Fasziniert beobachtete ich die Szene vor mir, kaute dabei auf einem sauren Bonbon. Ich hatte noch einige in meiner Rocktasche, für ihn, damit er auch naschen konnte. Aber so wie es aussah – würde er wohl nicht zum naschen kommen. Er schlief während des Lesens wieder mal ein. So wie er es auch Kind auch schon getan hat.
Seufzend ging ich in die Hocke und stupste sein Bein mit einem Finger an. Er regte sich nicht. Schlief nur, seelig. Ich seufzte wieder. Starrte ihn an. Wollte ihn aufwecken, wusste aber dass er mich anschreien würde wenn ich ihn aufwecke. Seufzte. Seufzte.
Kam ihm näher. Und näher. Leise. Vorsichtig. Wollte die Beiden nicht wecken. Wollte den Moment nicht zerstören. Wollte den Moment mit ihm teilen. Wollte – seinem Herz zuhören. Als ich nahe genug war legte ich mich langsam hin, neben ihm – legte einen Arm um seinen Körper, seinen warmen Körper. Schmiegte mich an ihn. Wie ein kleines Kätzchen. Lächelte in mich hinein. Freute mich.
Wie schön. Wie schön.
Atmete seinen Geruch tief ein. Wie wundervoll. Mein Herz sang. Blühte auf. In allen Farben, ich konnte es sehen, und es flatterte so wild. Wie eine kleine Taube in meiner Brust. Und – und ich spürte wie langsam sein Herz schlug – Gefühl der Zuversicht. Der Geborgenheit. Ich wollte wieder weinen – ich weinte so viel – aber in dem Moment, in dem Moment wollte ich es nicht zerstören. Ich wollte einfach da liegen und mit ihm dahin verrotten.

Und dann, dann erinnerte ich mich an Mutter.

Eine Frau mit seinen Augen. Eine Frau in deren Augen der kalte Winter innelebte. Ihre Haare – sie waren pechschwarz, doch ich erinnerte mich noch an das Badezimmer, an das pechschwarze Wasser, an den kleinen Plastikbehälter, an die Anleitung. Ich erinnerte mich noch an den stechenden Geruch. Vielleicht tat sie das um mir mein Herz zu heilen, damit ich mich nicht so einsam fühlte. Damit sie seine Augen und meine Haare hatte. Sie war wirklich der Winter, doch tat so als wäre sie auch der Sommer – es stand ihr nicht. Die Wärme schien so falsch. So erstickend. Sie war – sie war der Winter – sie wollte den Sommer sein – wollte – ein Traum sein an den man sich noch kaum erinnern kann.
Mutter… Stets von einer Laune zur anderen schwankend, als lebten die Jahreszeiten in ihr inne; die eisige Kälte, die liebe Wärme. Liebkosungen und Ohrfeigen. Schlaflieder und frustriertes Kreischen – Gott, ihre Stimme. Ich konnte mich noch an ihre Stimme erinnern. Wie es mir jedes mal einen kalten Schauer über den Rücken jagte und mich zum weinen brachte.
Und sie war so – bleich. So schneeweiss. Sie war der Schnee. Sie war der Morgentau. Sie war ein Geheimnis das wir besassen, nur für uns, ganz für uns allein. Und sie – sie hasste die Sonne. Sie hasste die Sonne. Den Sonnenschein. Nie sahen wir sie draussen, oder gar auf dem Dach. Nur in unserer kleinen Welt, nur dort konnten wir sie auffinden. Und – und Nachts, Nachts erzählte sie mir oft davon wie einmal beinahe in der Sonne verbrannte. Dass sich ihre Haare aufkräuselten und rauchten. Stellte mir als kleines Kind dann oft vor wie Mutter verbrennen würde – wie ihr weisses Kleid Flammen fing, zu einem aschigen Schwarz wuchs. Wie ihr Porzellangesicht langsam Risse bekamm, nur ganz feine, sanfte Risse, ehe ihre Stirn zersplitterte, ihr Mund zersprang, ihr die Murmelaugen aus dem Kopf flogen. Wie sie wie Paper einfach in Asche zerfiel.
Hätte ich nur gewusst…

… Nein, nein.
Weg mit den Gedanken. Weg. Ich wollte den Moment mit ihm geniessen, eng angekuschelt an seinen warmen Körper. Seine unendliche Wärme, obgleich er doch der Winter war. Schloss meine Augen auch schon, atmete tief ein und aus. Ein und aus. Nahm seinen süssen Geruch wahr, wie Milch. Wie ein Baby. Er war mein kleines Baby. Mein kleines Baby.
Das Bonbon lag schwer auf meiner Zunge. Und so sauer. Ob es ihm wohl schmecken würde? Seufzend saugte ich an dem kleinen Ding, verzog mein Gesicht daraufhin. So unglaublich sauer. Wie Zitrone. Er hasste Zitronen. Einmal habe ich ihm mal Zitronensaft statt Orangensaft gegeben – er hat eine Woche lang nicht mit mir gesprochen. So sauer war er gewesen. Damals war es mir noch egal was er von mir dachte.
Kribbeln. Es kribbelte in mir drin. Ein kleines ziepen. Sehnsucht. In meiner Brust. Ich schmiegte mich enger an ihn, an seinen warmen, warmen Körper. Klammerte mich förmlich an ihn. Er regte sich ein bisschen – hatte für eine Sekunde Angst er würde aufwachen. Aber er schlief weiter, ruhig, ruhig.
Meine Hand wanderte zum Buch. Vorsichtig. Vorsichtig. Wie eine kleine Schlange kroch sie hoch. Umgriff das Buch, bevor meine andere Hand folgte. Hob das Buch hoch, mitsamt den schlafenden Vogel, darauf bedacht ihn nicht zu wecken. Stellte es auf den Boden hin. Setzte mich hoch. Sah ihm ins Gesicht. Sein sanftes Gesicht.
Ich legte meine Finger auf seine sanfte Wange, umstrich diese zärtlich, vorsichtig – langsam. Genoss die Weichheit seiner Haut. Wie sauber sie sich anfühlte. Genoss die Wärme. Genoss es.

Und dann, dann – ganz langsam –
beugte ich mich vor – nur ganz langsam –
und ich musterte sein wundervolles Gesicht, die wundervollen Linien –
und ich erkannte Mutter, ich erkannte geliebte und verhasste Mutter –
ich sah den Winter –
und ich sah den Sommer –
und ich fragte mich, fragte mich was für eine Rolle ich wohl spielte –
wunderte mich darüber, weshalb mein Atem so schwer war –
weshalb mein Herz so schnell schlug, so schnell –
und ich sah ihn an, ich sah ihn an, und ich wollte –
ich wollte…

Nur noch ein wenig.

