his wishes, even if it were such an comparatively small and easy thing. What made it so revolting, was that I could clearly feel how much he enjoyed it.
Leaning down over me, his shirt sticking in my wounds, he whispered.
“You are mine, do you hear me…? You will do as you are told.”
Afterwards, he released me from the ropes. Behind me, he cleaned up and put out the fire. My legs felt terribly weak as I tried to walk. I put on my clothes again, trying hard to ignore the ache these movements caused. He put his pullover and jacket on, to mask the stains on his shirt. He opened the door for me, and waited for me to leave. I walked so excruciatingly slowly. When I reached the door, he sighed, closed and locked the door behind us, and then grabbed hold of my arm, placed it over his shoulders, and proceeded to help me along the dark hallway and down the stairs. I wanted to remove myself from him, but I couldn’t find the strength to do so. When we reached the main doors, he let go of me, turned to me and looked at me strangely.
“Do try to walk with a little more dignity when you reach our house, just in case anyone is there. You wouldn’t want them to think any less of you than they already do.”
He left, walking much faster than I was able to. I was strangely grateful for that, then I would not have to spend anymore time in his company that night. There were a few people left in the common room as I entered. I walked with as much concentrated composure as I was able to. They hardly even glanced at me.
The scars were difficult to hide. Every movement induced great pain, when the slightest motion seemed to cause my skin to slide over the underlying bones and tissue. Whenever I leant back in a chair after it had happened, I would feel it. I could only sleep facing downwards. It continued like this for a long time, reminding me that I did not belong to myself. I am sure that is why he did it. But no one noticed. Thankfully, not even Miriam.

Thermalgesia

Tue, 29 May 2007 00:51:15 GMT

It was cold out in the woods during the winter months, even wearing the heavy woollen coat that was school issue. Sometimes I would go and visit Miriam, but the curfew was quite restrictive and in any case I did not feel too comfortable in entering and leaving her house. Besides, we could not smoke there. And the cold did not really bother me, so it was mostly for her sake.
I had abandoned entering my house through the washing room, as it did not make a difference anyway. Of course they were not always to be found in the common room when I walked through, and if they were, they did not always talk to me. But just the thought of seeing them, even when it was only for a few seconds, was enough to make me dread it. The sense of imminent danger that I had in their presence overwhelmed my senses. They were in there that winter day, along with a few other students. The fire was lit. I had almost made it through the room, when he called out.
“Oh, Josie, you’ve forgotten to wipe your feet again…!”
I stopped instantly, staring into the air in front of me, making no reply.
“Have you been out in the woods with the brown cow again?” It was the tall one. He knew he could say such things in front of his friends, as neither me nor Miriam was held in any high regard, so he would not be considered unseemly by them. His other friend added to the no doubt highly amusing conversation.
“She your girlfriend, Josie?”
They laughed. There were several musings about Miriam and I as a proposed couple, each adding to the hilarity. I have not bothered to try to remember exactly what was said, as it is irrelevant. But one sentence I do recall.
“I wonder who is on top?!” They were lost in laughter.
I turned my head towards them at that, a speck of anger that I could not conceal glaring at them through my eyes.
He said nothing, did not partake in the general amusement, but he smiled as he looked at me. I quickly looked away, and withdrew to my room. Later he knocked at my door. There was no question in my mind that it was him. He had tried this once or twice before, but this was one place that I could still govern, and I was determined that he would never enter, even if it did cost me severe punishment later.

