A girl named nothing

Another day, another fail. She looked at all around at all the people around her.
She was sitting at at the airport and watched her plain leave. There was no problem with her ticket and she had got through the securitycontrol without any trouble, and yet she was sitting in an uncomfy plastic chair in front of the huge window and watched her plain take off. They had called her name over the speakers twice, before they gave up on and announced that the plain would be laving any minute. She sat still, wandering about what they did with her suitcase.
Or that is what she should be thinking about. But she wasn’t thinking at all, where she sat with a book in her lap and her bag in the seat next to her. But she wasn’t reading either. Neither was she sleeping.
She just sits there, eyes wide open and stares into the blank air in front of her. But her eyes aren’t seeing anything.

Her journey ended earlier than she could have dreamed of. She is dead. Her heart stopped when she thought she saw her mother, who left her when she was eight years old, entering a plain.
It wasn’t her mother. Just a regular businesswoman on her way to yet another meeting.
But the girl at the airport knows nothing of this. Her skin is starting to turn to a bluish grey.
No-one notices her. No-one will know she is dead before one of the ladies cleaning the airport tries to wake her up. She will scream when she realises the girl is stone-dead. People will come running to help her.
Th girl will get an cheap, anonymous funeral, because the police can’t find any ID on her and nothing they do can help them find out who she was. Because she wasn’t at all.
Not anymore, not since her mother left her. That day she stopped exciting.
And now she is buried.

Betraktninger, en skriveøvelse

Hvor er Hector? Hvor er den søte, stripete katten som pleier å sove i en hylle bak bardisken?
Det er ikke godt å si. Kanskje han er ute en tur, ute og fanger mus? Jeg kan i alle fall ikke se ham inne på kafeen.
Det sitter mange med pc-er her inne. Av de ni som er her, utenom bartenderen, sitter fem av oss alene. Jeg er en av dem. Det sitter en i hjørnet og leser en bok. Jeg vet ikke om det er en hun eller en han, for vedkommende er for langt unna og det sitter et par punkere med hanekammer i veien. Jeg skulle ønske jeg kunne se hva hun eller han leste. Rett ovenfor bordet mitt, borte ved bardisken, sitter en mann på rundt tredve eller førti og snakker i telefonene og leser i en avis. Han minner meg om den gamle gymlæreren min. Bare at gymlæreren min var mye feitere.
Nå kom en mann til. Han kjenner hun som satt bak manne ved bardisken. Hun satt alene og holdt på med pc-en sin. Mannen som kom kjøpte seg en kopp kaffe og plukket med seg en avis bort til bordet. På bordet ved siden av meg sitter en brunkrem-berte og trykker ivei på en pc.
Jeg kan høre at punkerne snakker sammen, og når jeg ser i deres retning ser jeg at det har kommet to gutter. Bak meg satt to venninner og pratet stille sammen mens de drakk øl. Utenfor står en jente i grønn jakke og røyker og holder på med en mobiltelefon. Bartenderen forsvant. Han fikk en telefon. Men nå kom han tilbake og skjenker kaffe til de to guttene som kom sist. Han snakker Kristiansand-dialekt, tror jeg.
Nå går mannen som satt ved bardisken. Han holdt på å glemme igjen lommeboken sin, men han så den i siste liten.
En av de nyankomne guttene har på seg en lyseblå strikkegenser med striper. Kombinert med det blonde håret så han ut som en snobb. Jeg fikk ikke akkurat et bedre inntrykk av han da han tok sukker i kaffen sin. Man skal ikke ha sukker i kaffe. Ikke melk heller. Kaffe skal være svart og sterk. Den skal smake herlig bittert og skarpt.
Når har de to guttene fått selskap av en til. Og damen og mannen ovenfor meg sitter og snakker sammen. De snakker både norsk og engelsk om hverandre, selv om ingen av dem er engelske, så vidt jeg kan forstå.
Jeg kan høre at klokken begynner å nærme seg to, for det høres ut som noen har sluppet løs en elefant på kafeen i etasjen over. Den åpner klokken to, så de holder vel på å vaske over gulvet eller sitte på plass stoler.
Nå kom en mann med Hansa-jakke på seg. Han skal levere øl til bartenderen, som må signere for det før han før drikkevarene på plass på bakrommet og i hyllene i baren.
Brunkrem-berten ser ut som hun er dypt konsentrert, men jeg holder en knapp på at hun bare fjoller seg på facebook. Enten det, eller så er jeg fordomsfull, og hun sitter og skriver på den beste hovedoppgaven universitetet i Bergen har sett på flere tiår. Men jeg tror egentlig ikke hun er gammel nok til det. Og jeg heller fremdeles mot facebook-varianten.

