Masterlist

Alle mine ord! / All my words!

2011:

Som ein Swix teleskopstav til 649,-: Me bur på landet, bror min og eg.

A Chance at Something Old:  Eric just wants for something to give.

Earthbound:  Elizabeth just wants to lock herself away and code, and not have to worry about silly things like being happy.

Distansering: dikt til k.u.k.

Split: dikt.

Å kaste perler for svin: Erlend har en rutine.

(Scream: An impulsive trip ends unexpectedly.)

2010:

(Waiting: Graveyards.)

All Fired Up: When Jonathan thinks back on his days in the army, the first thing he’ll recall is killing his best friend.

Bottles: I shouldn’t be so used to this, Faye thinks, gathering up her lover’s discarded beer bottles.

(Drama i Oslo: Det er litt flaut, egentlig, å være så misunnelig på Marie og Evelyn som Lone er. Marie og Evelyn er som et puslespill – de passer perfekt sammen, og hver for seg er de uferdige.)

(Lost in the Black: discontinued space cowboys firefly homage, basically.)

(Å forutsjå Oedipus:  Jasper har ikkje vert heilt god i det siste.)

2009:

Ørkenbarn: Zahti vil til havet.

Delusions: Jade thinks he’s in love.

Parenteser er enten fordi jeg ikke er fornøyd, eller fordi det ikke er ordentlig. /Stories in parentheses = stories I’m not very proud of.

som ein swix teleskopstav til 649 kr

Bror, seier eg. Bror. Bror! Vakn opp!

Kva, mumlar han, snur seg mot veggen og nei, nei, nei, han må vakne no, eg treng han, eg—

Bror! Vakn opp!

Gå og plag katten, seier han, prøver å leggje ei pute over hovudet, og eg blir tvunget til å ta puta og riv ho frå han og—

Bror!

Kva? seier han, og no er han vaken og ser på meg med eld i auga, og eg smiler til han og seier, hei, og er det ikkje fint, du er vaken no, og no er eg ikkje einsam meir, og er det ikkje fint at du og eg er brør, bror.

Han stirer på meg. Tar puta oppatt frå golvet og tar ho over hovudet, og eg er ikkje redd for at han skal kvele seg sjølv fordi bror min er udøyeleg.

Men bror min søv alt for mykje, og eg tar dyna me deler og eg løyper inn i stova, og eg kan høyre han banne når den kalde vinterlufta kysser han over heile kroppen.

Han roper namnet mitt, forbanner det, og eg sett meg ned framfor peisen med min nye, varme dyne og ler og ler og ler.

2.

Me bor på landet, bror min og eg. Me bor på landet, nesten heilt aleine. Me har ein katt som heter Arnold Leopold Narkissos Schwarzenegger IV. Eg fekk velje namn for det meste, men bror insisterte på at han skulle heite Narkissos. Elles får eg absolutt ingen nytte av psykologi-utdaninga min, sa han, og lo på ein annen måte enn han pleier.

Men bortsett frå katten så er det nesten berre oss—me har ein gjest til, men bror likar ikkje når eg snakkar om han. Eg har gitt han eit namn og, men det er hemmeleg.

3.

På landet er det ingen som stiller spørsmål, seier bror min nokon gonger. Kvifor det, spør eg, og eg stiller jo spørsmål heile tida, og da ler han og seier, ja, ja det gjer du. Eg spør ikkje: er det ein god ting? Eg spør ikkje: kvifor er det viktig?

4.

Eg har ski som eg fekk til bursdagen. Eg huskar ikkje når det var, eg huskar ikkje når bursdagen min er, men eg er sikker på at bror min veit det. Bror min veit alt.

Eg har ski som eg fekk til bursdagen, og nokon gonger får eg lov til å gå ut og bruke dei og det er det lykkelegaste eg nokon gong kjem til å bli, seier bror min når han ser meg, husk dette, husk dette— og eg nikkar og smiler og seier, jada, jada, eg huskar det no, eg huskar det, eg huskar det no bror slapp av!

5.

Bror min er den einaste som får lov til å dra og kjøpe ting. Han drar ein gong i veka, starter opp bilen med eit host og eit kremt og eit brak, og rett før han drar sjekkar han alltid bagasjerommet for eg har sniki meg inn dit før, men då fekk eg ikkje noko å ete på fleire dagar så bror min burde vete at eg aldri kjem til å gjere det igjen, kjensla av svolt gnog seg inn i knoklane mine og det var forferdeleg, smertefullt, så smertefullt at eg låg i senga vår og gret—og så drar han og kjøper ting.

Og eg sitt og venter, stille og lyding på stovegolvet, så han ikkje skal bli sur på meg når han kjem tilbake, og eg sitt med teleskopstaven eg fekk av gjesten og trekkjer han frå kvarandre og saman, saman og frå kvarande, heilt til eg høyrer motoren igjen—men eg gøymer teleskopstaven fyrst for bror min veit nok frå før av og hovudet hans er sikkert tungt så han treng ikkje å vete meir med ein gong.

Han har kjøpt blåost og vin til seg sjølv og en kjærleik på pinne til meg, og den kvelden sett me oss i snøen og ser på solnedgangen mens eg slikkar og slikkar og han drikker og drikker og fargene blir tatt av snøen rundt oss og det er nydelig, tenkjer eg.

Og så  snur eg meg og ser gjesten luske bak eit tre i nærleiken, møter blikket hans og smiler, og bror snur seg for å sjå på kva eg ser på og så vekk med deg, roper han, vekk med deg og ditt faenskap og skjønner du ikkje at du ikkje er velkommen her—! Og gjesten snur seg for å gå, men han møter blikket mitt ein siste gong og smiler tilbake.

6.

Etter det vil ikkje bror sjå på meg i nokre dagar, men om kveldane får eg lov til å sitte på fanget hans og gråte med hovudet på brystet hans mens han seier, så så, så så, og namnet mitt, han gjentar namnet mitt og eg græt hardare.

Han legg meg når eg held på å sovne, dreg håret mitt bort og kysser meg på panna, og når han ikkje trur eg kan høyre han byrjar han å rope og smelle utafor, kastar snøballar på tre som eg kan høyre svaie, fylt av sinne og aggresjon og så eit dunk når han kastar på bilen, dunk, dunk, dunk dunk dunk—

Og så kjem han inn og legg seg ved sida meg og klemmer meg, hardt, og me sovnar saman.

A Chance at Something Old

The streets are lined with flickering lights as Eric walks home from school. There are noises behind him. Laughter, whistling, catcalls, shattering the illusion of silence evening always brings. Eric hunches his shoulders, clutches his messenger bag closer. His breaths are forced even, his eyes on his own shadow as it grows and wanes on the pavement.

At home, he can hear the TV in the living room. His mother is sitting in front of it, the only noise a faint clink as her knitting needles meet in a flourish of motion.

When Eric was younger, he would sometimes skip school to stand outside his own living room window and watch his mother. Her Spanish soap operas would be the only source of noise on the quiet street, and he remembers how their dingy old TV would lose the signal more often than not. His mother would sigh, put down her knitting needles and wool, and walk over to the TV to smack the top of it with the flat of her hand. Eric would watch, enraptured, one hand on his cheek where he could feel a ghost of the same smack. The image would return to the TV reluctantly, as if Eric’s mother made it an unwilling co-spectator.

The same Spanish soap operas are rolling over the TV now, dialog and hand gestures fast paced. Eric opens his mouth to greet his mother, changes his mind, and goes upstairs without a word.

He can hear it as his father comes home, can see the glass of water at his desk tremble with the force of a front door being slammed shut. Eric stays upstairs until dinner forces him otherwise.

The dining room is unlit, save the light of the TV. The meat his mother’s made looks like it’s gone bad when painted by the artificial colors. A Fox News anchorman is going on about the recent suggestion to change Iowa’s marital laws, declaring the whole thing ridiculous. “Damn right,” his father says, his loud noises of agreement unhindered by the food he keeps stuffing in his mouth. The TV is situated opposite his father. His mother sits to his father’s right, eating with slow, measured bites. Eric sits to his left, and he stops watching the TV in favor of seeing how his mother’s cheekbones are put in sharp relief by every car that passes outside, lights big and unyielding through the kitchen windows. “We should just deport the lot,” Eric’s father says as a Fox reporter interviews a Californian lesbian couple, proudly showing off their wedding rings. “I hear they’re welcome in Europe.”

His mother nods, and Eric uses the harsh lights as an excuse to drape his black fringe over his eyes like a cowl.

At school, Eric has just escaped the mess of teenage hormones that is the cafeteria, and he takes his drooping lunch with him out on the football field. The artificial grass is touched by the cold fingers of autumn, and it has grown even stringier since the air started to carry a promise of snow and long nights. A girl he doesn’t recognize approaches from his right, and her wide Bohemian skirt flutters in the wind. A green Palestine scarf is draped around her neck. For esthetic purposes or for its statement, Eric vaguely wonders.