Nur noch ein wenig. Ich konnte seinen Atem auf meiner Haut spüren. Es kitzelte ein wenig, und es trieb mir die Tränen in die Augen, und ich wurde beinahe taub von meinem laut klopfenden Herz, und es brauchte nur noch ein wenig, nur noch ein wenig… nur noch ein wenig und dann, dann wäre ich so glücklich, so… einsam, so einsam… ich wollte, ich… wollte.. ihn…
Für immer…

Zaghaft strich ich meine Lippen an die Seine. Nur sachte. Nur sachte.
Nur ganz, ganz leicht. So dass ich es kaum spüren konnte, so dass… es in meiner Brust anfing zu schmerzen. Wie ein bittersüsses ziehen, das Gefühl… wie ein bittersüsses Lied in meinem Herzen.

Ich verharrte, wollte mich nicht mehr bewegen.
Ich wollte sterben.

…

„Du weißt es nicht, aber ich liebe dich.“
Ich sass neben ihm, starrte die Decke an. Das Bonbon löste sich mittlerweile schon auf.
„Ich liebe dich so sehr.“
Konnte es aber dennoch schmecken.
„Ich würde sterben für dich.“

„Würde mein Herz ausreissen für dich.“
Konnte ihn immer noch schmecken.
„Wenn ich könnte würde ich dir mein Leben geben.“

„Alles.“

„…“
Verbotene Sünde.
„Ich…“
Bittersüsse Geste.
„Ich liebe dich…“

„… Ich will…“
Und zwischen meinen Beinen, das kribbeln…
„Ich will ein Kind von dir.“

…

Zwitschern.
Erschrocken blickte ich auf, sah um mich herum – und mein Blick blieb am Buch hängen. Auf dem Boden. Und der Vogel. Der kleine, schwarze Vogel. Sass da, ganz zerstrubbelt und zitternd. Er starrte mich an, mit seinen Knopfaugen, und zwitscherte.
Er hat alles gehört was ich gesagt habe.
Mein Herz sank in meinen Magen.

„Du…“
Zwitschern.
„Du…“
Wieder zwitscherte er, hoppste dieses mal vom Buch runter, auf mich zu. Er streckte seine Flügelchen aus. Seine kleinen, zerbrechlichen Flügelchen. Er zwitscherte lauter, flatterte, liess es kleine, schwarze Federn regnen. Wieder hoppste er, dieses mal auf die Brust meines geliebten Zwillings, legte sein kleines Köpfchen schief und starrte mich voller Neugier an.
Mein Herz, auf einmal so eisig kalt und hart. Wie ein Stein in meiner Brust. Es fiel mir schwerer zu atmen. Fiel mir schwerer meine Stimme an die Oberfläche drängen zu lassen.
„Du… hast alles gehört, oder nicht?“
Zwitschern.
„… Meine verfluchten Worte… du hast sie gehört?“

Ersticktes zwitschern.
Federn, kleine schwarze Federn, die in der Luft umher flattertern.
Und der kleine Vogel, so warm und weich in meiner geschlossenen Faust.

Er starrte mich immer noch an, mit seinen unschuldigen, unschuldigen Augen. Für eine Sekunde wollte ich nach einer kleinen Nadel suchen um ihm seine wundervollen Augen rauszustechen – diese zwischen meine Lippen verschwinden zu lassen. Ich konnte mich aber nicht bewegen, konnte keinen Muskel bewegen – konnte nur den kleinen, kleinen Vogel anstarren, in die unendliche Dunkelheit starren die alles in sich aufzunehmen schien.
Konnte das kleine Herz spüren, wie es gegen meine Handfläche pochte. Konnte sein zittern spüren. Wie er versuchte sich zu befreien, von meiner Faust, meiner gnadenlosen Faust.
Erneut zwitscherte er auf – und ich konnte nicht anders, ich konnte nicht anders, ich packte fester zu, fester… Fester. Fester. Fester. Das kleine Vögelchen, und sein ersticktes, quietschendes zwitschern. So ein wildes, unbeholfenes flattern mit den Flügeln. Ich spürte wie sich ein Lächeln auf meinem Gesicht ausbreitete, meiner Maske Risse zufügte – konnte spüren wie mein Lächeln breiter wurde, immer breiter und breiter. Hätte ich noch breiter gelächelt, dann, dann wäre mir wohl mein Steinherz rausgefallen – und mein kleiner, wundervoller Bruder wäre aufgewacht.
„… Niemand darf davon erfahren, kleiner Vogel…“
Meine Faust zitterte. Das kleine Wesen zitterte. So viel quieken und zwitschern. So eine Sauerei. Sah zu wie ich meine andere Hand anhob, das kleine Köpfchen mit meinen Fingerspitzen streichelte; spürte die weichen, weichen Federn, Federn die an meinen Fingern festklebten während ich sie voller Achtsamkeit ohne Gnade raus riss. Ich wollte, ich wollte dass ich den Vogel auffressen könnte, wollte dass ich die Geheimnisse damit einfach verschwinden lassen konnte, und dann – dann – dann umfasste ich den kleinen, kleinen, winzigen Schädel mit meinen Fingern, ignorierte dabei das schmerzhafte pieksen –
es ging ganz schnell. Ganz, ganz schnell. Nur einmal fest zupacken und der Nacken war schon gebrochen, vom Körper zerfetzt. Einfach so. Das kleine, schöne Vögelchen zwitscherte in dem Moment nicht mehr, es war ganz, ganz still – und ich konnte schneeweisse Knochen sehen, wie bei Lupo damals, und… Und mehr zupacken, mehr zudrücken, und da kam Blut – ganz viel Blut. Es tropfte mir auf meinen Rock, meine Arme runter. So warm, so warm. So warm. Es kitzelte. Wie Karamell.
Ich zitterte. Atmete schwer.

Rasch stand ich auf, schritt zum Fenster und riss diesen auf. Eine kühle Brise wehte mir entgegen, liess das Blut an meinen Händen antrocknen. Welch Schande. Hastig leckte ich das ganze Blut auch schon auf, saugte daran, genoss jeden Tropfen den ich erwischen konnte. Dann, ohne zu zögern, holte ich aus und warf den Kopf von mir – hinaus in die weite, weite Welt, in die grausame Welt wohin er gehörte.
Der Körper. Ich starrte den kleinen, kleinen Körper an, musterte ihn intensiv, und – und ich spielte ein altes Spiel, wie damals, wie damals… Riss eine Feder nach der anderen aus, liess sie zu Boden flattern – sah zu, voller Freude, diesem Schauspiel von schwarzen, verlorenen Wünschen.
„Er liebt mich.“
Noch mehr Federn. Stickig, klebrig. Sie wollten nicht von meinen Händen fallen. Was für eine Sauerei.
„Er liebt mich nicht.“
„Er liebt mich.“
„Er liebt mich nicht.“
„Er liebt mich.“

„Er liebt mich nicht.“

Blut an meinen Händen.
Erinnerungen an Lupo, mein alter Freund.
Ein kleines Herz zwischen meinen Fingerspitzen.
Es schmeckte so süss.