The immediate surroundings of the school was made up of a park, mainly marked by straight lines. A small creek runs through it and into the remains of the moat which had long ago fallen into disuse. It is a world so very different from the one I live in today, in outwards appearance anyway. The forest encroached on the edge of the park. Just within the woods, a small stone bridge crossed the creek.
It was after a particularly humiliating physical education class. I had been sent away, or allowed to leave early, depending on how one looked at it. I was told that I ruined the concentration of my fellow team members. Instead of walking the direct way back to the school, I took the way through the woods. I halted my steps on the bridge, stopping over the water. I looked into it, the creek twirling and distorting my features. Pulling them apart, and putting them back together again. It felt oddly calming. The creek was not very deep. It would have been a ridiculous way to try to end it. Miriam found me there, some time later. I knew it was her by the sound of her steps. She leant over the stone wall next to me. We stood there in silence for a while, except for the soft murmur of the water running over pebbles below us. Then she spoke.
“Let’s leave. Run away. Right now. We won’t even get our stuff, we’ll just go!”
Oh, how I wanted to. For an instant I thought it was possible for me to agree. If we were lucky, we could be in the city before anyone knew that we were missing. But what then? We could not hide forever. And I knew she had obligations to her family, that she wanted to prove herself capable of meeting their scholarly expectations. When they found us, I would be sent back to the school, there was no question about it. My father would take it as a personal affront and defeat, if I did not graduate from his old school. He would easily be able to donate away any doubt the headmaster could possibly have in taking me back. And when they sent me back, everything would become much worse. Though I did not have the heart nor stomach to even try to imagine how it could get any worse.
In any case, the fragile, fleeting moment where our escape could have become reality had passed. She sighed.
We heard the steps on the gravel path at the same time. She looked up. I had no need to turn around, I could tell who was approaching by her grim expression.
“Come on, let’s go!” She pulled me by my sleeve. The sound of his voice intercepted our escape. At his first word, my body halted, not by its own volition.
“What’s your hurry, Josie? We were just coming to check up on you.”
Miriam tried drag me away by my sports shirt again.
“There, there, miss. Don’t ruin school property now.” He was standing right next to me now, almost facing her.
“You mustn’t let your lack of skills in sports dismay you, Josie. I’m sure that even you will discover that you have a talent or two one day…”
“Leave him alone,” Miriam said.
He put one arm on my right shoulder.
“Have I in any way implied that we want to do anything but help dear Josie…? Well, that is of course all we had in mind.” His mouth was very close to my ear as he said this. Miriam let go of my shirt. She needed both her hands free for what she did next. She went at him, and would perhaps even have broken his nose with a well-placed punch, had he not intercepted her arm. I think perhaps that it was lucky for her that he did, though the fantasy of his broken nose almost made me smile. Lucky for us both. For a fraction of a moment it seemed that she had the upper hand. A twitch of a struggle showed near his eye. But he repelled her. She stepped back the moment he let go of her arm. His friends had been leaning on the bridge behind us, but at the moment of Miriam’s charge they had come to his aid. He signalled at them to stand back.
“Tempers, miss! Where in the world does such aggression stem from? You really should try your best to control it. Lucky for you that I am not a prefect for a few months yet, or you would have been sent packing right this instant!” Though his voice was almost serious, it was clear to me that he was enjoying this game. I knew I would have to pay for her attempt at rebellion later.
“As it is, I could not possibly consider reporting such a dear friend of Josie’s.” He tousled my hair.
“You leave him alone, you bastard!” She shouted in his face. His friends stepped forward again.
“Miriam… please…” To my surprise it was my own voice, quietly pleading with her. She looked at me with confusion saturating her features.
“See? Josephine knows we’re only thinking of what is best for him. But really… Such language. You can certainly not have learned it here. Perhaps you’re quite in need of tutelage yourself.”
My head snapped towards him. He looked down into my eyes.
“No? Well, it seems that Josie is defending you. And after all, we do reserve our guidance to a very select few, and you… just wouldn’t be appropriate. Besides, I think we will have to focus quite intensely on Josie’s education, if we are to make anything out of him. It is my firm judgement that he is very much in need of it.”
Right then, I wished that I had run away, no matter what the consequences might have been. He continued.
“In fact I think we had better make arrangements for a session right now. Let’s see… Tonight, after dinner. You can wait for us in the common room. Well, it’s a deal then!” He smiled. “See you later, Josie!”
They walked leisurely towards the school. I remained standing there. Miriam looked at me. I could feel her anger, confusion and sadness. But she knew me well enough not to speak. She reached out to comfort me, but I reacted by instinct and avoided her touch. I could see that this hurt her, but I could not have done it differently. When they were out of sight, we walked back to the school, slowly and silently. We said goodbye without words in front of my house. They were sitting in the common room when I walked through, but they were in fast, animated conversation, and did not look at me nor say anything to or about me. I spent the afternoon in my room trying not to think about the evening to come.
At dinner Miriam whispered to me, as we passed by each other, that she would come and visit me that evening, thus obstructing their plans, whatever they were. But I managed to convey the importance of her absence to her, without telling her the reason why. Her presence would only delay the inevitable, and perhaps transfer some of the torment to her, at some point. I had to bear it alone.
After dinner I went to the common room, and sat down. A few students looked at me with curiosity. I was not a usual sight in there. They made me wait. When they finally arrived, they did not enter, but stood in the door. He sent me an almost imperceptive nod, signalling that I was to follow them. I obeyed. They walked in front of me, leading me outside. Dusk was falling, quickly drawing darkness down with it. They were talking softly about other things. It struck me how bizarre it was that I was just mindlessly trailing after them, knowing what would most likely be waiting. They took the gravel path into the woods. They stopped on the bridge. I stopped at the same time, a few paces from where the path became stone paving.
“Come here,” he commanded. I hesitated, obeyed too slowly, and he nodded at one of his friends to fetch me. He grasped my arm firmly and pulled me out on the bridge to where they were standing.
“Give us your cigarettes. Come on, we know you’ve got them!”
I got out the almost new package I had kept in my inner pocket. One of his friends took it with a small exclamation of joy. He handed one to each of the others. C. nodded towards me, so he offered me one as well. I looked away.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
“Fire?” He reached into my pocket, found a lighter and lit all their cigarettes. C. inhaled deeply and looked at me.
“Well, it is obvious that you did not manage to gain anything from the lecture you received last year about smoking on school grounds… But that is not what tonight’s lesson is about. Tonight…” He exhaled, “we are going to discuss how to choose the appropriate company for one’s social standing.”
I had just known that this was going to be about Miriam.
“You see,” he was walking around me, “however kind and charitable it is to associate yourself with that fat cow, even you should be able to see that she is a very bad influence on you. Who knows, she might even undo all the hard training we have bestowed upon you. We would be very much amiss if we were to let that happen. Even you can see the sense of that, can’t you?”
It was not meant to be a question, and I did not reply, I merely looked down into the stone paving. He sighed, as if he had a duty to do that he did not really want to perform.
“Take off your jacket, shirt and tie. Do remember to fold them nicely.”
I did as I was told, praying that they would let me keep my trousers. Though the day had been warm, the spring evening was quite chilling. My prayers were for the moment heard. He had finished his cigarette while I did this and signalled for another. He was leaning against the low stone wall. He looked at me. His face was partly obscured by the increasing darkness, but the glow of the lighter showed me a self-content, somewhat sadistic smile, lurking in a corner of his mouth, as he inhaled the smoke. I wished intensely that it would instantly turn to grey, gritty cancer in his lungs.
“Guys…” He nodded towards me. I tried to make myself smaller, hiding any soft spots deeper. When they tired of hitting me, I was crouching down, on my knees on the cold stone slabs. He got up from his half-seat of leaning on the stone wall. I kept my head down, but I am sure he was looking at me. He crouched down and spoke softly into my ear.
“That was to teach you to listen to your betters and shun those who are of no consequence.” He stood up straight.
“Right. You guys can go home and enjoy some well-earned rest now. I have a few more things to say to Josie. Leave the cigarettes.“ His friend threw the package and the lighter to him. They disappeared into the dark. My eyes had slowly become accustomed to the night, but all I could focus on at that moment was the ember of the burning cigarette in his hand.
“Now I have another lesson for you… Get up.”
I got up slowly. He inhaled. His voice had a hoarseness it had not had a moment ago. He had walked around me and was now standing in front of me again. He studied the cigarette in his hand and proceeded to precisely and deliberately burn my chest with it. I fought hard not to make any sound.
“Listen closely now. If that stupid dyke ever tries to lay her filthy hands on me again, I will do the same to her and worse.” He said this as calmly and without feeling as had he been reciting the headlines of a newspaper. With great care and accuracy he chose a variety of places of my torso, back and front, to burn, all of them normally covered by clothing. When the cigarette was extinguished, he simply lit another.
When one is subjected to large amounts of persistent, overwhelming agony, I have found that there are at least two ways that you and your body will react in. Sometimes the pain runs together, and becomes a constant mass which is so much a part of you that it can somehow easier be overlooked, though of course with great difficulty. At other times it just keeps building until you cannot bear it any longer. This was one of those times. Each time the ember moved close to my skin, a thin but powerful stinging sensation reached its threads deep into me. I had proudly kept my silence, but in the end I think I let out the slightest gasp. He pushed me suddenly towards the low stone wall of the bridge. It left abrasions on my hip bones. I could not see the creek now, but I could still hear it. It had a sadder sound.
When he left, he threw the package with the few remaining cigarettes at me. I smoked all the ones that were left, sitting there with my back against the bridge. All over my torso little circular blisters had already appeared. After a week they had become red angry sores. They faded slowly, but it did not bother me. I never looked at myself in the mirror anyway. One would think I would have stopped smoking after this, but I did not. I did not stop being friends with Miriam either, though I tried harder to keep our friendship less noticeable. I would not allow him to take neither the bad habit nor the good person from me.