“Hello!” she says as she draws nearer, loud through the temperamental bursts of wind. Eric shrugs a mildly confused greeting, busily divesting himself of a tuna sandwich. “I’m Annie,” she introduces herself, all cheery exuberance, and sticks out a hand. Her fingernails are painted green.

The moment dwells as Eric, still chewing, looks at the hand. Annie’s smile falters, and she eventually pulls it back.

She stands there while Eric sits and continues to eat, before she breaks the silence. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

Eric startles, and swallows so abruptly he barely avoids choking. “Why?” he asks, eyes narrowing, voice acidic as his gaze trails up to meet hers. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, no, no!” Annie says, and her smile is renewed, this time with a reassuring tint. “I’m a vegetarian, so I totally know how it feels to be discriminated against.”

Eric looks at her in disbelief. Her eyes are big and gullible, and he thinks of how much he could hurt her.

Instead, he stands up and walks away. “Hey!” Annie exclaims behind him, but he doesn’t hear her footsteps and he doesn’t turn around.

On Wednesdays, Eric meets Logan by the bridge. Logan is late, as is the custom, and Eric makes do by studying the bridge. There’s a red swastika defacing it, contrasting with the gray brick that otherwise continues uninterrupted for arch after arch after arch. He points it out to Logan when the latter finally shows up, and Logan sighs. “Fuckin’ Iowa, man,” he says. Tries to smudge at the paint with his thumb, but it doesn’t budge. “Fuckin’ Iowa.”

Eric looks at him, and at the swastika. His stomach fills with disappointment so hard and sudden he gets a bit dizzy, and he stands up to leave.

“Eric?” Logan looks at him, bemused. “Where’re you going?”

“Home,” Eric replies, tone as bitter as the wind biting his cheeks. “And you know why, don’t give me that shit.”

The next day at school, Logan meets his eyes with an apologetic shine over the bustle of the cafeteria, but someone says something and Logan has to break away, shoulders shaking with laughter. His letterman jacket is slung over the back of the chair he’s sitting on, and Eric looks at it with revulsion.

The next Wednesday, Eric arrives late out of spite. He sees Logan sitting there, forlorn and sans his letterman jacket. The river bank is wet with rain.

“Eric,” Logan says breathlessly, standing up as soon as he sees him. He kisses him briefly, and a malicious part of Eric thinks of all the people that could walk by. “Eric, you know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t,” Eric says. Logan looks pained by the comment.

“It’s—as soon as we graduate, okay?” Logan hugs him. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Eric says, mumbles it into the nape of Logan’s neck, damning his own acquiescence.

That night, Eric looks at the YouTube video of a man, voice choked up as he pleads for his right to marry the one he loves.

A few days later, he’s trying to work on some overdue Physics homework. There’s two knocks on his door, then his mother’s voice. “Eric?”

Eric looks up from his homework with a surprised frown. “Yeah, mom?”

“May I come in?”

Eric looks around his room. Clothes cover half the floor, and his desk is so cluttered he has to do homework on his bed. He shrugs. “Sure.”

His mother opens the door, but doesn’t enter further than the doorway. “Eric,” she says, like she’s gone so long without pronouncing the name she’s forgotten how it’s done. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, mom,” he replies automatically, but she doesn’t seem to take notice of his words.

“You’ve been so quiet lately.”

“It’s nothing, mom.” His voice is stronger now, but he doesn’t dare to meet her gaze.

His mother stands for a while longer, lingering like an unwanted cold. Eventually, she sighs. “Good night, Eric.”

“Good night, mom,” Eric tries to answer, but his mother shuts the door in the middle of his reply.

It comes like a punch to the gut. He’s sitting in front of the TV, his mother by his side.  His father hasn’t come home yet, and Eric has been allowed to channel surf aimlessly. None of his mother’s soap operas are airing.

He stumbles over a news channel, eyes widening as he sees the governor finish up a speech.

“—and that is why we’re decided to pass this bill, allowing people of all genders to achieve marital status.” The governor nods to his cheering audience – some of them are chanting, shouting “We’re here, we’re queer, and we’re not going anywhere!”—and to the camera, before stepping off the podium and letting one of his people take over.

Eric is crying.

“Eric?” his mother says when she notices, mildly distressed. He tries to hide his face behind his bangs, tries to stand up and go to his room, but she presses him into her chest before he can.

“Oh, Eric,” she sighs, different than the ones he grew up with. She sweeps a hand through his hair, the caress maternal and he cries, and cries, and cries.

Did you see? he texts Logan, later.

I saw

Then, even later, when he’s about to fall asleep:

Be my date to prom? 

Earthbound

 

Earthbound

for Karina

“Riley’s coming to visit,” Elizabeth says over breakfast. She’d gotten the message late last night, unable to close her eyes without seeing maggots eating at her dead legs.

“That’s nice, honey,” her mother says, between bites of a bran muffin. Elizabeth glances down at her own Cocoa Puffs.

“He’s bringing someone,” Elizabeth elaborates.

At this, her mother starts to look vaguely interested. “A girl?”

“He didn’t say.”

“When?”

“Thursday, he said.”

The rest of the breakfast passes in silence, only broken when Elizabeth drops her spoon on the floor. Her mother retrieves it.

Today is Tuesday. Elizabeth catches herself wondering about the mystery person Riley is bringing, and berates herself. Large chunks of code have to be rewritten because of seemingly inconsequential mistakes, and she’s done working later than usual.

The noises and scents of her mother starting dinner travels down the hallway and into her home office, and she gives up, rolling her wheelchair to her room instead.

That night, the maggots leave her and her damaged legs alone. Instead, she dreams of somebody taking her away.

On Wednesday, work passes in a blur, and Elizabeth’s mother insists on braiding her hair.

“You look so cute, just like when you were eight!”

“Thanks, mom,” Elizabeth says, and focuses on the TV.

“You don’t think they’ll have to sleep here, do you?” Her mother’s eating another bran muffin, appearing concerned. “We only have one sofa, I suppose I could find a sleeping bag in the attic for the other..”

“I’m sure it’s fine, mom,” Elizabeth says. “I think Riley would’ve told you.”

Her mother’s lips thin, and she turns away.

At last, they arrive. Riley’s signature stomping of boots makes Elizabeth want to rush to the door. Instead, she rolls behind when her mother goes to open it.

“Hey, mom.” Riley’s smile is awkward, and so is the hug he gives her. He perks up when he sees Elizabeth, looming behind her mom like a clumsy shadow.

“Eli, hi!”

“Hi,” Elizabeth says, and gratefully returns the hug he leans down to give her. Over his shoulder, she can see a woman. His plus one, Elizabeth’s mind helpfully supplies, and she lowers her gaze just as the woman is about to meet it.

“Mom, Eli, this is Dora,” Riley says as he steps back.

Elizabeth tries to wave, but the motion gets awkward and she stops halfway through. Nobody seems to notice.

“Hello,” Elizabeth’s mom says, and grips Dora’s outstretched hand. “How do you know Riley?”

“Mom,” Riley says sharply.

“We met in the military,” Dora says, still with a friendly smile.

That can’t be healthy, smiling for so long, Elizabeth thinks. After all, her mother is very careful about her health, and Elizabeth hasn’t seen her smile in a long time.

Neither of them smile much.

Elizabeth stops being a passenger on that train of thought, and listens back in on the conversation.

“As long as you’re happy,” her mother is saying with a sigh.

“Mom,” Riley says again, knife edge in his voice. Elizabeth’s mother ignores him.

“I made us some sandwiches,” she says, and starts heading for the kitchen. Riley follows her.

Out of her peripheral vision, Elizabeth can see Dora eying her wheelchair. She flushes, and makes sure Dora has walked past before rolling after.

 

The kitchen is filled with an awkward silence. Elizabeth’s mother seems to have finished interrogating Dora, and is busying herself with something on the counter, effectively turning her back to them. No sandwich for her, of course. Elizabeth’s has extra mayo.

Riley and Dora have both taken seats at their kitchen table. Elizabeth finds it harder to avoid their gazes when they’re practically eye level.

“So,” Riley says. Dora and Elizabeth both look at him. “How’s the code, Eli?”

Elizabeth glances over at Dora, who looks interestedly back. “Same old,” she mumbles into her sandwich.

Riley smiles. “Well,” he says, “I’ve gotten a cat.”

“You have?” Dora says, and almost turns in her seat to look at him. “How come I didn’t know that?”

Riley shrugs. “I dunno, maybe because you haven’t been over in a while? We’ll talk about it later, whatever.” The words sound accusing, and Riley’s eyes adapt the apologetic sheen they had for a year after coming back from the army and finding Elizabeth broken.