Cause you never gave a flying shit about what we do
Never gave a fuck about the feelings I had for you
I don’t need your fucking sympathy, didn’t ever need it
Cause in this life you faked your death a thousand times,
But what about your living side? Never thought about it once

Fuck, it’s noon, get the hell out of here and take your clothes
People are dead and you didn’t give a fuck
Hand’s cuffed, bloody wrists and you kept on sucking
Shit, shit, I feel it coming, I feel it coming up, it’s coming
Break it, break it, break your hymen, let me make you bleed
Break it, break it, break my fucking skin and suck on my wounds

Cause you never gave a flying shit about what we do
Never gave a fuck if those things I did were ment honestly
I don’t need your fucking love, go choke on your own cum
Cause in this life you faked your climax a thousand times,
Whenever we lay in bed and I held you close

Break it, break it, break your fucking promise and make me suffer
It’s the only feeling that gives me pleasure now, my life’s fucked up
Break it, break it, break your fucking promise and make me suffer
Let me push hairpins into your eye
Let me push my fingers into your eyes

Never gave a shit
Never gave a shit

Oh, hey, hey, I’m a hobo from Garage land
But Mr. Hobo can’t find his way back
Oh, hey, hey, I’m a hobo from Garage land
But Mr. Bum can’t find his way back

Garage garage, where are you now?
I miss your paint cans and the things I used to eat there
Garage garage, where are you now?
People don’t believe me when I tell them about you
Life in black and a gourmet with no taste
Garage garage, I miss the old days
When the old woman let me sleep under the car

I’m needy and I don’t know what to wear tomorrow
I roam the abandoned buildings, a wolf with no pack
I feast my eyes on flies and shit, it’s a piece of art you fucker
Do you need that thing in your hand? I could use it
Do you need the food in your mouth? I could swallow it
Do you need the clothes on your body? I could burn them
I’m a handy dandy walking recycling machine
Feed me feed me feed me with garbage and I’ll eat it gladly
I’m a handy dandy walking killing machine
If I catch you tonight I’ll fuck the senses out of you

Oh, hey, hey, I’m Mr. Hobo from Garage land
But Mr. Hobo doesn’t know the way back
Oh, hey, hey, my name is Mr. Hobo from Garbage Garage Land
And Mr. Hobo doesn’t want to find his way back

Garage garage, where are you now?
I used to fuck myself at the dead of the night in there
Garage garage, where are you now?
I think I shouldn’t have walked that street down the other night
Perhaps I shouldn’t have killed Miss Old Woman the other night
Garage garage, I miss the old days
I miss the exhaust pipe

There never was love or compassion in our fucking
I did it because you were willing and I was needy
There never was empathy or desire in our fucking
It’s just that my life is painted black and I can’t seem to see
This game is going too far, thing’s are going too far
Dress up and be ready for your funeral
Dress up and be ready for our final farewell

Maybe it’s best if I cut your throat now,
Now that you’re lying beneath me and writhing under my touch
Maybe it’s best if I fuck you ’till you’re unconscious,
And drug you the way I drug myself everyday
Cause if it can’t be remembered, it never happened
If it can’t be remembered, it never happened
It never happened, it never happened

There were no motives in our fucking
I did it because you were willing and I needed someone to hold
There never was any feeling in our burning kisses
We did it because we both were lonely and drunk
Things have gone too far, if I take back what I said the other night
Would you believe me tomorrow and the day after it?
Dress up and be ready for our funeral
Dress up and be ready for our farewell
One last thrust before I let you fall
Like a piece of garbage I always hated

Didn’t ever take it seriously, hey, it’s just one life
Didn’t ever think about you once, hey, you’re just a person
And as if the television were you, it broke one day
And the snow continues to fall in the blackened world
A distinct murmur, yeah, a rumor fallen back

Warmth is an illusion, lips painted blood red
I wondered then what it ment to break apart
Answered my question, painted the bath blood red
Hey, on repeat rewind and I wondered then
What it ment to break apart

Didn’t ever take it seriously, hey, it’s just one life
Didn’t ever think about you once, hey, you’re just a person
And as if you were the television set, you broke one day
Your snow continues to fall in your oblivious state
Wondering what it means to break apart, just how you did

She’s told me to go be smile and live
But funny enough cause my brain don’t work
Won’t understand syntax error a bitter fate
Cause in this world I never understood a thing
So why should I be able to comprehend you?
Bitter rejection still so sweet
I think I’ll go fuck the exhaust pipe again

Whisked away and oh hey I didn’t want this
Much too expensive give me a guarantee for her
Hey flown away bitter pop can’t taste your lips
Wonder what’s right what’s wrong what’s real
What’s life
But hey brain dead is dead logic so it’s ok

She’s told me to go be smile and live
But funny enough cause my brain don’t work
Won’t understand syntax error a bitter fate
Cause in this world I never understood a thing
So why should I be able to comprehend you?
Bitter rejection still so sweet
I think I’ll go fuck the exhaust pipe again

Brain dead dead brain brain dead brain dead brain
Dead
Rejection so sweet

I can feel my pulse race, acting up, becoming faster, faster and faster – a steady but frantic „do dom, do dom.“ It resounds, loudly, a beating in my head; the feeling of being filled up with heavy concrete, with sand, with snow. Resonances of my heart.
The feeling of slowly fading from existance – of losing the feel of what is real. What is possible. The feeling of become something that doesn’t need to be; like a stone, you know? Something that is just there, without any emotions, or thoughts, or even life in it. It just becomes older. Older and older. Holding memories in it – an age, of thousand years, even more. Something that sends shivers down your spine when you hold it in your hands.

