I was on his lefthandside; my arm on his left kneecap. I liked the feeling of the hard bone through the fabric; as if I could go right through it and into the body.
I started talking;
„I stepped barefoot on a mouse in the garden last night; it teared like a rotten kiwi, slowly squirming still a little damp,
it was almost certainly pregnant. I took dozens of lives by mistake. I didn‘t just take ones, I prevented lives.“
„So you killed?“
„Yes, I killed.“
He walked to the window, stood there for a few minutes while I imagined his
kneecap from the back.
The kneecap bended and walked to the tabel on the right side of the room
where one could get green and black tea and sometimes,
if it was a decent hotel, which in this nights case we were lucky and got,
with some fruits and beverages in the small fridge one certainly knows.
Some people who might not know these missed out on some decent hotels.
He walked to the table and took one of the knifes, then turned towards me straight with a slight tilt to the right. He layed next to me on the bed, pushed up my blouse
to the third ripcage and pushed the knife on my skin until it ripped. He tried to cut my ovaries with a knife.
The blade slid into my body, too easy for a knife that wasn‘t supposed to cut flesh but butter.
Luckily the wrong picture was learnt in class, they were placed lower,
not so high.
I said: „Stop that‘s ridiculous, that‘s it; he really is dead?“ Glances. He said:
„Yes. We‘ve had a month to process it, why can‘t I still.“
„Cause you don’t want it to be over.“
„I want to destroy all possible life in you. I know, only I am finite; you are the ruler; you are endless; I would have to beat you to infinity until every possibility is over.“
He did not raise his voice.
He was calm and therefore I was as well.
No glances. I said:
„I would allow it but this will not take away this feeling. Take my possibility of creating new life, I took lives as well, I cannot bear to be a mother anymore.
But you cannot have my lungs, you cannot have my liver, you cannot have my fat.
I idolise getting old. It‘s my god, the rotting, the decay. I die, I like dying. Death is taughed in schools.
But death without decay is unacceptable. I don’t idolise anyone but you.“
I felt the blood flowing out of my body.
I was the fountainhead and the floor a new sea to be filled. I stood up (still calmly).
I walked to the window and looked onto the city which made me love home even more.
The rotten is outside and we are escaping in this decent hotel room, how lovely it is to rotten,
to die. How sad the fact that Paul is dead.
He stood next to me, on the lefthandside, both his hand on my stomache filling up the void the knife left in the flesh.
How lovely this city is at night, how lovely it is to be in this decent room, how lovely it is to die.
Everything dies, and everything likes to die.
We stood there for a period of time I cannot recall. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone.
The time of my first solitude. That happiness,
my son’s, is now the happiness of my life.
There was no possible plan to express the amplitude of the misery, since nothing remained of the visible events that had caused it.
We later went out to the restaurant of the hotel to eat dinner.
I held his hand while we were waiting for our glasses of wine. They don’t listen.