“What kind of cat is it?” Elizabeth asks shyly.

“A regular house cat, I think,” Riley replies, and his smile is almost indulgent. Dora looks annoyed as she munches on her own sandwich. “I don’t know much about cats, I picked it up at the shelter a few days ago.”

Dora opens her mouth to asks something, but changes her mind after a meaningful glance from Riley.

“What’s its name?” Elizabeth asks, still not meeting Riley’s stare. He wouldn’t meet hers for such a long time, it feels uncomfortable now.

“Actually, I was hoping to get your help on that,” Riley says. His plate is just crumbs, devoured as soon as they sat down. Riley’s the speed eater of them. Elizabeth gets into the habit if she’s stressed enough. “It’s a boycat, small-ish. Gray. What do you think it should be called?”

“Tom,” Elizabeth says after a moment’s thought. She can see Dora crack a smile at the suggestion.

Riley nods. “Sounds good,” he says, and is obviously done formulating another sentence when Elizabeth’s mother interrupts him.

“Riley!” She turns around, and catches all three of them by surprise. Dora, who was in the middle of swallowing, makes an awkward sound. “I need to talk to you.”

Riley’s brows pinch together, but he makes no argument before following Elizabeth’s mother out the door.

Dora and Elizabeth look after them.

Dora turns to Elizabeth. “So,” she says, and Elizabeth thinks, here’s one who doesn’t waste time thinking before she speaks. “How’d you get into the chair?”

Elizabeth turns red, and she can feel her features twist into something angry. She meets Dora’s eyes, a charcoal brown common for her complexion. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, wait,” Dora says, and looks embarrassed. “That was pretty rude, wasn’t it? Sorry. My parents dropped me on my head a lot when I was a kid.” She fiddles a bit with the napkin beside her plate.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna, no pressure and all that. I’m just curious, I know some vets in chairs like that.” She nods towards Elizabeth’s manual wheelchair, and Elizabeth softens. It’s strangely refreshing not to skirt around the issue, and it’s not like she doesn’t think of the accident every day anyway.

She looks down at her wheelchair. “Drunk driver, car accident.”

“Oh.” Dora looks sympathetic, but there’s no pity in her eyes. Elizabeth’s learned to tell the difference. “That sucks.”

Elizabeth shrugs. “It’s been a while. Can we– uhm, can we talk about something else now?”

“Sure,” Dora says. “So, you work with code?”

 

They’re having a conversation, Elizabeth realizes in the middle of listening to Dora rant about what was wrong in War and Peace. A real, proper conversation, and it feels liberating. Granted, sometimes it veers awfully close to a monologue on Dora’s part, but still. Elizabeth loves her mother, she does, but they haven’t talked like this in ages.

“Uhm, if I might–”

“Yeah, yeah, go on.”

“What I think Tolstoy was actually trying to say, is–”

Elizabeth starts, but trails off as the kitchen door opens, and two unhappy-looking figures enter. Elizabeth had almost forgotten they existed at all.

“Well, Eli, it was nice seeing you,” Riley says, “but me and Dora have to leave.”

Elizabeth feels disappointed without really understanding why, at least until Dora turns back to her and asks, “Do you IM anywhere? My phone’s shit, can’t afford the texting charges anyway.”

“Yeah,” she says, a bit taken aback and flattered in a way she hasn’t been before. “I’m earthbound on Skype.”

“Great!” Dora smiles, and Elizabeth can’t help but smile back.

 

“That brother of yours,” Elizabeth’s mom says over pasta carbonara, and sighs.

“What?” Elizabeth asks, grabbing a glass of soda.

“He’s a bit odd, isn’t he?”

“Well,” Elizabeth says. She’d always thought Riley was pretty well-adjusted, coming back from war the same person who enlisted, but her mother does have a point. She always does. “I guess you’re right.”

“And that girl he brought..”

Her mother sighs again. She reaches across the table to wipe some sauce from Elizabeth’s chin.

“At least I have you here with me. Right?”

“Yeah, mom,” Elizabeth says, “You’ll always have me.”

 

(That’s something they never speak of, how it’s Elizabeth’s mother, not Riley’s, and Elizabeth’s brother, not her own son.)

 

greencandle (16:40): eli

greencandle (16:41): eeeeli

greencandle (16:41): eliiii

greencandle (16:42): can i call you eli btw

earthbound (16:43): hi. sure.

greencandle (16:43): gr8

greencandle (16:43): so, sup?

earthbound (16:44): working

greencandle (16:44): this late?

earthbound (16:45): yeah, i was distracted earlier today.

earthbound (16:46): also, it’s not that late.

greencandle (16:46): maybe I’m just lucky with my job, then

 

Dora’s a paper-pusher of some kind. Elizabeth thought it sounded dead boring when Dora first mentioned it, but Dora swore by it before she could even word her thoughts. Not that she would’ve.

 

“Remember to move your thighs, not your back!” Elizabeth’s watching a Sporty Sara jump around on the screen when her mom comes home earlier than expected. She grasps for the remote, but it falls to the floor in her desperation. By the time she’s gotten it back, her mother’s entered the living room.

“Elizabeth..”

Elizabeth turns off the TV, and dutifully turns to face her mother. She’s still in her white pediatrician gown, and she’s looking at Elizabeth with dismayed eyes.

“You know how I feel about those videos.”

Elizabeth nods, and studies the floor. She tries to guess the story behind some of the unfamiliar indentations.

“I’m disappointed in you.”

Elizabeth nods again. Shame reddens her face.

“It’s obvious that you don’t respect my authority,” Elizabeth’s mother continues. She sighs. That’s all she does these days, sighs and sighs and sighs. Elizabeth never thought the exhalation of breath could be so filled with words. “I’m taking away your internet outside work hours for a week. I’m sorry, honey, but you have to learn. These kinds of videos aren’t good for you, darling, you know that.”

“Yeah, mom. Sorry, mom.”

Elizabeth’s mom walks over to the TV, pops out the DVD, puts it in its case. “And I’m taking this.”

 

greencandle (17:32): hey eli

greencandle (17:32): guess what i found on the internets

earthbound (17:33): sorry, can’t talk now or for a week.

greencandle (17:33): uh, kay

greencandle (17:34): y not?

earthbound (17:34): mom’s taking away my internet.

greencandle (17:35): LOL

greencandle (17:36): srsly? does she think youre 12?

earthbound (17:36): what? no.

earthbound (17:37): i’m sorry, i have to go.

earthbound has logged off.

“Honey, come watch television with me. There’s that actress you like.”

“Okay, mom.”

“Baby, I’m running down to the store. Do you want anything? Candy?”

“I’m alright, mom.”

“Come on, the weekend’s almost here. I think you deserve something delicious for being such a sweet girl.”

“Some KitKats, then, mom. Please.”

“Do you want a bath, hon? I can put the water on for you.” Elizabeth’s mom stands off to the side of Elizabeth’s gaze. She looks worried, almost.

“That sounds great, actually. Yeah.” Elizabeth gives her mother a small smile, and the worried lines of her face decrease bit by bit.

“Great! It’ll be done in just a few minutes.” Her mom bustles out, and Elizabeth turns back to the yammering TV. When her mom calls the bath done, and Elizabeth rolls into the bathroom, the first thing she does is ask her mother to cover up the mirror.

One of the few things Elizabeth dislikes more than mirrors is the blurry image she saw of herself before her mother covered it up.

Elizabeth thinks about Dora’s last few words, about her mother thinking she’s twelve years old. She doesn’t, Elizabeth thinks with a vehement tone that takes her by surprise. Her mother is kind and giving, and she wants Elizabeth’s best. Even in situations where Elizabeth might not see it herself.

“Hey, baby.” Elizabeth’s mom’s come in after another one of her nightmares. Elizabeth is sweaty, and her throat is sore. She’s running her hands up and down her legs.

“Maggots again?”

Elizabeth nods, and her mom pushes back the hair that creeps into her face. Her mother sighs, and looks down. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The covers are pushed back almost entirely, exposing Elizabeth’s pale legs to the Maine winter air.

Elizabeth’s mom looks almost despairing for a moment, then she pulls herself back together. “I’m sorry, honey. Do you want some warm milk?”