„Did you know stones are more than a thousand years old?“
- Her frail voice cuts off my trail of thought, sends me spinning back into this cruel reality. I remember who I am, who she is; where we are. I’m supposed to go on a walk with her, aren’t I? This girl – a weak smile, hair that has been braided flimsily.
„They hold life in them that’s even older than you or Domino. They are alive, you know, you know? – Even more alive than you are or Domino will ever be.“
She holds the tiny bit of stone up, shoving it into my face, forcing me to look at it. See it clearly. It shimmers a bit in the autumn sun, reminding me of a broken shard of glass, some piece of razor stuck in my arm-
„But isn’t that a lie?“
„Huh?“
- no time to think about that now. Got to concentrate on that young girl, confined in a wheelchair. Got to play with her hair – light-brown in colour, getting lighter everyday. The sickness is getting the better of her. One day, she will trail off, just like my thoughts, and she will become another piece of stone, another razor jammed in my arm-
„That stone. It’s not alive. It got life of others in it, but it isn’t alive. It doesn’t exist.“
She becomes quiet. What races through her mind? What does she feel? Her soft face scrunches up, making me smile. She always looks like that when she’s thinking about something deep, doesn’t she? – Like a warning, a reminder to not disturb her.
„It does exist,“ she says after a while, playing with the gray thing in her hands. Scratching on it’s surface, making markings with her brittle nails; searching for words, amidst these dying trees. „It does exist. Because we see it, we feel it – because of the fact that it can take the warmth of the sun in it, it exists. It’s real. It’s very real.“
I continue to push, to escort her through a forest of dying words. Continue to ignore her, that naïve, nimble but awkward little girl with that awkward braided hair… That young girl in the wheel chair with no care in the world, with no feelings for what is real, except for the world around her, except for the forest that is going to leave soon – that is going to wither, just like she is going to wither.
That young girl that is smiling at the young woman with the eyes of a devil, with no feeling, no emotions in her bone, with no heart or even soul… That young girl that is smiling at me, making me feel even more awkward than I felt ever before. I can’t help but helplessly smile back, to gently tousle her hair, as if petting a young kitten.

* * *

We continued to stroll around for a while, gazing here and there, here and there; the whole time she swooned about how the stones were alive, how everything was alive, how even the dead bird we found under an oak tree was still alive. In a way I could understand why she acted that way, why she put on a cheerful façade; still, in the deepest corners of my heart, of my cold stone heart, I,… could not feel anything except disgust. It disgusted me to no ends, brought forth in me an urge to hurt her, to smash that little face of hers so hard… But that, in turn, would make me disgusting too. So I continued to smile, to nod, to push her wheelchair around in the tall grass.
At the turn of the day we went back to the old castle, to the „Headquarters of Hell“, as Snow loved to put it. It was one of those ruins with the outermost walls crumbled down to nothing more but ashes and dust. We erected a few fences here and there; chickenwire, barbwire and all. Bill used to joke around, commenting on how it looks like a farm with all that green wire hanging around – but she stopped once the little girl was delivered to us. The granite walls were crumbling, with cracks and missing stones; the towers and turrets were nothing more but broken match sticks reaching into the evergray sky. It was a real nasty sight to look at, to be honest, but she… She complimented it everytime we returned to our „home“, entranced by the ivy that climbed it’s way over the broken walls, resembling a ladder to heaven. Even when I brought her to bed, pulled the sheets over her weak body, she couldn’t stop talking about the castle – about the stones.
„They are all alive. I’m telling you, Hell – they are alive. Alive as alive can get.“
Her smile was so blinding. As blinding as the wintersun – or the autumn sky. So weak. So faint. But you could see the glimmer there. You could see the hope there. Just like the tip of my cigarette, that’s glimmering right now, keeping me from my sleep that my body needs. Keeping me from the realm of a coma-like state that should kill my thoughts – but I don’t want to go to sleep. Not yet. Not in this moment. Not while I’m holding this stone between my fingers, feeling the rough surface.

She told me, again and again, that it’s alive.

I know that she is going to wither soon – a flower with no petals, merely a weak peduncle that can’t even take in water. Her life is fated to perish soon enough, and she is anticipating it, just how everyone in the Demolition Squad is. Me, Snow, Aurelius, Domino – Bill, Rufus, Andrei. The other clans in this district, waiting for Tiger Lily to wilt. The young lady that managed to kill a country, just to revert to a child, to forget all the crimes she committed.
The same young lady that is now claiming to see life in a stone.
„It can’t even talk.“
Has no mouth. No eyes. Has no nerves, no sensory organs, not even a nervous system or a brain. It’s just… a stone. It can break and hit and kill and lie in the cold, cold riverstream, waiting to be formed to some oddly shaped memento. It can take up the sun in it, yes. But it is not alive. It cannot be alive. It just can’t be alive.
„What you doing up so late, Hell?“ – Smoky, husky voice. The smell of „Black Devils“, her favorite brand. The smell of that strange aftershave she started applying a few years ago. Snow. Just the right moment, the right second. Just when I don’t need her.
„I could ask you, snowcrotch.“
„Hey, hey. Watch the language.“
Smoking. Smell of aftershave. The stone between my fingertips that gets passed back and forth, back and forth; she glances at it, smoothes the lines the girl made, before I take it back and start grinding the surface against the rough stone wall. Grind, grind, grind.
„You can’t make a stone cry that way, you know?“
„Do I? I don’t know. I just want it to disappear. It makes me angry looking at this thing.“
Grind, grind, grind.
„Disappear? Why? It never did a thing to you. It’s not even alive.“
„I know. I know, damn it! That’s why it’s making me mad!“
Grind, grind, grind.
„Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,“ her faltering voice, mimicking a priest or some other high-class hypocrite that would say things as ignorant as that. Or is she just mocking me? I look up, blow a few strands of my blonde hair from my face, pierce her up with a single glance. She just looks back at me, grinning, amused at my behaviour.
„What is it with you?“
„Just grinding you. It makes me angry too look at you, you know?“
„What?“ I pick up the tiny stone, throw it towards her – just to watch how she catches it, letting it disappear in her breast pocket. She stole it away from me. Great.
„Stones never did anything to you. They have no eyes. No mouth. They have no nervous system and no brain,“ she continues, averting her gray eyes from me. Looking out of the window, or at least the remains of it – trying to see a world amidst the shards and cobwebs, trying to see life in a world that was never ment to be.
„They can’t even feel the warmth of the sun, for God’s sake.“

I finish my cig, stub it out, throw the butt towards her – but she avoids it with a single side step, pretending not to notice my behaviour. I can see the grin on her face, as clear as day, and I can see her thoughts that are starting to stream now. I can see her plans. Can see what she wants to do. And it pisses me off, so I just go away, back into my bed, back to my place next to Tiger Lily, waiting for the night to pass.