Quarry

Fri, 25 May 2007 22:35:46 GMT

There was more to the story I told some days ago. I wish I could just sum it all up into the little word disgusting and move on. But if it was that easy, I would have done so a long time ago.

I could not avoid accompanying my mother outside again, but I managed to steer her away from the front of the crowd. The hunters rode in, preceded by the yelps of the hounds. One had a fox corpse hanging from his saddle, and some of them had their cheeks bloodied to show that they had ridden with the hunt for the first time. People cheered and congratulated them. He jumped off his horse. He was not wearing his helmet and the wind had ruffled his hair. I saw several girls and women looking admiringly at him, among them my mother. His father looked proud and put his arm around his shoulders. The refreshments in the great hall were announced and people went back inside. I kept to the back of the crowd, hoping that this time I would be able to lose my mother. But to no avail, as she held onto my arm tightly. Inside, people were forming little groups around the hunters. My mother thankfully let go of my arm, and while she found someone to talk to, I found the table of refreshments, and stood behind it, pretending that I could not be seen. I noticed with horror that the particular group which my mother was talking to, included him and his parents. They were all laughing and chatting away. She pointed to me once, apparently telling his parents which one was her son. She waved at me to come over, but I ignored it. At last the headmaster told the hunters to go get changed for dinner. They filed out, to more cheering and clapping. I waited by the table for a while. My mother’s attention had been caught by the conversation she was engaging in and she had turned her back to the door. I saw my chance to leave, and let dinner be dinner. There were limits to how much of this I could take. I walked as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself. All was quiet in the cool, dark entrance hall. I had made it halfway past the side of the staircase, when a voice spoke from under it.
“Your mother is quite a pretty little thing. I can see where you get your effeminacy from.”
For once I did not feel petrified. I ran, but in a few short steps he caught up with me.
“Manners again, Jojo! You would think I had taught you nothing!” He forced my arms upwards behind my back and steered me back the way we had come. In my thoughts I begged that we were not going under the stairs, and for once my prayers were heard. I guess he did not want to take that risk when his parents were close by. He opened a side door that I had not noticed before, being, as it were, almost indiscernible from the mahogany woodwork panels on the wall. He pushed me inside. It was quite a small room, almost closet sized. There were shelves along the walls, and buckets, brooms and other cleaning utensils. He closed the door behind us, and I turned around and faced him. He was still in his riding gear. He raised the riding crop and used it to lift my chin.
“Yes, the kinship is striking, though I must say she looks a lot healthier. You should take better care of yourself. Take off your jacket.”
I hesitated too long, and he a made a movement as if to hit me in the face with the whip. I winced and raised my hand to my face to deflect the possible blow. He smiled at this. I complied and removed my jacket.
“Your jumper, shirt and tie as well.”
I obeyed, moving as slowly as I dared with the buttons. He had taken off his red jacket, but kept the crop. He studied me for a while. I tried to cover my chest with my arms.
“Well, that is one area that you are not remotely similar in. Your mother is, shall we say, rather more ample. Turn around.”
I knew what was coming, I tensed and clung to the shelves. He waited just long enough between lashes to disrupt the rhythm, so that I could not prepare myself for the next. I did not let out any sound, apart from the occasional gasp. I could hear his breathing getting heavier. At last he stopped. His mouth was close to my ear and he spoke softly.
“I know of one more thing you have in common with her… You're both positively gagging for it.”
I flung myself around and went for the throat, but it was no use. He quickly had me pinned against the shelves. To compare me with her in such a despicable way. It was unbearable. Even if what he said was an obvious falsehood.
“Oh, you know that I'm right. She was practically screaming how much she wanted me. It was ridiculous, really. Old whore. I bet she wishes that it was her in here with me right now.”
He strapped my hands together with my own tie and pushed my head down.
“It's probably too much to ask for from you, but you really should at least try make an effort to make up for your obvious shortcomings. Don't disappoint me, if you know what's best for you.” He held my head by my hair.
At some point I heard people begin to leave the great hall to go to the dining hall. He tensed up for a moment, then pressed my head further down to make me continue.
Then at last it was over. His hand slid off my head and over my back. The lashes must have cut open an old wound, because he had blood on his fingers. He smiled and smeared it on his cheek in a mock gesture of what had happened with the hunters earlier.
He had stashed a change of clothes in there for himself. He changed before he untied me, and then looked at me while I got dressed, making comments about the state of my uniform and how unfittingly crumpled my tie was. He listened at the door to make sure no one was in the entrance hall. When he was satisfied that there was no one there, he ran a hand through his hair, opened the door, and we left. It was strange to walk next to the person that I hated the most in the entire universe, and know that I could do nothing. As we entered the dining room, he put his arm over my shoulder, like we were old friends.
The tables had been arranged in little groups for this event. My mother had to my horror found a table with his parents and they had saved two seats for us. I felt like vomiting just at the thought of having to eat sitting next to him. His father greeted us.
“There you are, boys! We were wondering where you'd gotten to.”
“I just showed Joscelin today's catch!” He pulled out a chair for me and sat down. The menu was made up of game in its entirety. I could not get a bite down.
“Jojo never had much of an appetite!” My mother shared. “I never knew how to get him to gain a few pounds.”
“Oh, please do not worry about that! We're making sure that he gets more than enough to eat here.” He said with his honest smile. The sick feeling in my stomach got worse. Each word made the humiliation cut deeper into me.
His mother remarked disapprovingly on the thin stripe of blood on his face. She spoke with a bit of an accent.
“Oh, do let the boy enjoy his first proper hunt, my dear!” His father said.
The dinner went on forever, while I looked into my plate. They exchanged unending pleasantries. When everyone had enjoyed their dessert, it was time for the guests to leave. I quickly walked my mother to her car. She did not seem to want to leave, complaining that she had not said goodbye to that delightful young friend of mine. I did not stay to wave at her as she left. I stalked through the woods to the safety of my room. I spent an hour in my bathroom retching.