Elizabeth nods again.

greencandle: !

greencandle: ur back!

greencandle: and so late to

earthbound: you’re not one to talk

earthbound: why’re you up?

greencandle: bad dreams

earthbound: same

greencandle: not a vet for nothing!

greencandle: wanna share?

earthbound: not really

greencandle: ok

greencandle: anyway

greencandle: youve missed out on a lot this week

earthbound: like what?

greencandle: so earthbound huh

greencandle: that sounds deep

earthbound: it’s not really

earthbound: i got it after the accident

greencandle: y, wats it mean?

earthbound: it’s silly

greencandle: cmoooon

earthbound: well

earthbound: i used to run track in high school

earthbound: i wasn’t very good, none of us were to be frank

earthbound: but i miss it, you know?

earthbound: i miss that sense of flying you sometimes got

greencandle: that’s not silly atall

earthbound: so, what about greencandle?

greencandle: oh, its from a cohen song

greencandle: shows how inventive i am, huh

greencandle: hold on

greencandle: here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iels3GLw-zs

earthbound: it’s nice

greencandle: yep

Somehow, when Elizabeth goes to sleep, she starts looking forward to waking up not because she won’t be plagued by terrible dreams, but because she actually wants to experience a new day. She wakes up, and sometimes she doesn’t even wear the clothes her mother has picked out for her, laid out on the bed. There’s this feeling in her stomach, this wonderful feeling of something that Elizabeth can’t — won’t — identify.

earthbound: can i ask something

greencandle: sure

earthbound: what was the war like?

greencandle: well

greencandle: its kind of hard to exlpain

greencandle: it was war, yknow

greencandle: but there were happy times

greencandle: and sad times

greencandle: and that terrible moment

greencandle: where you realize that maybe not everyone who arrived with you is going to leave iwth you

earthbound: would you do it again?

greencandle: not in a million years

Weeks pass like that. Dora keeps circling around the subject of family, keeps trying to get Elizabeth to talk about her mother. Elizabeth logs off every time the subject rises, angered by Dora’s ridiculous thoughts on it, but when Dora suggests meeting for coffee or tea or something at a local bakery, Elizabeth still takes the offer after a day’s thought.

“Mom?” Elizabeth turns to her mother, who’s sitting in the sofa beside her. Elizabeth’s wheelchair stands forlorn by the sofa’s side.

“Yeah, baby?” Her mom doesn’t really pay attention, keeps watching the colorful TV shop commercial advertising some new health product.

“I need you to drive me somewhere.”

Her mother starts a bit. “Oh? Where?”

“I’m meeting someone at the baker’s.”

“Who?” Her mother doesn’t look like she’s quite buying into the idea. Elizabeth hasn’t left the house in a long, long time.

Elizabeth doesn’t know why, but it’s like she wants to keep this meeting to herself. Without her mother’s knowledge. It seems like a ludicrous thought, absurd, but she still says: “.. Melissa.”

“Melissa? From high school?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought she moved to Oregon?”

“She’s back, for a while. She.. emailed me.”

“Alright, then.” Her mother still looks a bit suspicious, but smooths out her wrinkles with a hand. She doesn’t need them staying. “When do you have to be there? How long do you plan on staying? I could wait in the car.”

“This Wednesday, at six. You don’t have to wait, I’ll call when you can come pick me up.”

“You don’t have a cell phone.”

“I can borrow Melissa’s.”

“Honey.. there’ll be people there. You know that, right?”

“I know, mom. I can handle it.”

Elizabeth ends up calling her mom 20 minutes after she’s arrived, while Dora frantically tries to calm her down. It feels like everyone’s staring at her, and this whole place is full of strangers, and she can’t breathe properly, and all she wants to do is go home.

greencandle: im sorry

greencandle: really

greencandle: my parents dropped me on my head a lot

earthbound: you always say that

earthbound: but it’s ok.

greencandle: i still feel really bad

earthbound: it’s not your fault

earthbound: I just really haven’t been.. out, in a while

greencandle: hey, no pressure

greencandle: really

greencandle: we’ll do it on ur time

Elizabeth has just gotten off the phone with her mom – “sorry, honey, I have to stay late, but there are some left-overs in the fridge you can reheat. Put the microwave at 6 minutes or so. It has broccoli, so don’t drink milk with it, that upsets your stomach, okay?” – when she remembers that she hasn’t watched any of her aerobics videos in a while.

Her laptop’s already open in her lap, an IM window with greencandle (offline) open. She torrents a generic video, doesn’t bother to research while it downloads.

When it’s done, she places her laptop on their dinner table and presses play.

It’s.. okay, Elizabeth supposes, after watching in immobile silence for fifteen minutes. It doesn’t quite excite her the way it used to. The whole thing seems a bit bland.

“And now, down on the floor,” the Sporty Sara on the computer screen suggests, “Come on, everybody join in!”

Elizabeth, purely for experimental purposes, does as she’s told.

It’s humiliating. She can’t even do a single sit-up without breathing heavy, and Sporty Sara is practically tossing them left and right as she keeps yelling encouragements. They only continue with the floor-based exercises for another ten minutes, but Elizabeth finds herself rewinding that piece and trying desperately to keep up, taking a breather whenever they focus on the legs.

After 20 minutes, she’s run ragged, but she feels inexplicably pleased with herself as she manages back into the chair and rolls to the bathroom to clean up.

It becomes a thing Elizabeth does, after her mother’s left for work in the mornings, and the house still has that quiet, sleepy smell. She doesn’t really ask herself why, knows she wouldn’t be able to answer it anyway.

earthbound: so i’d like to try that meeting thing again

earthbound: if you don’t mind

greencandle: not atall!

greencandle: when were u thinking?

earthbound: whenever, i don’t really have plans.. what works for you?

greencandle: I could come pick u up

greencandle: n we could go to mine’s

greencandle: if u want

earthbound: sure

earthbound: tomorrow?

greencandle: yep

“You’re pretty quiet.” Elizabeth startles, looking up from Dora’s colorful rug. Her apartment is confusing, switching between overflowing and messy to almost spartan. (“My roommate moved out couple weeks back,” Dora says, later. “I can afford the rent by my own self now, but I’m not used to the extra space yet, you know?”)

“Sorry,” Elizabeth says.

“Oh, you know, nothing to apologize about,” Dora hurriedly adds. “I figure it’s better than the mess we ended up in last time.”

Elizabeth nods, and rubs her finger along the edge of the tea cup. Dora had first offered the couch, but apologized when she remembered Elizabeth’s wheelchair. Elizabeth was stunned she’d forgotten, too stunned to say she didn’t really mind shifting over to sofas.

Now they’re sitting by Dora’s dining table, and that feeling in Elizabeth’s stomach is burning brighter in Dora’s presence, flaring up violently.

“I like chatting on the net,” Elizabeth says, suddenly. “It’s.. easier.”

“I guess,” Dora replies, instinctively agreeing before she thinks it over. “No, wait, I dunno. I don’t necessarily think so. So many things get lost when you try to communicate in text. Inflection of voice, facial expressions.. I read somewhere that’s 95% of communication, or something. Body language, all that.”

“But on the net there are no obligations,” Elizabeth remarks. “You can just pull out of the conversation whenever. And you have all the time in the world to think about what you want to say.”

“Is that why you’re so much more chatty there?” Dora’s eyes are wide, imploring. Elizabeth feels uncomfortable, traces the familiarity of her palms to make it go away.

“Yeah. I end up so awkward in front of people, and, well..” She gestures down at the wheelchair. “People have a hard time not just seeing it.”

Dora nods, then pats Elizabeth’s hands as she stands up. “Do you want some more tea?”

“Honey?” Elizabeth’s reaching for a glass in the kitchen. It’s bed time soon, and her mother is standing in the hallway.

“Yes, mom?”

“Your clothes seem.. bigger.” Her mother gives her an almost criticizing stare, clinically scrutinizing. “Did something happen?”

Elizabeth starts, stops. Thinks. “No, mom. Not that I know of.”

Her mother’s lips tighten, before she reaches down to grasp Elizabeth’s jaw. “No matter — this is a wonderful excuse to take you shopping!” She drops a kiss at Elizabeth’s forehead, and releases her. “Let’s make a day out of it. Saturday’s coming up, you’re free then, right, honey?” She doesn’t wait for Elizabeth to answer. “Of course you are. Great!”

Her mother bustles out, rejuvenated, and Elizabeth looks down at the empty glass in her hand. She puts it back in the cupboard, and goes to talk to Dora.

Elizabeth sees Saturday approach with something close to apathy. Her mother mentions it every chance she gets, reminiscing over their past city adventures. She also worries, worries that Elizabeth will be overwhelmed by the masses, promises that Elizabeth just has to say the word and they’ll go back home. Elizabeth doesn’t mention that Dora’s helped her with that, that their weekly meetings have evolved into trying to make Elizabeth comfortable in public areas, that they now meet in parks and sleepy bakeries and sometimes even go to the cinema.

When Saturday finally arrives, and Elizabeth’s mother tries to help her into the car, Elizabeth bats her hands away without thinking about it. Her mother stops, jarred, like a clockwork mechanism with debris stuck in the cogs.

The mall is full, and Elizabeth takes a moment to calm herself down when they enter. Her practice with Dora was always on a Wednesday afternoon, a slow day, not a busy Saturday morning. Her mother notices her hesitance. “You okay, hon?”