* * *
„Hell?“
It’s a nice day. The turn of autumn. The trees are all dead and the sun was a lie you never quite believed. I pull my coat closer, readjust my scarf, enwrap my arms around my meagre body and hope for warmth to come. The last cig has been stolen and smoked by my sister, Bill, and the next delivery won’t come for another week or so. Got to live on the edge of the seat. Try to smooth out the rough edges with coffee. Anything, just so I won’t look in those dead eyes of that little girl. A smile is planted on her face.
„Hell~? Where are you~?“
„I’m here, sweetie,“ I say, tousling her snow-white hair. She feels cold. „I’m right here.“
Her hands search, find a hold of my hand; she places her dainty fingers on my palm, stroking, feeling the rough surface of my hand. Just like a stone. A dead stone.
„You are so warm, Hell,“ she whispers, smiling. Even her smile seems dead. „So warm…“
For a few minutes we linger in that spot, me watching her, her feeling my warmth, and my warmth – well, keeping me warm from that damn icy coldness that’s been inching into this country for a few days. We then continue our stroll, but not in the woods as we used to; we walk in the spot where the sun hits the earth the most, so she can feel warmth, can feel the life that’s sickering from her. Even if she’s smiling, she’s…

„Hell?“
„Yeah?“
A stone between her fingers.
„I’m dying soon, am I not?“

I stop. Look down at her. That fragile figure that’s about to break. That smile that’s unwavering but dying. Those eyes that can’t see. Those fingers that can only feel brisk emotions. She’s dying, isn’t she? – Yeah, she is. She is. She’ll be gone from this world really soon and she’ll forget all about it.
„Maybe…“ – Take a deep breath, deep breath, feel the cold air rush into your lungs. – „… Yes. Actually, yes, you are going to die soon. Pretty soon. It’s just a matter of time before your internal organs have a major breakdown. Your body is already disintegrating, like a broken clock, you know? It’s just a matter of time before that clock stops ticking.
Before you stop living.“
Silence. No sound at all. Just a nightingale, I think, or some other bird that loves to die in winter. Its bittersweet melody fills the dead forest, fills her head – fills my head with broken promises of yesterday. Not even our breathing can be heard. And my words? They are forgotten. She just continues smiling. Brushing the dirt off from the stone, humming an unknown melody from an unknown country in a forgotten world. She knows that she’s going to die. She knows that she’s going to go cold. Her body will decompose, become a part of the world – become another stone that can’t do anything but take the warmth of the sun in it.

„We have to celebrate Christmas, don’t you think, Hell?“
„Yeah. Celebrate Christmas.“
„With lots and lots of decorations. I think Domino would like that!“
„Yeah. He’d like that. A lot. And Aurelius, too.“ – I‘m lying.
„Bring life into the castle. Even if I can’t see properly, I know that it still looks so beautiful, but so, so…“ – Dead. – „…cold!“

Why the hell does she keep on smiling like that?

. . .

The nightingale stopped singing, just when the sun started setting on us. It left me behind with a stale taste in my mouth. She stopped talking, too; her voice faded away a few hours ago, mimicking a cicada, whispering things I could not understand. The stone slipped away from her fingers and, for a second, I thought that she finally faded away. But when I stepped in front of the wheelchair, when I knelt down to her hunching body, she suddenly grasped for my hands and gave them a soft squeeze. Still alive.
She didn’t react to any of my words. Not even to her name, „Tiger Lily.“ I pinched her a few times, waiting to see if she would react to the pain, but… she kept silent. Her mouth was shut. Her eyes were dead. Maybe she could still hear, and maybe some parts of her brain were still intact – but other than that, she was as good as wasted.
Didn’t give it any second thought, though. I just put her back into an erect position, making her sit up straight. The stone was placed back into her palm, but she was too weak to hold it, so I let it slip into my breast pocket. Then I brushed her hair out of her face – cupped it between my hands, rubbing it softly. Her skin was soft, so soft, like porcelain; but it was cold. So cold, you could have believed that she never witnessed the warmth of life.
I still wanted her to feel. To hear. Wanted her to know that she was still there, alive, and not in some coma-like state. I wanted her to know that somehow, she was still alive. Maybe it was regret – or some other crazy idea, the thought that „everything would become okay“ if I play the worried big sister.
But I know that nothing will become okay. I know nothing will become okay anymore. That’s why my thoughts collide, that’s why I’m talking non-sense; that’s why I wanted to forget that little grasp of hers, wanted to forget the fact she smiled at me, that she smiles, that…

The tip of my cigarette glimmers in the dark. Aurelius gave me a share of his pack, five or six. Got to stretch them out to eight days, so I won’t be angry the whole time. So I’ve got something to do while this little girl is breathing in, breathing out; existing, living, but… not really there. Or is she? Her eyes are closed, she’s breathing, breathing… but she doesn’t react, never reacts, never. Not even when I sang her favorite song did she twitch.
So I guess this is it, right? She’s wasted. Gone. Nothing more but a broken rose that is waiting to perish. The bed covers are cold, as cold as her body is; I sometimes get the impression that she is about to fade away, that she is nothing more but mist. Gray, thick mist, getting thinner by the second… – But I am smoking, after all, so my mind is starting to play tricks on me…
„Hell, she’s got visit.“ – Deep, husky voice, intermingling with high, soft voices. I avert my eyes from her body, searching the doorway. Young girls – they resemble porcelain dolls. Her daughers. Her experiments. Those girls with the dead, empty eyes – the colour of tiny violets, yet to bloom but perishing already. They started squirming around once they reached her bed, each to one side. Twins; Aurora and Hotaru. They look nothing like her.
„Mama?“ one asks, touching her cold, icy cold hand lightly. The other one repeats, stuttering. But no answer. Tiger Lily continues to lie, to fade, to resemble a white stone.
„… Your mam’s dead, little one,“ I whisper coldly, taking a deep draw from my cigarette. I can feel the smoke fill my head. Can feel the drug cloud my feelings. No need for emotions, for thoughts; no need to tell the truth. Just say. Just whisper.
„Mama is dead?“
„As dead as dead can get.“
Snow stares at me. Her gazes are like knives. They dig into my sides, deep into my sides, letting me feel pain – letting me feel disgust. So I am disgusting after all, ain’t I? But I can’t stop. I smile, broadly, looking at each of them – gently tousling the hair of Hotaru, the weaker of them both. She looks up to me, tilting her head sligthly; doesn’t understand. But it’s okay.
„There’s no use in kissin‘ or huggin’er. She’s dead. See? Doesn’t even twitch when I pinch ‘er,“ my voice explains slowly, though my thoughts say something else. The twins look at each other, a pained expression in their eyes – or it is a confused one? I can’t decide, the two emotions are too alike; share too many similarities in order to be kept apart. „She’s dead.“
„You sure, Ma’am?“ one asks, looking up to me – to that woman with the bleached hair, the raccoon eyes, the lipstick-smeared face and the cig in one hand. Do I look like someone who says the truth? Am I someone who can afford to lie?
„Nothing in this world is for certain, little one,“ I reply, quieter than a while ago. Silence enshrouds us all. Nothing but her weak breathing, her weak, weak pulse. On second glance, that little, twisted family does look alike. But it’s no use thinking that, right? So I look out, the window, try to see life beneath it all. The night sky is deep, embedded with specks of dust, shining, glimmering; things they used to call „stars“. The children of today think of them as dying lightbulbs. In some way, I think so too. Like all of us. Dying lightbulbs. No electricity. No warmth.