Heritage

Mon, 21 May 2007 22:06:12 GMT

During the last few days I have felt an acute need to take a break from all of this. I am not giving up, please do not think that I am, far from it. I just needed to sit on my roof, and empty my mind, erase any thoughts in meditation on the curlicues of cigarette smoke against the eternally blue sky. It is good to lie there on the gritty surface and lose myself in it. I wish I could stay up there forever.
In the end, I decided to come down again. I am trying to convince myself that there is not so much left now. Perhaps somehow I will be able to get it over with faster than I had originally planned. I hope so, though the sheer burden of each word weighs heavily on me.
I mentioned my father in passing in the last part I told of the story, but otherwise my parents have not taken a large share of sentences from out the disarray of my mind. I find that there are several reasons for that. One would think that they could have made more of a difference for me at that time, seeing as I was a child. But I did not see much of my parents during those years at school. I went home for the holidays and the odd weekend, but my father would be working as always, and my mother would maintain that friendly distance she calls love. At the few times I would see my father, he would ask me why my grades were dropping, and berate me for not treating my education with the seriousness that it deserved. We have never been close and had in fact not engaged in one single conversation that I recall which was longer than a few minutes until a couple of years ago. But though we were not a typical family in closeness as in many other topics, I am still not sure why I could not let them know exactly what was happening to me. But seeing as I did not feel their presence much during that state of my life, they are of course not frequent characters in my narration. Another reason might be that I cannot allow the resentment I may or may not be feeling towards them to take place before more important issues. They will have to wait.

Each year of attending that old school saw different traditions and ceremonies, some of which called for the presence of parents. My mother attended some of these, decked out in her expensive clothes. In the early autumn of year eleven, a traditional foxhunt was on. This archaic practise is still insisted vehemently upon by the school. It is not illegal in this country. The event itself was reserved for students from year ten and upwards, so everyone else had gone home for the weekend. So had Miriam. My mother had her first cosmetic surgery done earlier that year. By the reaction of my classmates, I conclude that she looked attractive to them. She seemed very young that day. I was standing in the courtyard with her, while she was making a few adjustments to how I wore my uniform and commenting on how much I had grown. I did not have a hunting certificate, nor did I see what pleasure could be derived from hurting defenceless animals, so we were standing in a crowd of people, waiting for the hunters to take off. At last the hunting party strode out of the great main door, dressed in their red, black and white. I was not surprised when three of them walked in our direction, all blazing smiles. He had his helmet under one arm and a riding crop in the hand of the other.
“Oh, Joscelin! There you are, we’ve been looking for you everywhere. Are you sure you are not going to join the hunt?”
I declined in a whisper, amazed that he actually managed to call me by my real name.
“Jojo, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” It was my mother. I said nothing. I noticed his friends exchange a glance. They were saving that nickname for later.
“Do show your mother what excellent manners you’ve learned here!” He beamed at her. My eyes caught the slightest flicker of his right hand holding the whip. I had to introduce them. So I did, though I felt sick to my stomach for doing so.
“…and you must be Joscelin’s mother. Might I say, this day and weather were made for you, you look magnificent, if I may be so bold.”
She was eating this up. He continued.
“It is no wonder that Joscelin speaks of you with such care and devotion in his voice. Though now that I meet you, I wonder why he doesn’t praise you at every chance he gets.”
She blushed and giggled. I could have killed her just then. But at that moment, she was the lesser of two evils.
She thanked him girlishly for the compliments and they continued their disgusting flirtation, while I stared at the ground. At last the horn sounded, and it was time for the hunters to mount their horses. He took his leave and even bent to kiss her hand as he was doing so. As he made to get on his horse, a handsome couple who must have been in their mid-fifties approached him to bid him good luck. They were clearly his parents. He shook hands with his father. Then the hunters were off. I was determined not to be there when they returned.
My mother wanted me to give her a tour of the school, like a lot of the other students did. So I did. As we walked through the rooms of the school, I wanted to scream out what had happened to me there. But I kept to platitudes. Mr. G. was in the art room. He gave my mother a friendly greeting.
“Joss is one of the most talented students I’ve had the joy of teaching in long time. He really should be allowed to develop his talents. I gave him free use of the art room, but I’ve noticed that he doesn’t come in her so often anymore…” They both looked at me. I looked away. I think my mother was torn between basking in his praise for me or being completely bewildered that I had any talent in that direction, but she thanked him and made some comment that did not commit her to anything. We continued the tour. She asked to see my room, but I lied and told her that women were not allowed inside the boys’ houses. We joined the other parents in the great hall, where refreshments were being set out. I tried to creep away then, but saw no opportunity to do so. My mother was talking to the headmaster. I heard something about him calling me a very serious boy, no talent for sports unlike his father, unfortunately. Then the sounds of the hunting horns made their way into the room, and everyone hurried outside to greet them. I lingered, trying to lose my mother in the crowd. She was clearly enjoying this. But just as I was turning to walk up the wide stairs, away from the entrance, she turned around and called for me.
“Jojo, you’re going to miss the excitement!”
That was exactly what I was trying to do.

