Take a deep breath and count to ten... One. Two. Three. Four… I can feel my heart pounding in my head... Five. Six. Seven. Eight... I assess the situation through the crack in the bathroom door one more time—nine, ten!—, kick it o...
Take a deep breath and count to ten... One. Two. Three. Four… I can feel my heart pounding in my head... Five. Six. Seven. Eight...
I assess the situation through the crack in the bathroom door one more time—nine, ten!—, kick it open and jump in.
He gives me a surprised look, unable to say a word. The straight razor stops frozen on his face—who the fuck still uses this old-fashioned crap? And who else shaves at 11 p.m.?
My left hand covers his mouth and my right grabs his, holding a razor, and drags it involuntarily across his neck, spraying blood all over the mirror and the wall, creating a real fucking Hermann Nitsch fresco.
I perform a few more cuts, just in case, although he can't resist any more. He lands on his knees and I lay him down as gently as I can, and for a moment I almost feel as if I'm going to cry.
I stand up, turn the tap and rinse the razor, pink water circling into the sink.
It's three past eleven...
I can't go anywhere like this. I peel off my dirty sticky clothes and get into the shower—some of his blood soaked my jeans.
I scrub my body and hair with cold water and his Old Spice, dry myself, and pull on fresh jeans and a tee at quarter past eleven. I trip over his suitcases in the hallway and dive into the night...
After a ten-minute run I stop on the bridge, fill my lungs with fresh air and lean on the fence to look down—a reflection of my shaved head with almost the same look he had a while ago.
Now what? Are you going to leave her without saying good-bye? Without seeing her for the last time?
The church bell rings twice in the background...
If you go now, and if you run all the way, you can be with her in fifteen minutes.
I have to see her...
I enter as quiet as a mouse and untie the laces on my shoes I usually just kick off. I swallow my spit at the bedroom door. It's ten to...
I touch the doorknob and push the door silently – the blanket seems as if it would breathe peacefully.
I catwalk toward her, sit on the edge of the bed and lift the blanket carefully.
I pull her nightgown strap gently with my thumb and index finger, lie down next to her and softly kiss her shoulder.
She moves, so I lean closer and unzip to make room for...
My palm slides from her thigh up to her ass, squeezes it with a feeling, slipping over the hip to the other side—into the forest.
She turns on her back.
Hushhh, I silence her. She leans on her elbow.
We're not alone, she asks, are we?
Don't worry, there's no one here.
Is he... gone?
We need to stop... I... I think he suspects something.
I lift her nightgown up over her wide hips and try to insert myself—she aims it with her hand, already wet enough for me to lower my hips slowly down on hers...
One. Two. Three…
I circle slowly, up and down. She breathes quicker and quicker. And heavier.
I accelerate my moves and dip my face in her neck almost to the point of suffocation.
We finally manage to catch the rhythm of moving and breathing, pushing into one another harder and harder, as if we are both aware that it is for the last time, for it is not right, for it is sick; and we are becoming louder and louder, until... I erupt and her throat releases the scream—at midnight sharp...
I keep lying on her with all of my weight for a while, until she realizes I didn't pull out... She pushes me off her.
You came inside me!
I don't say anything. She leans on her elbow.
You shouldn't have come in me. I can't have a baby with you! Papa will kill us!
I sit up and yawn as I park my feet on the floor.
I'm taking a shower, she says angrily, because I keep silent. She rolls off the bed and leaves the room. A heavy sound comes from the hall.
Fuck! Who left the goddamn suitcases in the middle of... Then a moment of sharp silence. Then another scream.
I close my eyes and fall on my back in slow motion: Papa won’t be killing anyone.