Just like her.

And then, maybe because we are that strange, maybe because this world is so strange, so twisted, so incredibly weird and broken – just in that moment I begin to cry, shaking, trembling, digging my fingernails deep into my rough skin. Pain, let me feel pain! Let me feel naked emotions, anything, just to avoid this remorse, this – this pang of guilt, this fleeting sensation of care and…! Anything, anything, please, anything –
anything to stop the children from crying even more, from shaking, from trembling. Make them stop. Make them stop. I should have told them the truth, I should have lied, I should have just – just pretended to be someone who is nice, who caring, who knows what it means to hurt and to take up the warmth of the sun in one and to be cold, as cold as st-
„Hey.“
Tiny. Round. She kneels down to the elder one, looks her straight into the eye, into those dead eyes that can’t say a thing. Those eyes that are so washed out… with tears so small, so unimportant. But Aura stays strong, see? She sniffles, looks Snow straight into the eyes.
„This belonged to your mother once. She kept it with her the whole time. Played with it every single day of the year. Never went anywhere without it. Take care of it, alright?“ – Shoves the stone into the little hands of the girl, tousles her long, black hair. Aurora continues to cry, pressing the stone to her chest, sniffling. But it doesn’t seem to hurt as it did a while ago. Hotaru can’t believe what she hears, a lie that is the truth. Looks at her mother, in disbelief, tugs at her hand, at her shoulders; wants to make her wake up.
But she doesn’t. She will never wake up again. And Hotaru just can’t believe it. Just as I can’t, no matter how hard I clench my fists, no matter how hard I try to crush the tiny stone in my palm. It just stays hard, firm. Just stays a stone that takes my warmth in it.

Stones stay stones. Always. Forever. They never change. No matter how hard you smash them, no matter into how many pieces you break them, they stay stones. Hard. Rough. Cold and maybe even without any feelings. They sleep, forever; no one disturbing their peace. Their breath is eternal, their thoughts dim and silent. They don’t need to be, but they are – an existence with no reason. Romantic, isn’t it? Even if it is a bit sad. Because there will always be non-believers, people who just can’t accept it – people who just always close their eyes.
Like I do. I’ve seen it, seen it all; seen the truth. But even now, in this very moment, I can’t accept that she’s turned to something like a stone. I can’t believe that all that is left of her is lying in our palms. It can’t be, right? – There must be a way to return her smile.
But there is not. There isn’t.
* * *
It’s a nice day. I pull my coat closer, breath into my hands, rub them briskly; try to warm myself, even if just for a bit. The sun stopped shining a few days ago – it mimicks a yellow disc in the gray sky, reminding us of what we are missing out right now. But it’s alright. I’m holding the stone in my fist right now, drinking up it’s warmth – her warmth. At least the little left of what is in it.
„Peaceful here,“ the young, russian man – Andrei – observes, turning the bullet in his fingers. His coat is opened, giving one a free view on his thick pullover, stained with what looks blood. Blood of his wife – blood of the past.
„It’s a graveyard, after all. Even though it surprises me that they still have places like these…“
„… Really pretty here.“
We – the Demolition Squad – linger around in the place, stare at the granite statues of angels. They all look so earnest, so sombre. No smiles on their faces. Not even life in their eyes. Beautiful to look at, but you can notice that they are just dust. Nothing more, nothing less. Snow touches her tomb stone, rubbing over the letters briskly – rubbing away the frost that found its way into the letters, obscuring her name completely. I can’t stand to look at it, so I turn away – stare off, into the distance, into the sky that promises me eternity.
We stay there for a little while, paying our respects, telling her last words of good-byes. She stayed with us for a year, after all, so we all kind of grew attached to her. Like a pet, or a farm animal that’s fated to be slain. Bill told me that I shouldn’t get to near to that girl. But how’s that possible if I’m the one who’s looking after her?
„Your turn, Hell.“
I turn around, look at Snow – nod once, briskly, but finish my cig first. Oddly, my hands are trembling, even if there is no reason for me to be nervous… or anxious. Out of us all, I knew her the best; so, why feel odd around her? I kneel down, stare at her name, stare at it hard – try to see a resemblance, something that I can associate with her. But there is nothing. Nothing that can assure me that its her body that is lying underneath. There is nothing that can assure me that she is listening.

They all return to the castle, perhaps plan their next step, now that they were granted more territory from the „government.“ Taking care of her did have its rewards. But I, I stay – together with Snow. We sit on a bench, not far from her grave, staring off into the endless sky that’s about to turn dark again. It’s colder, now.
„…You cried,“ she whispers, tousling her own hair – white, just like her skin is. I stare at her, trying to see a hint if she’s trying to mock me, but… she isn’t. So I nod, briskly.
„Yeah. Guess I did.“
„She ment that much to you, hm? Even though it was another personality that shimmered through – not the Tiger Lily we all detest.“
„… Yeah, guess she did… Guess she ment that much to me that I broke down crying, haha.“
I exhale, watching as white puffs of breath rise into the atmosphere, resembling tiny clouds. „She’s a child. Nothing more but a girl who’s body happened to serve as a vessel of some lunatic maniac. She didn’t really get to choose, you know? – Guess… I kind of related to her.“
A tiny laugh. She lights her cigarette, offering me her fire, but I refuse. We all smoke in the Demolition Squad, yeah – but I think I’ll stop. I’ve got another drug now. No need for nicotine. No need for smoke that’s filling up my head. No use for that, now.
„I remember… It’s because you are „kind of like that“, right? With your history as a mental patient. What was it? Schizophrenic identity disorder?“
„Borderline syndrome,“ I correct. „Though the doctors thought I’m a schizo, too.“
My grasp around her stone tightens. It’s warm. Extremely warm. It feels as if it has life in it; her life. I force myself to a tiny smile – the first one since weeks. Feels strange.
„…You would have been able to help her, Snow. You had the ability to. You knew what her sickness was. What could’ve helped her. Then… why didn’t you?“

Silence.