“Yeah, mom,” Elizabeth says, and takes a deep breath. Her mother strokes a hand down her hair, and they venture into the first clothing store they find.

“Oh, honey, look at this!” Her mother’s pulled out a flowery t-shirt, her forearms already hidden by layers of clothing Elizabeth has mentally rejected.

“Yeah, mom,” she says, and feels a bit worse when her mother adds it to the pile. They’re nearing the register when Elizabeth finally turns to her mom in line.

“Mom,” she starts. Her mother’s lost in her own thoughts, a family trait, but quickly snaps out of it with a painted smile.

“Yes?”

“I don’t actually think I’d wear these.”

Her mother frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean..” Elizabeth takes the pile from her mother’s hands, puts it in her lap. “This. Any of this. I can’t let you buy it if I’m not gonna use it.”

“But, honey,” her mother’s frown deepens, “don’t be silly. You’ve always worn stuff like this, you told me that.”

“Mom–”

“You told me that.”

“Mom, I know.” Elizabeth feels irritation in the hunch of her shoulders, the unashamed stares of the passersby and other people waiting in line like a solid weight. “But that was senior year, okay? Seven years ago.”

Her mom looks jarred again, like the pieces are rearranging themselves in a pattern she doesn’t understand. She shakes her head. “Baby, this is silly. Whatever phase you’re in–”

“It’s not a phase, mom,” and the words come out serrated, Elizabeth growing more uncomfortable by the second. “People change, and I have. I’m twenty-five now, not eighteen. Just– let’s put these back.”

Her mother gets a lost look in her eyes, and Elizabeth almost thinks it looks like betrayal. “If you insist, honey.”

They go home, and the only fresh receipt her mother has in her wallet is for two sandwiches at Subway.

Mondays at malls are much more quiet, Elizabeth notes with relief. The bus drive was unusual, a bit frightening in the same way all of this is, but not excruciating. She’s painfully reminded of her lack of a steady companion every time she turns her head. There’s no Dora to distract her with terrible jokes that make her laugh anyway, no mother to fuss and fret and talk to.

Still, there’s a strange thrill as she picks out garments, and she has two full bags — and a lot less hair — to maneuver when she takes the bus home.

greencandle: where this week?

earthbound: coffee shop?

greencandle: k

greencandle: pick u up @ regular time?

earthbound: yeah

Wednesday never seems to arrive. Elizabeth is excited, charged with an energy that almost crackles at her skin. She spends three hours picking out her outfit, avoiding her mother’s watchful stare. She already had a few words to say about Elizabeth’s hair cut, causing Elizabeth to grow silent, the resentment of being scolded like a child hard in her stomach. Something’s off about this.

“Hey!” Dora looks cool, almost suave, as she holds the door open for Elizabeth to easy the entry to the coffee shop.

“Hi,” Elizabeth says, feeling oddly nervous, like she isn’t met by the same woman she’s been talking to almost every day for months.

“How are you?” Dora asks, as they stand in line. She looks like she’s contemplating a choice between the All-New Pumpkin Pie Mocha or her regular espresso. Dora’s tastes have always been a little odd to Elizabeth.

“I’m fine,” she says. “How are you?”

“Oh, this has been the weirdest. Week. Ever.” Dora pauses for dramatic effect, which gets slightly ruined as she has to turn to the cashier and order in the mean-time. “Tyler, this guy at my job, managed to lose his owl in the office, and we searched high and low, but we still couldn’t find it..”

They’re settling down at their regular table, now, and Dora’s still talking about Tyler and owls and mentioning her colleagues casually like Elizabeth should know who they are, and Elizabeth feels something like disappointment in her chest.

“.. but enough about that,” Dora finally says, seeming to have noticed that Elizabeth was focusing more on the date behind Dora’s back. The girl was talking animatedly while eating her cake with enthusiasm, only stopping to laugh in an embarrassed tone as the guy wiped spittle off his chin.

“So, what’s happened at your end?”

“Nothing much,” Elizabeth answers, shy and angry with herself.

“Really? I noticed your hair cut, it looks nice.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth says, and waits hopefully– but then Dora starts talking again, something about how her pillow is always either too hot or too cold, and the disappointment sinks like a stone to her stomach.

“Is that it?” Elizabeth says, stopping Dora mid-rant.

“Sorry?”

“I said, is that it? Is that all you’re going to say? ‘It looks nice?’”

Dora looks like a deer caught in headlights, unable to find a reason for the generally taciturn Elizabeth to raise her voice.

“Don’t you notice–” and Elizabeth’s voice almost cracks, “anything else about me?”

“Well,” Dora says, and the hesitation is Elizabeth’s answer.

“I just don’t–” she sighs, and wrings her hands over the wooden table. “I’ve gotten thinner.”

“Oh, that,” Dora says, and Elizabeth feels her hackles rise again.

“You’re usually pretty loose-handed about the compliments,” she says, feeling spiteful and demanding and out of character and disappointed. Didn’t she do this for Dora? “Don’t you think it looks good? Do you think I should go back to being a fatso?”

“Elizabeth,” Dora says, but she doesn’t sound liker Elizabeth’s mother at all. “Eli, I’m sorry, of course it looks good.”

Elizabeth doubts it, and Dora musts see it in her face.

“I–” Dora sighs, and flattens her hands against the table top. “Listen. I’ve never really cared about any of that, okay? It’s just.. not something I think about a lot.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re fat or thin or something in between, as long as you don’t die of obesity or malnourishment. I think you’re beautiful because you’re you, and what matters most to me isn’t that I’m happy with how you look, it’s that you’re happy with how you look.” She gives Elizabeth a glance, but Elizabeth is examining the worn coffee rug. Her cheeks are stained red. “Are you?”

“I guess,” Elizabeth mumbles.

“What was that?” Dora says, leaning closer.

“I guess I am,” Elizabeth repeats, looking up to meet Dora’s familiar eyes.

Dora pulls a face, but it’s over so soon Elizabeth almost didn’t see it. “Then that should be enough.”

The rest of the coffee date they both get to use their favorite small talk-topics; talking without really saying anything.

Over the next week, Dora’s words won’t quite leave Elizabeth’s mind.

‘If Dora wants me to do it for myself, I’ll do it for myself!’ is her resolution the first few days, until she thinks it over and realizes that that really doesn’t resolve anything — it just leads her back to square one.

The subject frustrates her, makes her even more quiet and almost curt when IMing with Dora.

There is one thing Elizabeth knows: she doesn’t want to be defined by Dora.

She doesn’t want to be defined by anyone but herself.

greencandle: sooo ive been googling some stuff

greencandle: u no u can live on ur own fine now??

earthbound: what?

greencandle: like http://boston.craigslist.org/gbs/nfb/2634545133.html

greencandle: a bit expensive tho

earthbound: what are you talking about?

greencandle: ther are like

greencandle: wheelchair freindly apartments or whatever

earthbound: what are you saying?

greencandle: nothin

greencandle: just, u dont have to live with ur mom

earthbound: isn’t the way i’m living now good enough for you?

(Elizabeth means it jokingly, but the turbulence in her mind sharpens the words.)

greencandle: well, tbh

earthbound: what?

greencandle: seems kinda..

greencandle: unhealthy

greencandle: s’like u & ur mom have forgotten taht ur 2 people

greencandle: or at least

greencandle: she has

earthbound has logged off.

greencandle: so.. no coffee date this week then?

earthbound is offline, and cannot receive your message at this time.

Elizabeth’s mind is like a stormy sea, a rippling effect caused by Dora and her stupid statements. She doesn’t have the patience of mind for anything, even just a line of “hello world”-level code takes her fifteen minutes.

Elizabeth sighs, and pushes the wheelchair around in a circle. The afternoon sun is almost covered by drapes, like a temptress peeking through an almost closed door.

This is stupid, she thinks. All of this is completely, utterly, and fantastically stupid.

Elizabeth pushes the wheelchair into her own room, and digs under her bed until she find a worn, dusty DVD case, front proudly proclaiming that it will “Get you fit in 3 weeks!!!”. She puts it in the DVD player slowly, almost wearily. She doesn’t need these any more, not like she used to, but there is a certain debauched sense of thoughtlessness in them. She can just close her eyes and listen, pretend that she’s someone else, somewhere else, with legs perfectly intact.

Then her mother comes home early, and Elizabeth is hit by a powerful sense of deja vu.

“Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth slowly turns around, having not even bothered to pretend to reach for the remote.

“Yes, mom?”

Her mom looks furious. “I thought you were over this– this– this!” In lack of a word, she throws an arm out towards the still blasting TV. “Turn it off, for God’s sake!”

Elizabeth shrugs, and is about to reach for the remote: “Why?”

“Well–” her mom splutters again, the unexpected turn of events throwing her off. “It’s unhealthy!”