Universal language misapprehended

A indexfinger lifted in the air is the universal language for “Fuck off”, everybody knows that. And it’s the main-rule for my generation to know and understand this. Still, not everybody respect that. It’s not a gesture I use often, but on of the few I’ve used it against is the man that raped me.
I was 16 years of age at that time, and it was the first party I went to. He was 19. He was coming on to me all night, but I rejected him again and again. In the end I gave him the finger and screamed “FUCK OF!” He obviously took it as a “fuck me.” He slammed me hard up against a wall so I hit my head. While I still was seeing stars from the collision with the hard brickwall, he picked me up and carried me into an empty bedroom. He placed me on the bed and pulled of my pantyhose and panties. I was too weak and dizzy to protest, and he was nailing me to the bed. He took what he came for and left me to return to the party.
I don’t know how long I laid there, totally paralysed with fear, halfnaked and with tears flowing down my face. I didn’t know what to do, no idea how I should handle the situation. I couldn’t report him to the police, because then my parents would find out where I’ve been that night. What happened seemed so bizarre and abnormal, and I couldn’t think straight. Right then and there it seemed more important that my parents kept believing that I had slept over at my bestfriends house that night, than getting the man who raped me behind bars to prevent it from happening again, to another innocent girl.
I didn’t get up before the bright morninglight hit my eyes and woke me from my trance. I put my clothes on, got my jacket and sneaked out of the house without waking anybody. I wandered aimlessly around in a park not far from my house until I thought it wold be safe to go home. I didn’t want to wake any form of suspiciousness by coming home to early in the morning. The only clear thought in my head was to keep what had happened a secret. And shame. When I got home I sat in the shower for several hours, crying. I still felt his hands on my skin.

The next month I didn’t get my period. I started fearing the worst and went out to buy a pregnancytest. It was positive. Again my world came apart over my head, and I was yet again without a clue of what I should do.
Luckily I miscarried a month later, before anyone noticed my growing stomach.

I’ve never told anyone what happened that night. Not even my bestfriend or my boyfriend. To this day the man who ruined my life goes free, unpunished. I still live with the fear, and the guilt, and I can never truly trust a man. I live, but some part of me died that night. If he only had had the guts to kill me when he was finished…

Rape

Every evening she showered of the blood and put band-aids on herself. Every morning she did her best to cover up her bruises with make-up, hoping that no-one would notice. She would go to work, do what she had to do, and that without saying word to no-one, unless she was spoken to. After work she went by the supermarket and shopped for dinner. Then she took the bus home, and started to make dinner. When her husband came home the dinner was ready and the table set. They ate, and she cleared the table and did the dishes while he watched the tv-news. When the news was over, h would drag her into the bedroom, nail her to the bed and rape her. She wouldn’t utter a sound. It was years since she had screamed in fear, pain and rage. she had learned that her screams only excited him and made it worse for her.
When he was finished, he would leave her bleeding on the bed and go out to drink with his friends. She would shower and then get back to bed. She would lay on her back for hours on end, just steering at the roof. Sometimes clear tears would build up in her empty, dead-looking eyes before they would run down the sides of her head and lay themselves to rest in her hair and in the pillow.
Late at night her husband would come back home, and he would be drunk. He would enter the bedroom and remove his pants. And without saying a word he would rape his wife again.
She would still be steering at the roof, doing her very best not to look at the man she once had loved, while holding back her screams. Her eyes will go blank with suppressed sorrow while her head would hit against he headboard of the bed. He would keep going until she was bleeding, and then he would take hold of her head and force her to blow him. Then he would fall asleep.
She would get up and lock herself in the bathroom again. She would carefully wash away the blood without making a sound. It always angered him if she woke him up. Then she would get back into bed and keep on steering at the roof.

This was her life, her daily routine. She lived in this hell every day. It had been like this for the last then years of her life. The anger, the sorrow and the pain had had a lot of time to build up in her. This night it would expand again and explode. Her eyes are black with hate and she rises from the bed again. Se makes her way out to the kitchen and opens a drawer. Picks up a knife, the biggest one she can find. Back in the bedroom again, she stops on his side of the bed. The knife is in her hand, still in the air above his neck. Her black eyes are now shining, she is eager for her revenge. A smile spreads across her face and she starts to laugh. A high-pitched hysterical laughter. Her husband opens his eyes, drowsy from the sleep. He stare blankly at her for a minute, before he spots the knife in her hand. He sees it, but his brain is to tired to register it. Before he is fully aware of the fact that he is going to die, she strikes.
She stabs the knife into his neck and pulls it towards herself with a harsh movement. The blood runs down the sides of his neck and lays itself to rest in his hair. His breathing slows down and his eyes get unfocused.
She smiles psychotic and laughs. She’s free. She puts down the knife and walk into the bathroom. She washes of the blood on her hands, arms and chest without making a sound. The she goes back to bed and lay down. For the first time in ten years she sleeps without dreams of being raped. She sleeps without fear of waking up with him beside her.