Nothing more but a nightingale, or some other bird that’s trying to fill in the emptiness. Some bird that likes to die in winter. I bet it’s got white, fluffy feathers – just as white as her hair, her skin was. Just as pure as her smile.
„They would have used her again. Her body is the perfect vessel. It fulfills every demand of Tiger Lily, even when it comes to the looks – you think that woman would have given up the girl easily?“ she turns towards me, cig pointed directly at me. It glimmers dimly, before going out – before being enshrouded in light flakes of snow. „They would have used her until her body disintegrated naturally – then using it for other purposes, for experiments. They would have made a living dead out of her.“
It started to snow. Her words got my heart so cold, it started to snow.
„Just… cherish the memories, Hell. Cherish them. They are all that are left now.“
„That, and her warmth,“ I whisper, closing my eyes, feeling the cold, cold snow flakes melt on my face. We stay there for another hour or two, talking about all kinds of stuff; forcing ourselves to laugh, to face the other way. To go on with our lives. Cig for cig, snowflake for snowflake. It’s dark when we return to the castle, settle for the night. I know that we won’t return to that place – to her grave, where her body is decomposing now. But it’s alright. She’s given her life to me. Her smile. Her memories, her warmth –

and even if my nights are still restless, even if my dreams are filled with her memories, it’s alright. There is no-one pressing down on me anymore. There is no-one stealing my breath anymore. My metamorphosis is complete. My crysalis has finally been torn apart, showing my innermost to the whole world. Showing my stone heart that has basked in the warmth of the sun – in the warmth of her smile.

Everything she does involves smoking a cig or two. Maybe even three, if she can afford.
She’s enwrapped in smoke, her second skin; even her clothes smell like smoke. It’s become her scent, her perfume; and no matter how much perfume I spray onto her, no matter how much I tell her to scrub herself off, she always reeks of smoke. So much, my room seems to be infected, always reminding me of her existance. Her – that strange woman that appeared in my life, one day, like a moth is flying towards the light.

Just like now, sitting beside me, reading every word that I’m writing while taking a deep breath, smelling like something that has been set on fire. A light smile trails across her face, distorting the cold mask she puts on the whole time.
„Writing again, eh?“ – Her voice a cold, hoarse whisper, telling about the years she’s lived on this earth. As a child I used to be afraid of her voice, but now – now… it sounds pleasant. It’s a ringing in my ear that reminds me that I’m alive.
„Eh… Your penmanship got worse. I can’t even decipher what this word is.“
Another deep breath. Exhaling. The smoke enshrouds us both. I suck in any clean air that is left and hold my breath, squinting, trying to see through the gray mist she’s put us in. It’s her favorite game – „Finding out where you are.“ Finding out who you are.
She loves to put me into strange situations.

I’m not sure who she really is, from where she is – how she grew up, who her parents were. The times she cared to talk about herself were the times I got her drunk, getting her to lie on the couch, making her feel like the king of miseries. That person – she loves to talk about trivial things. Things that happened to her, long time ago. Things that happened to her before we met. Things that make me ask myself why she even let go of her former life.
„My hair’s a natural color, y’know?“ she’d babble, her voice a lengthy slur of syllables and whimpers. My gaze wanders, to her hair – to that flab, that mop of white hair that covers half of her face. White, white, white. Snow white.
„I’m an albino,“ she continues, wriggling around with a stump of cig, eyeing it, trying to find out if it’s lit or not. Of course it isn’t. I put it in her fingers to still her unnerving demand „for a fag.“
„Josef told me that Mama got white hair too. So it seems to be in the family. Haha, so we’re family after all! That bitch… after selling me to that guy, haha!“ – She rolls to her side, continuing to laugh, shaking that strong body of hers. A body just like a man’s. Guess it’s his fault; that man, Josef. The one that took care of her after her mother abandoned her.
„Josef, that manwhore… I wonder if he still trains little girls who can’t say no…“
Josef, that guy. I’ve heard a lot about him. Someone who trained her, trained her to become a soldier, to become a strong person – someone who protects, who kills. I wonder if that’s the reason she came to me after all. If that’s the reason why she’s hiding in my head now.

That time, a thousand nights ago. When I was a little kid, just like she used to be; when I was a little girl who couldn’t say no. Did she feel pity? Was it empathy? Did she see herself in me? Or was it simple boredom that drove her to talk to me?
„- Little girl. What’s your name?“
My name? I can’t remember. I cast it off once I met her.
„See, this hair? White. Snow white. It became my reason to be a new person, you know?“
White, white. Snow white. „Snow“ – her name. As cold as snow. As gruesome as snow.
„So, if you don’t mind… let me take a place beside you, alright?“
Her name is Snow. Someone who is cold, cold; mercilessly cold. Her smile, her eyes, her gestures and her words – everything is cold, cold. She told me once that she wasn’t always that cold, that she once knew how it was to smile, to laugh – to be someone who lives.

But now she’s just Snow.

Ever since I took care of her. Or is it the other way around? That she’s protecting me?
„Hey, hey. Got any smokes, huh? Got any?“
That woman. Dressed like a man, but still so feminine. Someone I accepted as my mother, or my sister – or even as a watchdog, always there, always smiling. Smoking.
„I don’t smoke. Ask my dad.“
„Did you forget that you’re the only one who sees me?“
A laugh. Her or me? Maybe both.

She loves to smoke. Every single day, every single day. She loves to light a cig and inhale that drug, to fill my room with that unbearable stench. So unbearable, I got scolded many times by my parents, got told to stop smoking – but how can I smoke if I don’t even have any cigarettes? It’s not me. It’s her. That ghost in winter, warming herself up with drugs, with alcohol. That ghost in my head that reminds me every now and then that I’m still alive.

bestimmt wunderst du dich weshalb ich dir schon wieder einen Brief schreibe, obwohl ich den letzten vor zwei Wochen schon eingeworfen habe. Ich bin mir nicht einmal sicher ob der Brief angekommen ist – oder ob meine Briefe überhaupt ankommen. Ich weiß nicht ob ich die richtige Adresse habe. Weiß nicht ob ich genug Briefmarken drauf klebe.
Haha, während ich dies schreibe kann ich sogar den Kleber schmecken den man anlecken muss damit die Briefmarken überhaupt kleben. Wusstest du dass man eine Vergiftung kriegen kann wenn man 200 solcher Briefmarken ableckt? Das wäre doch eine niedliche Art um … du weißt schon was.
200 Briefmarken, alle auf deinen Brief, ehe ich ihn einwerfe und mich unter den Briefkasten hinsetze. Den Himmel anstarre. Schokolade esse um den widerlichen Geschmack von meiner Mundhöhle zu kriegen.