Insurgency

Thu, 17 May 2007 22:40:37 GMT

I am once again fighting the strong urge to delete it all. I want to turn it all off, never to think of it again. It seems so pointless. At certain times it seems that there is only humiliation in this. No matter what I do, it will never be satisfactory. I ask myself why I even bother, and almost manage to convince myself that I really must be dense. I cannot convey what I feel and think. I cannot make anyone understand. And what is the point of that anyway… How can the understanding of others really make anything better? It will change nothing. The only medium that has ever slightly helped me through is painting. But I feel such a strong distaste for that right now, that I cannot even lift the brush. I fail again. And I will repeatedly, until perhaps one day I learn whatever it is that the universe is trying to make me perceive. Or until I perish. I have long believed that the latter will come first.
The deep-set feeling of guilt is devouring me. How to combat it? I am deeply torn between the need to let everything out and the anguish I suffer when subjected to the memories and the unwanted attentions of others, in particular their views on those events of my past, the recollection of which is both my salvation and my undoing. I have been asking myself if I should continue, after that strange person left yet another comment on my last entry, assuming that it is indeed the same perpetrator.
Though I am in great conflict, I still think that I must.
Once before have I had my thoughts exposed and ridiculed by a person not in the least worthy of them. When C. got hold of my notebook. I had been keeping it in the inner pocket of my jacket. The way he almost always made me take if off, kept the notebook hidden for a long time. But it was discovered, I do not remember exactly how, if it was because the jacket fell to the floor with an odd sound or because he grabbed at it, and felt the cover of the book under his hand, as my attention was elsewhere, directed at that place inside me that controlled my silence. But he found it and leafed through it, looking at my sketches and scribbles, choosing some to read out aloud, causing much amusement to his friends. He made me beg him to return it, but he did not do so, even though I humbled myself completely and utterly.
I must hold onto the thought that today I am different. Today I think I know that there is a choice. I must not believe my mind when it tells me it is all an illusion. Through the agony, it feels good to notice that I have changed. There are things I did or did not do then, that I would never let myself be pressured into now. Even when threatened with the same degree of violence as I was then, or even death, I think. Where does this strange undercurrent of strength come from, I wonder? Perhaps to some extent there is a touch of truth in the words that what does not kill you makes you stronger. If I can go on writing after this, then I will be able to finish it, I think.

This is not exactly a happy part of my story. But at least there is hope hidden within it, and an assurance meant for myself that I did actually do something to make a difference, even if it was useless.
There were a few good moments at the school. All those quiet summer evenings, smoking amongst the trees. There I felt almost as safe as was possible, and when I could forget the ever-present fear and sense of danger, there was always something calming about Miriam and those few tranquil hours. But eventually someone had to notice all those trips into the woods, and they came looking for us.
That evening Miriam asked me where my notebook was. She was the only one I had ever shown it to and she had noticed that I did not carry it around with me anymore. I dared not buy a new one and do so again. I told her I had left it at home during the summer holidays. She did not reply, though I think she knew I was lying. The silences between us had always been comfortable, and on that evening it gained an extra positive quality, though it may not have seemed so at first. Because we were quiet, we heard them approaching from far off. They tried to soften their steps, but the rustling of last years dry leaves and the occasional breaking branch betrayed them. I quickly looked at Miriam. She pointed upwards into a tree, one with abundant foliage, some ten metres from us. I climbed as fast as I could. We made it up to a safe height before they were within seeing range, each still with a cigarette between our lips. We could hear them talking fast in low voices. They were looking around down there. One of them noticed some discarded cigarette stubs, and pointed them out. They looked up into the nearby trees. It was lucky that we had not climbed into one of the nearest ones. He hissed something at his friends and they all disappeared further into the woods. When we were certain they were far away, we laughed in exhilaration. They did not find us. But we had to find a new spot to go to smoke after that.
Little moments like that one emboldened me, gave me a touch of defiance. Even if it was only evident in just refusing to acknowledge their presence or the pain. But it would never last. And it would make no difference, except to create an added incentive for him to increase the torture. But in the fleeting second when he met my eyes and was surprised at my defiance, then it was worth it. For an instant he would look undecided. Then his face would clear up in anticipation of thinking up the next torture, in planning the next step of breaking me, and he would smile. He enjoyed the challenge. And then the next period of compliance would begin, for I would not give him this challenge, would not provide another source for his enjoyment and satisfaction. But the passivity was useless as well, it would only further his perseverance to provoke a reaction from me. I could do nothing. I could change nothing. I had no power and my will was irrelevant.
I had a definite plan at some point, which was to do something that would get me kicked out of school. Then my father would not easily be able to send me back. I thought about it for a long time, pondering possible crimes to commit. But most of them would only earn me a reprimand. I would have to repeatedly trespass to gain any hope of getting sent home. And would I be able to follow through with it for long enough to achieve the desired result? Or would his chastisement for each sin beat me down before then? For he would of course take any such action against the school as a personal insult.
I tried. They were small things, like not handing in assignments, making a mess of my uniform, causing damage to school property and the like, but they were multitudinous. Yet all it earned me was some appointments with my house supervisor, punishment from the prefect at the time, and more bruises. My father had of course been notified, and I had to face his discontent the next time I was at home. But in some strange way it was worth it all, even if it did not have the outcome I had hoped for.
An odd little notion, but one to hold on to.