Elizabeth shrinks back in her seat, but doesn’t let the apologies stuck in her throat out.

“I mean,” her mother continues, “you’re obviously projecting your feelings over your legs on this– this!” Again, she can’t find the words, and throws her arm out. “It’s definitely not healthy, you’re hindering your recovery, and–”

“I don’t think I am, mom,” Elizabeth says, and she’s become way too calm in an effort to keep her emotions in check.

“What?” her mother says, and Elizabeth finally turns the television off.

“I don’t think I am,” she repeats, and something in her voice seems to calm her mother.

“Elizabeth,” her mother tries. “Look, I know you think that, but I’ve read that stuff like this is unhealthy, I asked a psychologist and he said–”

“You asked a psychologist?” Elizabeth says, all the other words passing by her. “You asked a psychologist about me?”

“Well, ” her mother says, and now she just looks uncomfortable, still red from the fury of a few moments earlier. “I didn’t– I needed–” she looks away, like this is something that pains her to admit. “We were both going through a tough time, and I didn’t know how to help you.”

“Mom,” Elizabeth says in a faint tone, floored. “Mom, you stupid, stupid woman.”

She didn’t mean to say that, didn’t mean for it to sound like it did, but her mother’s face is splotched in red again, and she spits out: “Forget it.” She goes over to the television, extracts the DVD with shaking fingers, and breaks it straight down the middle. She throws the two pieces on the floor. “This is my house,” Elizabeth’s mother says. “This is my house, and you are my daughter, and you will listen to me. I’m doing what’s best for you.”

“Mom,” Elizabeth tries again, but her mother is already leaving the room.

Elizabeth is left staring at the broken DVD, wondering when her mother became human.

Things are stilted, after that. An eerie quietness cloaks the walls, becomes their new tapestry. Her mother’s wrinkles are more apparent than ever, and Elizabeth absently notes that she knows what to get her for Christmas.

She tries to reach out, but isn’t sure how. Her mother’s image is shaken, cracked, and she suspects that her mother feels the same way. The uncomfortable and abrupt way they both have to adapt to the other being someone else than they thought isn’t doing them any favors, but Elizabeth feels more grown up than she ever has when she quietly reaches a conclusion to a question she didn’t know she was pondering.

greencandle: eli

greencandle: youre back

greencandle: listen, im sorry

earthbound: you were right, I think

greencandle: I was out of line

greencandle: wait, what?

earthbound: I dunno

earthbound: everything is really weird right now

earthbound: but I think I really need to move out

earthbound: could you give me that url again?

Packing her things is a weird experience Elizabeth doesn’t want to dwell on, but Dora helps her, and when Dora holds up the door for Elizabeth to enter the spartan thing that will become her apartment, Elizabeth has another sudden realization. She’s getting quite tired of them, she thinks, but doesn’t really mind that she’s finally figured out what it is about Dora.

“This is lovely!” Dora says, coming up to stand beside her, and Eli turns to the side, pulls her down and kisses her.

Dora looks shocked, but a smile breaks out on her face. “I’ve been waiting.”

“I know,” Eli says. She laces their fingers together, and meets Dora’s eyes without fear. “Thanks.”

(It ends like a fairy tale, except not quite. They each have issues, independently and together, but for now, all that is still below the surface. And finally, there are no more dreams of maggots.)

“Hey, mom.” Elizabeth is by the door of her old room. Her mother is sitting on the bed, and hurriedly dabs at her eyes when she hears a voice.

“Hey, sweetie,” and even if Elizabeth could ignore the red eyes, her mother’s voice gives her away.

“Are you alright?” Elizabeth rolls with ease into the room, the threshold long since removed.

“Yeah, I’m–” her mother waves a hand half-heartedly, “I’m fine.”

Elizabeth quietly moves over to the bed, to sit beside her. She wraps an arm around her mother, feels odd about adapting the role of caretaker when it’s always been the other way around with them.

“It’s okay, mom,” she says, and her mother turns towards her almost imperceptibly. “It’s okay.”

They sit there, holding each other in silence, before her mother stands up reluctantly. “I should go, I have–”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth says, “okay.”

Her mother is going, almost out the door when Elizabeth says: “Mom? You should call Riley up sometime. He’s your son.”

Elizabeth’s mother flinches, and leaves without another word.

Elizabeth sighs, but a knock on the window distracts her from expressing further disappointment. On the other side is Dora, carrying knick-knacks Elizabeth forgot when packing, making a face that Elizabeth can’t help but laugh at. Dora smiles, mouths something before continuing past it.

Elizabeth doesn’t need to hear it to know what it was.

distansering

hei, du
skavikke være litt pretensiøse, pompøse
bare vi to
i kottet mitt?
vi kan adoptere ord
og prate Faust og Nietzsche, Kant og Sartre
og gjemme oss bort i dypere meninger
analysere livet gjennom andres øyne
kjærlighet, vennskap, smerte, forræderi
så trenger vi ikke utsette oss for det
for noe av det
bare vi to

split

the sun is a flickering streetlight

dark eats at our bare feet

we stand facing this battlefield of fallen shadows

the light illuminating our back like suicidal war heroes

i’m losing my resolve

you’re losing your mind

 

 

Å kaste perler for svin

Erlend har en rutine. Han våkner klokken 6:30, bruker 10 minutter på å komme seg inn i klærne han la fram kvelden før, og bruker så 20 minutter på frokost. TV2 Nyhetskanal pleier å stå på i bakgrunnen. Han kjører til jobb, og er der på klokkeslettet 7:30. Nyhetene står gjerne på i bilen, også. Erlend føler det er viktig å vite hva som skjer i verden.

Klokken 7:30 pleier det ikke å være så mange på firmaet Erlend jobber, men det går fint. Han liker best å jobbe stille og alene. Han setter seg inn på kontoret sitt, et glorifisert bøttekott med ett vindu, og jobber metodisk og hardt. Der sitter han gjerne i flere timer uten pause, og glemmer alt som heter lunsj med mindre en kollega banker på døra. I dag banker ingen på den, og Erlend kommer plutselig på at han kanskje burde spise noe kl. 4. Han sniker seg ut gangen fra kontoret sitt, og passer på å unngå medarbeidernes øyne.

“Næmmen Erlend!” sier Marie, som egentlig er fra en annen divisjon og derfor ikke burde være her. “Trodde du hadde meldt inn syk eller noe, jeg!”
“Erlend melder da aldri inn syk,” sier en forbipasserende, spydig nok til at Erlend beveger seg litt unna. Marie later som om hun ikke hørte noe, og fortsetter med sin høylytte prating. “Skal du hjemover snart, eller? Tenkte å dra selv, må jo hjem og lage middag til familien.”

“Nei,” sier Erlend, og må kremte litt. “Jeg tenkte bare å få meg litt mat.”

Maries øyne er sympatetiske. Hun vet at Erlend ofte glemmer å spise, og det er som oftest hun som inviterer han ut med de andre. Erlend synes sympati ligner for mye på medfølelse, og holder ikke blikket hennes lenge.

Marie blir ropt på av noen andre. “Vel, jeg får gå,” sier hun.

“Ja, du får vel det,” sier Erlend. Han må ha sagt det litt for bryskt, for Marie gir ham ikke et siste smil før hun forsvinner nedover korridoren.

Erlend kommer ikke hjem før kl. 8. Han tar seg en banan og en yoghurt, og setter seg ned foran TVen. Hjemme klarer han aldri helt å konsentrere seg, så han ender opp med å flippe gjennom alle kanalene sine to ganger i stedet for å se på noe konkret. Han vurderer å sette seg foran PCen igjen, men selv om det er mye han burde ha gjort til fredag lokker det ikke. Erlend er fylt med den tomme følelsen han alltid får da han setter seg ned og tar en pause, og han liker den ikke. Han begynner å støvsuge stuen, og den øredøvende lyden fra hans gamle støvsuger demper midlertidig tankene hans.

Erlend legger seg med et rotete sinn og hele verden på hans skuldre.

Erlends dager passerer i samme mønster i fem dager, helt til han blir tilkalt til sjefens kontor. Klokken er 13:18 da han får meldingen, og den er urovekkende kort. Erlend frykter det verste, og tør ikke la seg selv bli håpefull. Han gir seg selv 2 minutter før han skynder seg til sjefen, som er opp en etasje på andre siden av bygningen.

Erlend ankommer, litt svett og veldig nervøs.