Aber ich hab dir im letzten Brief versprochen dass ich nicht mehr von solchen Dingen schreiben werde. Ich habe es zwei Seiten lang geschrieben, immer und immer wieder, dass ich mich ändern werde, damit du keine Angst mehr vor mir hast, damit ich zu mir zurück finde. Was habe ich gesagt? – “Ich werde nicht mehr weinen wenn ich Briefe schreibe, werde nicht mehr solche Dinge schreiben, werde nicht mehr an solche Dinge denken.”
Wenn ich aufhöre so etwas zu tun wirst du mir bestimmt antworten, oder? Oder? Dann kann ich zu dir zurück und wir verbringen einen Tag zusammen. Ich zeige dir meine Einsamkeit, ich zeige dir den strahlend blauen Himmel der sich über uns erstreckt, zeige dir all die Dinge die du dort drüben niemals sehen könntest…

Auch heute bin ich in die Stadt, habe dabei die blutroten Pumps getragen die ich letzte Woche im Laden gesehen haben. Sie passten mir, wie ich dir erzählt habe; und auch wenn meine Füsse nach einigen Stunden schmerzten, es war angenehm zu wissen dass ich endlich von meinem alten Ich losbrechen konnte, dass ich ohne weiteres im Park umher rennen konnte, auch wenn mein Kleid dabei immer wieder hoch flatterte. Die Kinder lachten, ich lachte mit, und wir vergaßen wieder die Existenz des anderen; es war bittersüß, es war schrecklich, aber es war das Leben und es war das erste mal das ich mich auf so ein Spiel einließ.
Das Balancieren auf der Mauer war wie immer spaßig. Die Arme, ausgestreckt, wie Flügel die den Himmel niemals erreichen könnten. Das Meer glänzte in der Abendsonne und erinnerten mich an deine Augen, wie sie schimmerten, wann immer du ein neues Bildband gesehen hast. Unsere Kamera hielt all diese Momente fest, das Meer, die Bücher, die Blumen die sich langsam den Wellen näherten, vom tosenden Wasser verschlungen worden sind. Die Blüten waren blutrot, leicht verwelkt, aber es waren deine Lieblingsblumen; könnte ich mich nur erinnern, erinnern, an den Namen, an deinen Namen…
Und es war so wie immer, dieser Tag, dieser Mittwoch, die unmittelbare Mitte einer grausamen Woche. Wir taten das, was wir immer taten; das lachen, das versagen, das zerstreuen der Blumen im Meer um der kleinen Meerjungfrau zu ehren. Du sahst zu mir hoch, hast mich angelächelt, ehe du meine Hand genommen hast um mir von der Mauer hinunterzuhelfen. Weißt du noch in wie viele Läden wir gegangen sind? – So viele, wo es auch immer nur Bücher gab. Wir füllten den Korb mit leeren Tagebüchern, mit Briefmarken, mit Umschlägen, mit Papieren, mit Tinte und Schleifen und Dinge die niemals an das andere Ende der Welt gelangen könnten. Wir hatten so viel Spaß, weißt du noch? Diese Mittwoche, wenn du von der Arbeit zurück kamst, wenn du mich in den Arm genommen hast und mir das Gefühl gegeben hast Zuhause zu sein.
Ich lachte, lachte, lachte bis ich weinte wegen den blutroten Pumps die mir die Füsse wund schabten; der Himmel verdunkelte sich, immer mehr und mehr, der Zug war da und ich ging barfuß nach Hause, nach Hause, nach Hause… nach Hause?

Der Garten, den wir zusammen pflegen. Gepflegt haben. Die Sanduhr die du mir hingestellt hast, die ich stündlich umdrehe. Dein Bild, unser Bild, der Tisch an dem ich nun sitze. Du lachst mich an, schüttelst den Kopf, ehe du dich wegdrehst und wieder zu Sternen staub wirst.

Es ist schwierig.
Gott, es war schon immer schwierig gewesen.
Ich hasse diese Gesellschaft und würde mich nie, niemals an sie gewöhnen können. Nicht einmal an die lachenden Kindern, das Gesicht mit Eis verschmiert. Ich werde mich nie daran gewöhnen können frei und offen zu lachen. Oder allein auf der Mauer zu laufen. Ich werde mich nie daran gewöhnen können in dem Himmel zu blicken und nicht zu weinen.
Als Kind, als Mädchen, als junge Frau – ich werde es nie können. Der Himmel ist zu hell. Ich fühle mich so schwach, so allein, so, so…
Du weißt es doch? Du weißt es doch.
Ich habe es dir im letzten Brief geschrieben. Hast du ihn denn nicht gelesen…? All die anderen Briefe? Die Bilder? Das Band? Die Pakete die ich dir schicke, alles…?
Alles…?

Noch heute blicke ich in den Abendhimmel und zähle die Sterne. Für dich. Knöpfe Armbänder, für dich. Diese Briefe… alles. Ich warte bloß. Auf irgendwas. Dass es rote Blumen regnet, haha. Dass du mich ohne weiteres umarmst und dich erinnerst, erinnerst – dass du die Briefe wahrnimmst, dass du… siehst. Erinnerst. Dass du zurück kommst…
Wohin blickst du bloß? Wohin blickst du bloß…? Du fühlst dich so warm an, aber im Innern… ist es ein Nordpol in dir? Ist es der Schnee? Ist es dein Winter der bald verschwinden wird?
Bald, bitte. Lass es wieder Frühling werden. Es muss Frühling werden…

… Bald habe ich alle Briefmarken aufgebraucht. Ich werde neue kaufen. 200 Briefmarken die ich alle auf deinen Brief klebe, haha, nur damit du siehst dass auch du zurück kehren kannst.

P.S.

… Ich liebe dich.

Als sie die Lippen spaltete um zu essen wandte ich den Blick ab. Ich hasste es wie es aussah. Hasste die Geräusche die der Mensch dabei machte. Es war so widerlich.
“Jedenfalls, Pierre, er hat mir erzählt… dass er es hassen würde. Crevetten zu essen, meine ich. Es würde ihn an widern. Die Haut die man dabei ab pulen muss, die kleinen Beinchen, den Kopf der dabei weg gerissen wird… die Tatsache dass einige sogar noch den Kopf sauber saugen.”
Sie schob die kleinen Crevettenstücke beiseite, zu den Zwiebeln. Sie hasste Zwiebeln.
“Ich kleiner Idiot damals habe mir das alles vorgestellt… anders, meine ich… und dann hatten wir am Abend auch noch die Dinger… es war so grausam. Ich bekam keinen Bissen runter.”

Der Löffel, schwer in meiner Hand, während ich im Teller den Reis hin und her schiebe, die Bauchkrämpfe dabei ignoriere. Der Löffel, an dessen Geschmack ich mich mittlerweile gewöhnt habe; ich häufe etwas an, esse, häufe an, esse. Nehme die Crevetten zwischen die Fingern und fange an die harte Haut abzuschälen. Erinnert mich an Plastik.
Erinnert mich an Menschen. Die Haut die man abreißt. Arme und Beine die man abtrennt. Den Kopf, den man sauber leckt, ehe das Gehirn raus gesaugt wird. Vielleicht kommt davon die saftige Konsistenz vom Gericht?
Nochmal lecke ich mir über die Lippen, ehe ich zu ihr hoch sehe.
“Willst du die noch?”