Cut

Day Three

When the morning sun peeks through the trees, flies have already found me and my stink. A bunch of the fat insects are buzzing around my face, drawing malformed ovals of brainless activity. One of them lands on my rain jacket, crawls around, then flies away to find its buddies. I watch them and drift into complete and blissful indifference. Flies do that to me. I've always stared at them crawling over the walls of my room, once Father was done punishing me, or when I woke up screaming my brother's name, screaming for help. But no one ever came, and my brother never answered. In my dreams, Karlsson's hair is still plastered to his head, his hand still outstretched in an oddly stiff and balled-up way. My own hands grasp and grasp. Splashes of water. A wide-open mouth, flooding. Eyes staring, submerged, gone. And all I do is struggle. All I do is save myself.

It's my fault my brother is dead. It might sound somewhat melodramatic to say that I have killed him, but it's true. I did. I'd bugged him for days to take me up to the reservoir and teach me how to swim. And boy did I learn to swim that day. I barely made it to the water's edge, fled from there to our home, hoping someone could haul him out of the depths and back into pulsating, breathing, warm life.

When my parents stood at the shore, staring out at the cold water, they looked like two old tree trunks with their roots chopped off. They gazed at the still surface and grew smaller with each second ticking by, while the others — Zula, Lampit, Klemens, Alexandre — moved about frantically, sopping wet, exhausted, and then, giving up. Shrugs, sobs, hugs — for grown-ups only.

I should have seen it in the eyes of my parents. But I didn't. With my five years, I was too stupid.

I sobbed myself to sleep and woke to Father kicking the door down, stinking of alcohol, fire, and smoke. Stinking of despair and metal.

Metal? I was wondering, when he hollered a drunkard's song of accusation. 'Why did you go up to the reservoir? You knew you weren't allowed! Why did you go in the water? You knew he had epilepsy! My son! My son!'

With every why and every you, his fist fell on my face. He sobbed while he did it, and I knew I made him do it. I passed out when he sat on my head, his knife drilling into my back.

When I came to, Zula sat next to me, dark and swollen half-moons under his eyes. My back was bandaged, evidence hidden, mouths sealed. From that day on, all went downhill.

Sometimes I wonder why I feel so old.

I blink into the morning light that falls onto the forest floor in sharp, stabbing angles. If I remain here, unmoving for another half hour, the sun will caress my face. I watch it coming closer, touching the tips of grass blades, ants that carry pupae and dead caterpillars, then my outstretched hand, my arm, and finally, my eyes, cheeks, and lips.

I hum.

The patch of sunlight leaves my face and travels farther. I wonder why I'm here. Maybe I should go home, take up composting, get married to whomever, have five or six babies. Maybe two or three will stay alive and grow up while I turn grey and bent. Like everyone else. Are the others really happy, or are they just pretending to be? I've never stopped to ask. How does the compassion thing work, anyway? Am I to show compassion to get some in return? Maybe that's what I did wrong all these years. I was mostly focussed on saving my own skin. Don't get punched in the face at school; don't get your arse whipped at home.

I don't give a shit about other people's feelings, so why should anyone care about me?

Anyway.

Time to move.

I disassemble my spruce house and spread the twigs and branches on the soiled ground before I leave. The place reeks. I reek. Hunger isn't my main problem at the moment.

The reservoir lies quiet and peaceful in the morning glow. I scan the surroundings and, seeing no one, I shed my clothes and jump into the cold water. My calves cramp at once.

I gulp air, sink beneath the surface, take both my feet into my hands and stretch the rock-hard muscles, massage them, stretch them again. Swimming is hard, almost impossible, but eventually I make it back to my clothes. Panting and coughing up water, I flop on the grass.

Cackling, I hold my stomach. Tears well up and roll down my cheeks. In my throat is a clump and I choke on it. I'm ready to commit suicide, but panic when I'm about to drown? What bullshit. What's wrong with me? No guts?

I rub my snotty face, stand, and start washing my shirt and pants. No jumping into cold water while starving — I'll keep that in mind. The rain jacket is easy to clean — just a few dunks and it smells like new.

I wring the water from my clothes and wash my body, glad that at least the menstruation thing seems to be coming to an end. With nothing to rub myself dry, I catch as much of the warming sunlight as possible while keeping my ears and eyes pricked for anyone walking up the hill.

In my mind, I turn over my options. My clothes need to dry, but if I leave them here, they could attract unwanted attention, or worse, even — someone might take them. I need to find food, but carrying my clothes under my arm won't help them get dry. Running around naked in the woods isn't too cool, either — I'm more visible, I'm colder, and I'm certainly not planning to show my bare skin to anyone.

I decide for a compromise and put my wet shirt on. It can dry in the sun without me having to leave it behind. Besides, my body heat will speed up the drying process. I might catch a cold, but I don't care much. My pants and the rain jacket can be hung somewhere else, maybe in a clearing. But first I need to eat. My body feels like an empty husk of bones and skin.

———

I ate twelve blackberries today. Just looking at dandelions makes me woozy; no way I can eat them again. Hunger felt sharp and painful around midday. It's a dull throbbing now. The cold night is a bigger problem. My pants aren't dry yet. I'm covered with my rain jacket and atop of that lies a bunch of awkwardly piled-up spruce twigs. The hailstorm keeps blowing through, digging icy fingers into my skin. What a screwed-up summer.

I nod to myself. I'll solve the food problem tomorrow. I only wish I were a bit fatter. Skin and bones don't help you stay warm. Fat does.

I've never been a good eater. During the winter three years ago, the eating-little habit helped my family survive though. All we had left were wrinkly potatoes that believed spring should have arrived long ago (the potatoes were correct — it was May). The small brown tubers sprouted pale arms in a last attempt to reach sun and warmth where there was none. The beans had grown mould and we had to toss them out in the snow, hoping to attract birds, or even rats we could kill and fry. But nothing came. All preserves had been eaten two weeks prior, as had the hams, beets, nuts, and dried berries. People began hacking open the frozen ground in their search for edible roots, but the starving wild boar had eaten them already and moved on. Hunting parties were sent out and didn't return. So that's what we were left with: three potatoes per person per day. We counted the days we had left with something to chew on. It was barely a week.

When all was used up, Alexandre found a dead stag in the woods. It must have starved to death; its ribs were poking through scraggy fur. But there was still enough meat on it to feed the village and delay death a few days more. And that was enough for spring to arrive. Snow began to melt, the first birdsong was heard, and we knew that the soil would sprout new life. Twenty-eight people died that winter. Babies not counted.