Dissimulation

Wed, 16 May 2007 01:30:02 GMT

Difficult as it is, there is some strange relief tied to this entire process. Whenever I finish some little part of this story, I experience a brief momentary almost physical sensation of having just a little bit of weight removed, from my shoulders or from my mind. Had it not been for this, I doubt I would have made it as far as I have. I wonder if it will continue to be enough.
Someone wrote an anonymous comment on my last entry. I cannot think of who it could be, if I am to imagine that it is anyone of any relevance. Perhaps I should just write it off as someone who randomly dropped by, though the way that I have chosen to keep my journal does not exactly encourage accidental guests.
This brought back yet another sudden blow of shame and resentment for myself for telling. That people will know, even if it is just some passer-by of no importance, is so demanding of my conscience. It is difficult for me especially because the story is only going to increase in being appalling from now on.
This person thought that there was something that I was missing. I am sure that statement can be considered true in some way. But as I have written before, there are things, reasons, lurking just out of my peripheral vision, that I cannot yet find the will to chase. No one can make this journey for me, nor can anyone hand me all the answers on a plate, but I appreciate the support that certain people lend me. Much more than I can say. Your words helped me immensely, they were exactly what I needed just then. To anyone else who should find themselves reading this, be they accidental visitors or someone with a hidden purpose, I can only say that if your intent is not to be of assistance, I would prefer if you would keep your opinions to yourselves. In fact I would prefer if replies and comments were only left by those who have received permission to do so.

And so I struggle onwards with the reasons for my distress and exhaustion.

From year ten I had a room by myself, with a lock on the door. I spent a lot of time there. I made it my own. I drew and wrote on the walls, not to be rebellious in some commonplace teenage way, but to protect myself, I think. There was cleaning staff freely available, but I chose to do that myself, just to keep my room as extremely private as I could. I felt comparatively safe there. But sometimes I had no choice but to venture outside. I had to pass through the house common room, where most of the inhabitants gathered during the afternoon and evenings, to get to my quarters. From bitter experience I knew exactly when it was risky to leave and enter. If I had by some misfortune arrived back at the house later than they had, I would often wait in the woods outside, until I could see the lights turn on in his room, or until I saw him leave. That is when I started smoking. To pass the time and quieten my nerves, I guess. The walk down to the village to buy cigarettes also meant time away from the school.
Though that winter was horrid, something happened in January which was to relieve my constant bleak feeling of subjection. Miriam enrolled in the school. She approached me, of course, it could never have been the other way around. How she saw through my jittery, muttering responses, and found that she wanted to spend time with me, is a mystery to me. Perhaps she quickly surmised that I was as much of an outsider as herself, and therefore we should be acquainted with each other. But I hope that the reason was rather that she sensed some kind of kinship of spirit or mind between us.
Actually our friendship started because of cigarettes. I dropped my lighter from my pocket one day and she picked it up for me. She asked me if I smoked and if she could have one. Normally I would not have given myself away like that, smoking being heavily frowned upon and punished, but there was a safe feeling about her, and I had noticed that she did not seem on friendly terms with the type of students that I abhorred. So she followed me to a place between the buildings where we would not easily be seen. I usually went there between classes on those days where I could not abstain from nicotine until the evening. In those five minutes the beginning of our friendship was formed. After that Miriam often joined me in the forest, where I had a little spot to which I would often go to smoke. Being a girl, she was in a different house, but she gladly walked over the lawns in the evening to keep me company. At least those hours between classes and bedtime did not seem so long when she was there.
After a while I started using the washing room entrance to my house, instead of the front door, leaving small pieces of wood lodged in the door frame to make sure that the door did not close all the way. Then I would not even have to look at any of them, as I was able to avoid the common room when I used this entrance. But that did not last either.
One spring evening they were waiting for me there. He must have been watching me, noticing that I never seemed to pass through the common room anymore. I saw the light go on in his room from my hideout at the edge of the woods, so I believed myself to be in no danger. But as I sneaked into the darkness of the washing room and closed the door behind me, bright fluorescent light suddenly washed over all the white household appliances. I spun around. They were nonchalantly leaning on the washing machines and counters. I flung out my hand to grasp at the door handle behind me, but the door had locked itself when it closed.
“Why are you using the servants’ entrance, Josephine? We have a perfectly adequate door round the front, you know… And what are you doing out of your bed after curfew?”
I kept my silence, as I did whenever I could. He slipped off the counter and walked towards me. “You smell like cigarettes.” He sniffed the air as he walked around me. I am sure he must have noticed many times before.
“Our school has a no smoking policy, as I’m sure you know. That is yet another one rule broken. I notice that your hair is getting a bit long again. Want us to help you cut it?”
I turned my face away, anticipating his next move.
“Well? Answer when people talk to you!” He slapped me hard across my cheek. I was torn between replying like he wanted me to so that he would not hit me again, or defying him in this tiny little way by keeping my silence, thus in his mind forcing him to strike me repeatedly. But I needed not concern myself with this question, because he did something else. He grabbed hold of my chin, thrusting my face upwards.
“Guys, go get a pair of scissors for Josie.”
My eyes widened before I could stop them. I could not go through that again. I am not sure why. Compared to the other things he had done to me, cutting my hair was no particular invasion. But still I felt so certain at that moment that I could not bear it.
“N-no!” My voice, coarse with disuse and smoke.
“Oh, so you do have the faculty of speech! It’s school regulations, you know, your hair is too long.” He had a common sense, matter of fact yet imperious tone of voice.
“…please don’t…” I whispered, disappointed in myself for pleading.
“Right. I may be able to overlook it just this once. But you’ll have to show your willingness to comply with the rules.” I am sure he felt like quite a generous master.
He sent his companions away.
If by willingness he meant almost complete passivity, he got what he wanted.
I wonder why this collection of keratin was at that moment so important to me. Perhaps it was a strange little way of taking something of mine back. If I could not keep my sense of self, if all my positive emotions were to be slowly strangled, if every moment of the day was to be spent in either numbness or terror, then at least a small part of my physical frame would still be mine to command. Even if it was just strands of hair falling in front of my eyes. And hiding the pain from the world.