“Sitt ned,” sier Francesca Stevens. Hun kommer fra Amerika, men aksenten hennes har blitt nesten plettfri. Erlend foretrakk hvordan hun pleide å snakke da han startet, med morsomme Rer og et stort problem med Ø, framfor den monotone Oslo-dialekten hun har i dag. Hun ser ut som en vanlig, om enn litt kjedelig, kontorsjef, og alderen hennes er uberegnelig. Kontoret hennes er ryddig, men ikke overdrevent renslig. Det ligger fem smuler på skrivebordet hennes fra sandwichen hun hadde til lunsj. Sammensydde døde dyr henger fra stumtjeneren hennes, sammen med en gammeldags paraply. Erlend kan ikke huske om det regner ute eller ikke.

“Jeg har hørt du har jobbet som en helt, Erlend,” sier hun, og Erlend nikker forsiktig. Han er fortsatt redd for at dette er en felle, at de neste ordene hennes skal være “beklager, men vi har funnet noen bedre egnet til din posisjon.” Det er de ikke. “Er du klar over at du nå har mer opparbeidet ferietid enn alle oss andre her på kontoret?”
Erlend rister på hodet.

“Det har du altså. Jeg vil ikke at du skal misforstå oss her, Erlend, men vi tror det hadde vært lurt om du brukte den ferietiden.”

“Suspenderer dere meg?” sier Erlend, som plutselig finner stemmen sin.

“Nei, nei!” sier Francesca, og rister ubevisst på hodet. Håret hennes beveger seg ikke i det hele tatt. “Men faktum er at man blir utbrent når man jobber så hardt som deg, og du er en svært viktig del av dette firmaet. Derfor har vi bestemt oss for å gi deg en liten ferie. Flyet og hotellet blir betalt for av oss, siden det egentlig skulle være en konferanse der, men jeg har det på god autoritet at den blir flyttet.” Erlend legger merke til at hun har beholdt et par amerikanske uttrykk, og blir beroliget av det.

“Må jeg?” sier han, før han får tenkt seg om. Det høres patetisk ut, men han klarer ikke gripe fatt i ordene før de kaster seg ut av munnen hans.

“Helst,” svarer Francesca. “Jeg tror det ville vært godt for deg å komme deg litt bort.”

Erlend nikker resignert.

“Flyet ditt drar nå på mandag,” sier hun, og gir ham to billetter. “Du har helgen på å pakke.”

Erlend forlater kontoret uten et ord, og først i ettertid kommer han på at han burde sagt takk.

Flyturen er ikke fornøyelig. Erlend liker ikke setene, de andre passasjerene, flyvertene, eller lesestoffet han tok med. Han klarer ikke finne en behagelig posisjon å sove i, og hele turen er et mareritt. Han er på hotellet kl. 3, og er så utslitt at han nærmest faller ned på sengen og sover de neste to timene.

Etter sterk oppfordring fra Marie, har han hverken tatt med mobil, laptop eller andre teknologiske instrumenter. Han bruker den første dagen på å orientere seg i nærmiljøet, og merker allerede at han savner å kunne fordype seg i jobbrelaterte problemer.

Fem dager, har han på dette stedet, og på den andre dagen har han allerede blitt lei av sine egne tanker. Han får ikke noe ro; et helt nytt sted hjelper ikke, og han blir sliten av lyden av trafikk som suser forbi hotellrommet hans.

Den tredje dagen bestemmer han seg for å fjerne seg fra sivilisasjonen, ettersom han uten mobil, laptop eller shoppinglyst ikke føler seg som er medlem av den uansett. Han tar en buss til utkanten av byen, og begynner å vandre på måfå oppover bakken. Bakken utvikler seg til et fjell, og de rytmiske bevegelsene av føttene hans og stillheten rundt ham hjelper ham å unngå tankene sine. Erlend fokuserer på forflyttingen av vekten sin. Venstre bein, høyre bein. Erlend går i flere timer. Venstre bein, høyre bein.

Endelig begynner oppoverbakken å rette seg ut, og han nærmer seg toppen. Hittil har han bare sett på føttene sine, men nå begynner han å løfte blikket oppover. Trærne er færre her oppe, vegetasjonen er spredt og omringet av stein.

Da Erlend når toppen, blir han stående og stirre.

Erlend er ikke en mann av skjønnhet. Han har aldri forelsket seg i et stykke kunst, eller aktivt tenkt på en person som vakker. Likevel, når han står på denne bakken og stirrer utover dalene og fjellene, blir han nesten rørt. Det er det vakreste han noen gang har sett, all denne naturen samlet på ett sted. Han kan se elver, trær, og et par mennesker. Han beveger seg så langt fram han kan før dalen han står på begynner å skråne nedover. Gresset er en vakker grønnfarge, og skyene som var der da han startet turen har lettet for å vise fram en safirblå himmel. Synet og det at han ikke har spist på lenge tar Erlend igjen, og han må sette seg ned. Her. Her er roen han har lengtet etter, gjemt vekk i en boble han aldri ville ha kommet over. Tankene hans strømmer gjennom hodet hans, men de overvelder ham ikke lenger. Det er som om de, også, blir skremt av det fryktinngytende synet. Erlend ønsker med ett han hadde en eller annen måte å fange dette bildet på, men vet at det er renere uten. Han vet han kommer til å lagre det i hjertet sitt, at dette er noe som vil være med ham til han dør.

Erlend blir sittende der til det blir mørkt, og begynner først da å traske tilbake til byen.

Vel hjemme igjen virker det først som ingenting har endret seg. Erlend våkner opp 6:30, men i stedet for å øyeblikkelig reise seg blir han liggende. Alarmen hans fortsetter å pipe, og Erlend trykker på snooze-knappen for første gang på veldig, veldig lenge. Han vrir seg rundt, og bestemmer seg for å sove en halvtime til.

Erlend kommer seg på jobb til kl. 9, og han er mer uthvilt enn han har vært på lenge. Han får et par overraskede hilsninger på vei til kontoret sitt, og svarer nesten alle sammen.

Etter noen timer banker Marie på døra hans, og når hun stikker hodet inn med et smil, tar Erlend seg i å smile tilbake. De går og spiser lunsj, bare de to, og Erlend synes nesten han kan se det grønne gresset reflektert i Maries øyne.

Det ser ut som en ny start.

Waiting

Joel promised himself he wouldn’t come here anymore. He’s walking fast, the back of his coat flaring outwards, unable to keep up. The graves flash by his vision – JOHN PARKER, MONA LEEDUM, GRAHAM TAYLOR – but he doesn’t spare them any thought. Doesn’t think about the amount of mourning spent by each grave, doesn’t calculate how old they were when they died. Determinedly doesn’t catch even a single word of the orbituary messages. Joel isn’t supposed to be here, and he knows it.

She’s waiting for him, sitting on a bench. Clad in a simple jeans and shirt, she looks every bit the 21^st century woman he’s been expecting. A deceiving look, for sure, but it removes the constant reminder of her age. Joel sits down beside her, pulling his scarf down from his mouth. The lack of hot air from her mouth becomes painfully apparent as he breathes heavily, lungs filling up with cold air.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” she says after a while of watching him.

“Yes, you did,” he replies, staring down at the snow, at the imprint of his own boots.

She smiles, and they don’t say anything else for a while.

Winter is quiet around here. Snow quietens the small town, and out here on the hill it seems like there are no other people than them, Joel and his angel.

“You look good in white,” he says, almost mutters.

“Thanks,” she laughs, and tactfully doesn’t mention how they contrast.

Black and white.

More time passes, but Joel is absorbed in his thoughts, and she seems content just watching him.

“Is it time?” Joel asks, meeting her eyes for the first time since he sat down.

“You’d know,” she says, and this time she’s the one to avert his stare.

It goes unsaid, what he’s waiting for. What he’s been waiting for for a decade, though it feels like much longer. He rubs a hand over his jawline, scraping his stubble against the back of his hand.

“Was it worth it, do you think?”
“What?” She seems almost surprised by the question. “You’re asking me?”

“I don’t see anyone else here,” he says defensively, ready to grab his previous words and force them back down his throat.

“Well, then..” her voice fades, and Joel has almost turned his thoughts anew when she finishes: “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

He hm-s noncommittally, giving her a brief glance before he looks back out over the hill.

“What do you think?” she asks, eyes intriguing.

No, he thinks. “I don’t know,” he says. There are few things worth eternal damnation, he thinks. This wasn’t one of them.

She seems satisfied to leave it at that, doesn’t push and prod into territory Joel’d rather left untouched.

They wait some more, in this white graveyard. This wonderland of death, and soon death comes to them – not like a wind, not like a figure, but as a thought.

And Joel knows that it is time.

Lost in the Black

discontinued

 

They’re in a lowlit bar, the roof and upper walls painted black with cigarette smoke. The place reeks of beer and grease, the maroon leather of the stools and booths the only thing not faded and torn. There are a few customers hanging around, old and worn with age. The woman who greets them is past her prime – the feel of her is grimy, and her once sparkling green eyes are now weary and filled with malice. She greets them with a smile, though, and he feels a chill running down his spine.

