suddenly become very sleepy. This boiling inner conflict that finds no outlet consumes my energy, and I fall fast asleep on the book.
In a dream, I’m fighting to keep the door to my room closed, but there’s always someone who opens it up again. I’m becoming so mad and irritated that I can’t control myself. I stack furniture against the door, going berserk, and stand in the middle of the floor with a machine gun in one hand and a double battle-ax in the other, ready to face whoever tries to get through my barricade. The furniture moves and crashes on the floor, the door opens, and I raise the machine gun, but it’s only an old woman standing there. A tiny little thing, at least five hundred years old. She walks up to me and smiles, strokes my chin gently, and says something I don’t hear. Then she takes my hand and leads me to the door.
“You need some fresh air,” she says, and for a long time I stare into her friendly face with a million wrinkles, glowing with warmth and kindness.
I wake up to my own mumbling — it’s like I’m gagged. My face is flat on the book, and a few pages are wet with drool. I sit up with a heavy head, confused, my hair messed up on one side. The door to Gertrude’s room is open, but there’s nobody in there. Then I hear something behind me, and when I turn, I see my cousin kneeling beside my bookshelf, reading the titles of my father’s books. I put my feet on the floor and clear my throat loudly. She looks up and smiles.
“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No,” I say, and feel uncomfortable that she was sneaking around my room while I was sleeping. She obviously can’t be trusted.
“Can I borrow this one?” she asks, and takes a spy novel from the shelf, looks at the cover intently, and chews her gum. When she’s standing above me like this I notice for the first time that she has rather large breasts.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, and stand up from the bed.
She glances over the other books on the shelves, then glides her gaze to my fish tank and from there over to the falcon, Christian the Ninth, which stands proudly on my desk, staring at her threateningly with an open beak. It’s like she’s thinking how she would decorate this room if it were hers. I sidestep by the bed because I have to pee, but I don’t want her to be alone in my room.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“Just looking,” she says, and goes into her room without closing the door, falls into bed on her stomach, swings her long legs in the air, and starts to read. I grind my teeth and run to the bathroom.
She’s obviously settled in here as well. Makeup: lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, blush, face powder. Hair stuff: hair dryer, hair spray, combs, brushes (three types), shampoo, conditioner. Perfume (three types). Moisturizing cream (four types). Nail polish (four colors). Hand lotion . . . and then sanitary napkins placed shamelessly right before my eyes. Then I see the frown of disgust on my face in the mirror. This is an unbelievable collection of all kinds of crap. My mother has never, in her life, gathered anything close to this. But she agrees to all this as if there’s nothing to it. With a smile on her face, even.
I pee with a powerful splash in the toilet, straight into the water in the middle so the stream echoes loudly against the tiled bathroom walls in protest.
The church is a big building with high windows and a long echo. Every Sunday from now on, for a whole year, Mom is going to take me with her to church, whether I like it or not. I will have my confirmation ceremony along with the other unhappy children of hyper-Christians, forced to confirm the vows from their christening, when they were too young to even talk, let alone understand these vows. Not only does religion seem to me to force innocent children to take part in the silly rituals of their insecure parents, but the manual itself also seems to be full of nonsense.
There’s a whole lot about donkeys, sheep,
In a dream, I’m fighting to keep the door to my room closed, but there’s always someone who opens it up again. I’m becoming so mad and irritated that I can’t control myself. I stack furniture against the door, going berserk, and stand in the middle of the floor with a machine gun in one hand and a double battle-ax in the other, ready to face whoever tries to get through my barricade. The furniture moves and crashes on the floor, the door opens, and I raise the machine gun, but it’s only an old woman standing there. A tiny little thing, at least five hundred years old. She walks up to me and smiles, strokes my chin gently, and says something I don’t hear. Then she takes my hand and leads me to the door.
“You need some fresh air,” she says, and for a long time I stare into her friendly face with a million wrinkles, glowing with warmth and kindness.
I wake up to my own mumbling — it’s like I’m gagged. My face is flat on the book, and a few pages are wet with drool. I sit up with a heavy head, confused, my hair messed up on one side. The door to Gertrude’s room is open, but there’s nobody in there. Then I hear something behind me, and when I turn, I see my cousin kneeling beside my bookshelf, reading the titles of my father’s books. I put my feet on the floor and clear my throat loudly. She looks up and smiles.
“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No,” I say, and feel uncomfortable that she was sneaking around my room while I was sleeping. She obviously can’t be trusted.
“Can I borrow this one?” she asks, and takes a spy novel from the shelf, looks at the cover intently, and chews her gum. When she’s standing above me like this I notice for the first time that she has rather large breasts.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, and stand up from the bed.
She glances over the other books on the shelves, then glides her gaze to my fish tank and from there over to the falcon, Christian the Ninth, which stands proudly on my desk, staring at her threateningly with an open beak. It’s like she’s thinking how she would decorate this room if it were hers. I sidestep by the bed because I have to pee, but I don’t want her to be alone in my room.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“Just looking,” she says, and goes into her room without closing the door, falls into bed on her stomach, swings her long legs in the air, and starts to read. I grind my teeth and run to the bathroom.
She’s obviously settled in here as well. Makeup: lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, blush, face powder. Hair stuff: hair dryer, hair spray, combs, brushes (three types), shampoo, conditioner. Perfume (three types). Moisturizing cream (four types). Nail polish (four colors). Hand lotion . . . and then sanitary napkins placed shamelessly right before my eyes. Then I see the frown of disgust on my face in the mirror. This is an unbelievable collection of all kinds of crap. My mother has never, in her life, gathered anything close to this. But she agrees to all this as if there’s nothing to it. With a smile on her face, even.
I pee with a powerful splash in the toilet, straight into the water in the middle so the stream echoes loudly against the tiled bathroom walls in protest.
The church is a big building with high windows and a long echo. Every Sunday from now on, for a whole year, Mom is going to take me with her to church, whether I like it or not. I will have my confirmation ceremony along with the other unhappy children of hyper-Christians, forced to confirm the vows from their christening, when they were too young to even talk, let alone understand these vows. Not only does religion seem to me to force innocent children to take part in the silly rituals of their insecure parents, but the manual itself also seems to be full of nonsense.
There’s a whole lot about donkeys, sheep,
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