Photosphere

Sun, 06 May 2007 22:54:48 GMT

I need to free more of the questions that have emerged, so the pouring out of stories will have to be deferred. Trying to explain why he did it is too overwhelming, so I will begin with another question. Why did he dare? As little as I want to I have to consider what his reasoning behind this was, though I cannot make any sense of it. It was one thing for him to belittle and ridicule students who could never present a proper danger to his little set-up for want of connections. But I, by my family background, should have gone free, according to his usual pattern of behaviour. Yet he chose me, humiliated me so utterly, ruined any self-respect I yet retained. Why me? How could he know that I would never tell anyone, least of all my parents? Perhaps he just kept pushing to see how far he could go. That he could do this to me, and not suffer any consequences was perhaps something of a victory for him. A challenge. He whispered that he knew I would not tell, and he was right. I hated him for being right, but I hated myself even more for it.
So did I just succumb easily, without the merest struggle? I know I did not, even though my mind sometimes tells me that I was weak and deserved it, and then goes on to telling me things which are even worse. There were so many times where I decided that this time I would fight back, this time I would defy him and succeed. I made plans, I thought everything through a hundred times. But each time I failed miserably.
It was, as I have probably made clear, always him who instigated the torture. I have not mentioned his friends much, I see. I guess that they are not really that important to the main outcome of the story. Though quite serious in nature, what they did can easily be overlooked in comparison to what he committed. But one would do well to wonder why his friends saw fit to participate in the violence. I cannot easily explain it. To the whole world, he had such presence and charisma. Perhaps that had something to do with it. But adoration and friendship cannot be the whole truth. I believe that not all friends would repeatedly kick defenceless people at just one word from those close to them. I find that I cannot account for it. An inability to feel sympathy with the suffering of other people perhaps. But to find that in three close friends at the same time, one would think unlikely. Unless it was his influence that magnified this deficiency in the others.
But however unbearable it was when the three of them had me cornered, it was better than being alone with him. I would rather suffer their combined violence and torture than I would hear that added tone of detached malice in his voice which appeared when he had caught me by himself. Because I knew what would always follow it. That winter was the longest and coldest in my life. But at least I was able to learn to live with the cold. There were other things which never got any easier, though I pretended that I could bear it. I cannot ever forget the feeling of struggling helplessly in desperation under the weight of someone else’s body, even the utmost strain on my muscles being useless. Sometimes he would even use one of those particular methods of debasement on me while his friends were there. It did not happen often in their presence and I never knew when it would. But when it did, they never objected. He must have really been an paragon of adoration in their eyes, for them to never object. Or maybe they just did not understand how devastating it was, just how wrong it was to subject someone else to such things against their will. Maybe it had all just gotten out of their hands, and to my knowledge they did not know the extent he went to when they were not there. Though they must have at least suspected it. But I think that they perhaps had just convinced themselves that it was only an extension of their little game, their continuing fight to humiliate me as much as possible. In any case, none of them were gifted with much sense in the way of morals, that is glaringly obvious.
Seeing it all from the outside, it is incomprehensible how this could have happened. We were barely more than children. But what adults often do not understand, is just how great a capacity for cruelty children have. Especially if their sense of the importance of other humans has not been refined.
Every question raises more of its kin. I still have so many questions that I cannot answer. I wonder if I ever will be able to.