“So, you here to see your beauty?” She’s regional, by the sound of her voice – the heavy Arritsian accent cling to her vowels like a man to his last lifeline, chipping her consonants.

He answers. “Uh, yes ma’am. The Dragonfly?”

“’S in the back, lái.”

He turns back to his partner, shrugging his shoulders. His partner looks at him, clearly itching to get out of there, but he walks after the woman, through chuckling old men and women with beer in old-fashioned glasses. His partner has no choice but to follow, emotion coding turning blue with dissatisfaction.

The woman walks through a door, and once they’re through they’re out in the open again: dirtstale roads and dusty bushes. The ship sticks out, if not because of its gleaming chrome, because of its size.

“Here she is,” the woman says, the tone of her voice implying that she wants this whole ordeal to pass quickly.

He stops and stares for a second, his companion mute beside him. “It’s gorgeous,” he whispers. The ship is dirty and damaged in more than a few places, but it’s nothing a few notes won’t solve. He’s captured by the sight of his future, and his companion forces an elbow into his ribs to get his attention. “Right, right. How much was it, again?”

“Five k,” the woman snaps, each second obviously a tangible cut in her patience.

“Yeah, I’ve got that somewhere..” he pats his pockets, all ten of them, but no bundle of money seems to be sticking out. “Uh, do you—?” He turns to his companion, who wordlessly hands him the paperweight pouch. “Xie. Let’s see here..” He counts up the notes, and she takes out her VM to verify them. While she’s doing this, he makes an attempt at small talk: “So, why’re you selling? What should we be prepared for?”

“Oh, nothin’ much, just some inversion in the right partifice of one of the side engines,” she says evasively. He’s never heard of a partifice before, and is in all honesty doubtful that such a part exists, but nonetheless tells his companion they should get a ship mechanic asap. His companion nods, and he sees its eyes shine with binary.

“OK,” the woman says, her accent making it sound like oke, “then it’s done. Here are the papers.”

She hands him some identification records, and it’s a testimony to how far out they are that she doesn’t ask him to sign anything. He accepts the papers, and, as she is about to leave, he calls out:

“One last thing: is the ship nutritionally equipped?”

“Yes,” the woman says quickly. “For six months, if only you need to eat?”

“Yeah, no, E9 doesn’t need anything.”

She nods, and disappears back inside before he’s able to ask any more questions.

“This does not seem a good idea, sir.” E9 speaks for the first time that day, voice a light monotone.

“Maybe not,” Dal Kerin says, turning back towards the Dragonfly with an adventurous fire in his eyes, “but it’s exciting, isn’t it? Our own ship!”

E9 doesn’t answer, and Dal looks over at it. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he says, knowing it’s an exercise in futility.

“I go where you go,” E9 says, the emotionally laden statement sounding off in his dead voice.

Dal sighs, and they finally enter the Dragonfly.

 

It’s three weeks later when they find out why they got it at such a cheap price.

“Hey, cap’n?” Yumi, the mechanic they hired off of the borders of Teltrun, knocks on Dal’s door. “So I was fiddling with the engine, right, and long story short, I think we’re being followed.”

Dal stands up so fast he bangs his knee on his desk, and jumps around in pain for the next minute. “You sure?” he asks, through ow ow ow ow.

“Pretty sure, “ Yumi nods.

Dal limped over to the intercom, calming himself before pushing the button. “E9, suspect ships on our tail. Lose them.”

“Yessir,” comes the answer, and he flips the intercom back off.

“What do we do now?” Yumi asks, a frown on his face. Dal doesn’t really like Yumi – a cheap and thorough mechanic, but not very capable of own thought.

“We wait,” Dal says.

It’s only ten minutes before the intercom switches back on, and an abrupt “Captain, you’re needed in the cockpit,” follows before it turns off.

Yumi and Dal exchange looks, and Dal says: “Just make sure nothing’s wrong with the engine,” before running to the cockpit.

He hears it before he sees it: a forceful voice booming through the cockpit speakers.

“PASSENGERS OF DRAGONFLY 6K82, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR VIOLATION OF IGC #20012 THROUGH #20051. STAY IN POSITION, ANY ATTEMPT TO FLEE WILL BE MET WITH HEAVY ARTILLERY.”

Å forutsjå Oedipus

Jasper har ikkje vert heilt god i det siste.
Emilie er den einaste som legger merke til det, verkar det som. Roger har vore for opptatt med jobben – det er ikkje det at han ikkje vil vere der for sønen sin, det er bare det at han er så nær ein forfremming. Emilie byrjer å lure på om han bryr seg om Jasper og ho i det heile tatt.

Sånt seier ein ikkje, såklart. Ikkje til ein mann som tjener nesten alle pengene i huset. Ikkje til ein mann med kort lunte og ein pistol under hodeputa. Ho har nesten gått ned den gata før – aldri igjen.

Jaspers musikk gjallar gjennom huset, ei blanding av skriking og grynting som verkar nesten bestialsk. Det er ikkje Emilies plass å fortelje sønen hennar kva han skal høyre på, men ho skulle nokre gonger ønskje at han kunne sette på noko litt gladere. Ho trur ikkje på avisene, som seier at barn kan bli rene drapsmaskinar bare dei høyrer på den rette musikken – men ho bekymrar seg jo, som alle gode mødre burde. Lurer på kor alt dette sinnet kjem frå. Lurer på om det er hennar feil. Lurer på om det er Rogers.

“Eg går ut.”
Emilie skvett av stemmen hans. Ho ser på klokka: 20:27. Ser tilbake på Jasper, dekka i svart.
“Okay,” seier ho sakte. “Ver tilbake til 12?”
Jasper nikkar, sjølv om dei begge veit han ikkje kjem til å vere det. Emilie er bare glad for at han seier i frå – ho har opplevd å gå fleire dager uten å sjå noko til honom.
Døra slamrar etter Jasper, og ho sukkar.

Det bor ei ulukke i huset. Han gjemmer seg i det høge taket, i dei endeløse korridorene. Emilie trur ho kan sjå han, nokon gonger. Merker ei slags ulmande kjensle, ser noko bevege seg i sidesynet hennar. Ho skylder på honom, og prøver å ikkje tenkje på at ho ikkje kan huske sist gong ho var genuint glad.

Jasper kjem ikkje tilbake før tre. Normalt er Emilie i seng på denne tida av døgnet, men ho bestemte seg for å vente til han kom heim – dersom han gjorde det. Ho sitt på sofaen, krølla opp og under eit teppe, da han kjem inn. Ho høyrer ham ikkje, fyrst – han er vann med å liste seg inn etter at ho og Roger har lagt seg. Ein gammal film flikrar over skjermen, svart-og-kvite skuggar med lyden på låg.

“Mamma?”
Jasper må vere full, tenkjer Emilie. Han har ikkje kalt henne mamma på årevis, ikkje sia han var 12 og fekk høyre at det bare var jenter som kalte foreldrene sine for mamma og pappa.

Ho står, og teppet fell på golvet. Jaspers svarte hår stikk til alle kanter, øyne vid åpne – han ser redd ut, som om han fortsatt er redd for mor sin straff for å ha vore ute for lenge.

“Jasper,” seier Emilie, og plutselig er ho så sliten. Tårene byrjer å trille før ho får roa seg, og ho strekker ut armane. “Jasper.”
Han er forvirra, men venter bare eit halvt sekund før han går nærme og klemmer henne tilbake. “Hei, mamma,” seier han, og Emilie bryr seg ikkje om at han luktar som dårlig alkohol og jenter, for dette er Jasper, dette er guten hennar, og ho har aldri vore så glad for å sjå ham.

Dei står og klemmer i fleire minutt. Marcello Mastroianni snakker til døve ører på fjernsynet.

Endeleg tar Emilie eit steg bakover, og tar Jaspers ansikt i hendene. Han er høgere enn henne, så ho må sjå litt opp for å møte blikket hans. Det er fylt med noko Emilie ikkje skjønner kva er – men ho har aldri vore så god på å lese folk.
“Ta vare på deg sjølv, høyrer du meg?”
Jasper nikker nesten høytidelig, og Emilies latter er våt. Ho klapper kinnet hans, før ho gir honom ei kort klem til. “No syns eg vi burde gå og legge oss.”

Jasper held henne igjen når ho snur seg for å gå. “Eg elskar deg, mamma,” seier han, “uansett kva.”
Emilie smiler. “Eg er glad i deg og. Kom no.”

Dei går fra rommet. Fjernsynet blir ståande på, prydet med Anita Ekberg.

Emilie slår ikkje på ljuset da ho kryp opp i senga, og merkar heller ikkje at ho ikkje kan høyre Rogers pust over sitt eget hjarte. Ho er for opptatt med å tenkje at no, endeleg, verkar det som om ting er på rett veg.

Ho tar feil.