1/2986 by Annelie Wendeberg Page B

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.