Straying

Sat, 05 May 2007 00:06:05 GMT

After finally writing what I did last night, I just could not endure being inside anymore, and my legs cried out for stretching. The haunted feeling continued up on the roof, so I decided to smoke this night’s cigarettes while walking. I chose one of the little roads in between the buildings of the harbour, narrow, hidden and deserted. Staying there felt comparatively safe. The air was cool and all seemed tranquil. I know I was quite aware of my surroundings and not in the least lost in thought just then, so when someone suddenly stepped out of the shadows and towards me, I was quite startled. In the blurred lamplight I could just make out that it was a young boy, though perhaps not that much younger than me. He stepped up to me, standing very close.
“Rather bold to be walking around outside at night,” he said with a smile. ”Really, it could be dangerous.”
I stepped back, almost dropping my cigarette. I thanked him somewhat hesitantly for the warning. In my mind I wondered what he was doing out here at night himself. He looked quite young to be going out rambling during the night in a closed off area such as the harbour is. I reflected upon what sort of family he must have, since he was allowed to do so.
He very forwardly asked me what I was doing there. I could not see what concern that could be of his, but there was no harm in telling him the truth, which was that I was out walking. Since he had been sort of rude, I thought it would not be improper to ask him the same question in return. But he did not reply, instead he pressed on with his questions, asking me if the harbour was not in fact a private area. I told him that I had the right to be there, and added in my mind that I did not think I could say the same for him. He asked me if I worked here, and I replied somewhat vaguely and tried to step past him.
“For someone just out walking you are in an awful hurry, it seems. But then again, as I mentioned it can be dangerous out at night…”
I stopped. I suddenly found it very ridiculous that I was letting some child intimidate me. Somewhat sourly I told him that it might be better if he found another place to walk as well. He maintained smilingly that he could take care of himself, as he circled me, asking me if I could say the same. If he had been taller I might have been frightened. But as it were, I muttered some affirmative response. True or not, it was none of his concern. He said something about how one could easily imagine to find deranged, almost inhuman creatures out here on such a moonlight night. I told him with dry conviction that I do not believe in monsters. He looked up at me, the reflected moonlight almost disappearing in his deep eyes, and told me that just because one could not see them, it did not mean that they were not there. I started at that. There was something… horribly familiar… No, not familiar, but oddly reminiscent of something indefinable, not about him, but about the moment. I had a sudden notion that this was not a chance meeting. He knew something. And perhaps there was some purpose to this, perhaps there was something unknown to me that he sought to gain. But how could he? No one knows. No one that I have not consciously decided to tell. It must be merely paranoia.
If his statement about strange creatures in the moonlight was true, then that was an added reason for why neither of us should be there and I told him so. At least I knew my way around there, unlike him, which gave me an advantage. He disagreed, maintaining that he had a hard time imagining that I knew the harbour any better than he did. That worries me. I am certain I have never seen him around here before, and I am fairly certain that no one actually lives on this side of the harbour but me. I had to ask him if he did. I hoped he would deny being an inhabitant of this area, as this is my place, my sanctuary. Thankfully he said he did not live here, but that he tended to his hobbies out here. What strange sorts of hobbies he must have. He claimed to be a kind of artist, mostly working with sculptures. I found it difficult to believe that. I thought he might just be one of those kids who write random letters on everything, especially buildings. I said it sounded interesting, though I am sure my doubt about the veracity of his statement was obvious. He asked me if I found art interesting. This provoked an odd sort of morbid smile on the inside of my skull. I told him that sometimes I did. He went on with his questions, wanting to know what type of art. I told him mostly paintings, wondering why I was still standing there, talking to him.
He asked me if I had ever exhibited. The almost burnt down cigarette stub singed my fingers. I dropped it. Reluctantly I said that I had, and then went on to ask him why he wanted to know. He shrugged, saying that he had heard that there was an exhibition out here recently. I told him I had not heard anything about such a show. He looked halfway disappointed, saying that as far as he had heard, it had been quite an experience. I said it was a pity that we had both missed it then. He claimed that he had in fact just been on his way over to check if it was still open, and asked me if I cared to join him. I was quick to deny that there was anything remotely interesting in the direction he indicated, which was towards my home. He said that he had heard that the place was quite close to his workshop. Before I could stop myself, I had blurted out a question about where his workshop was situated. He waved at a strangely shaped building some way from where we were standing. I had been sure that it was abandoned. I somewhat impolitely asked him if he went there often. Since he went on with his incessant questions, a few of mine would not feel too untoward, I thought. I wanted to know if I risked running into him repeatedly. His reply was not exactly settling, as he said that he had been away for a while, but now he was back again. He resumed his slightly bothersome circling around me, making some sort of comment about how inspiration comes and goes. While I do agree on that subject, I had no wish to remain in his company. He must have noticed, because he said that going home might be a good idea, I would not want those monsters to get me. It made me think that perhaps there was something wrong with his mind. I got out another cigarette and lit it, telling him once again that I do not believe in monsters, that I think it is humans one has to watch out for. I turned to leave. Behind me I heard his voice saying that sometimes the humans were the monsters. I stopped and looked over my shoulder at him, pausing before I replied that indeed they were, and perhaps one did not always know where they were hiding, giving him a bit of a wary look, I think. He smiled at this, saying that things were often not what one thought they were, and that humans were so fragile and easily disturbed. Again I had an odd feeling that he was referring to something in particular, and not just making a rather random comment. I said that humans are not as fragile as one might think. He looked at my body in a disturbing fashion, and mumbled that he supposed some were not. I made to leave once again, and he said he had to go too, rustling the package he was carrying. It clanked in an oddly troubling fashion. He smiled and waved, as he said “see you”, and disappeared back into the shadows of the buildings. I quickened my pace and went home.
There was something decidedly odd about that boy. I hope I never run into him again.
I will avoid going where he is, and I hope he will do the same.
So my walk did not turn out as quieting as I had hoped it would. But when I returned, I seemed to have found a source of energy with which to work on a very important part of my quest, namely that of analysis, and of making an attempt to answer some of the questions that have surfaced lately. But the actual writing of this will have to wait for another day.