Chapter Text
Sometimes I forget that I have a body to manage. It's almost concerning how much I strive to forget that I exist, I'm always looking for a corner to hide in, a new book to lose myself in, or a sensation that completely overwhelms me, a bottle of some drink in the kitchen cupboard that clouds my reason. I certainly hate being a piece of flesh with spasms, so I run away a bit from everything: from homework, from school, from teachers, from my mother, and even from my body. It is impossible to remain wrapped up in stories to which I do not belong, and when I have to return, it is due to the inevitable nature of my existence. I hate those basic things: I hate eating, having to walk, having to sweat, and being aware that I exist every second, even if I strive not to. It's incredible the fear that arises within me when I'm in the dining hall trying to swallow a bite of food and I strongly think about choking and imagine my body reacting to the lack of air. A body trying to cling to any opportunity to keep going and a mind trying to stop eating forever; a divided being. This is how I have been living, I think.
People get so obsessed with the things they have to do, I thought they were idiots and then I realized how much of an idiot I am. I'm not so different from the bald white man in a suit; we have different ways of disappearing, but we both run away from the same thing.
On the way to school, I hope something happens. That a rainstorm breaks out and soaks me (metaphorically speaking because I hate having wet socks). Maybe that's why I ended up here behind the art room listening to obscene sounds from two teachers. It's clear that I'm trying to be the omniscient observer of this situation. Does the chemistry teacher know that the physics teacher comes to this very room on Tuesdays with the social studies teacher? This story is getting repetitive; a meteorite should fall on that damn classroom or the chemistry teacher should poison the idiot he’s hooking up with.
I wish something more interesting would happen. I'm too tired to sneak out of school and go to the music store; I always end up on the wrong street. I've been living here for two months and I regret saying that Sweden was the most boring place in the world: without a doubt, Norway has become number one. The houses, the streets, and even the damn pets are the most boring. How is that possible?
The only thing that has salvation are the forests, but I live in an irritating suburb. At least my mother didn't insist on going to the local church; now everyone thinks we're immoral Swedes and that makes it a bit funny.
This Friday there will be a local concert and Anders hasn't stopped chattering about it. I don't think it's worth it; if the town looks like this, maybe the music sounds the same. No matter what I say, Anders will force me to go and say it’s for my own good, and I won’t be able to refuse.
The starting bell has rung, so I'll have to move quickly if I don't want to get crushed in the doorway. Today there was no apocalypse, nor did a demon devour humanity. I should resign myself. I will get home, and when I touch the bed, I will feel it. I will feel it from the tips of my toes spreading to my legs and nesting in my chest; I will wish to run or go back behind the art room, I will even wish to walk again on the street I am walking now. My eyes will close and I will feel the weight of the world crushing my skull; and not in the way I would like to be crushed, because I have imagined it thousands of times. It sounds intense, in the wrong way; mom has told me that I shouldn't say those things out loud. She's right, they sound pathetic.
I don’t remember how the hours have passed, but I know it’s three in the morning and I’m in the backyard wearing the only clean pair of pajamas I had, barefoot and with dirty feet. Here, the stars are still faintly visible. Breathing in the early morning air makes me feel as if I could vanish. After the second breath, I notice it: the smell of cheap cigarettes. A small wisp of smoke drifts out from the house next door. I should go inside and sleep. My feet want to move, so I quietly make my way toward the fence. I’m not interested in my neighbors, but I hadn’t seen anyone my age around here before. Curiosity pushes me to get closer for a better look. I should always be wary of my feet, or my father’s total lack of organization when it comes to his gardening tools. I ended up stepping on the rake and letting out a scream I’m not proud of. I sit on the ground and try to take a deep breath and soothe the pain in my foot. Great! Now he knows I was watching him. I hear footsteps approaching the fence, and all I can do is stay still as a raccoon, hoping he’ll change his mind halfway there.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Didn't have to answer, I just had to let it go.
“Are you okay?”
I could have let it slide, but that question gave me a horrible feeling in my throat. “No. I... I don't think so.”
“Wait there,” he said, and poked his head through the gate, then jumped over the wooden fence.
“No, wait! You didn’t have to do that! I… I’m fine, I just stepped on my dad’s damn rake.”
“Can you stand up? Because... I think your foot is bleeding.”
“What?!”
“Don’t worry. It's not true. I was just kidding,” he said, smiling. “Your foot’s fine, it was just the pain.”
Now that he was closer, I could see him better. His hair fell to his shoulders and was jet-black; his face was small and still had that childlike look; he was thin and quite short compared to the other Norwegians his age I’d met. He was wearing Spider-Man pajamas and a pair of worn-out sneakers. There was a moment when we took the time to observe each other and try to understand what was happening.
“Dinosaurs?” he said, looking at my pajamas.
“Spider-Man? You can’t judge me,” I said as I tried to get up.
“That’s true. But in my defense, those were the only pajamas I had left,” he said, holding out his hand to help me up from the cold floor. “Besides, it’s three in the morning, so it doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t know what else to say, I wanted to run away. I thought about the possible phrases I could use to my advantage.
“You’re Swedish, aren’t you?” he asked as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pajama pocket.
“Yes, I moved to this country two months ago,” I said, thinking it wasn’t necessary to specify how long I’d been living here.
“It’s the worst country you and your family could have chosen, but I think, from the tone of your voice, you already know that,” he whispered, and then began smoking without a care in the world.
“Sweden isn’t the best, but I think I liked it better,” I thought, realizing for the first time just how much I missed the room I used to share with my brother.
“Yeah, there’s nothing but Christians and more Christians here,” he sighed. “I haven’t seen you at church. Isn’t your family affiliated with a church?”
“Um, no.”
“Damn! Are you the famous immoral family of this holy block?” he laughed and stared at me, waiting for a brilliant answer that I didn’t actually have.
“We’re still members of the church in my old neighborhood, and my parents haven’t wanted to join another one.” I shifted uncomfortably and hoped with all my might that he wouldn’t keep probing. It seems this neighbor likes to talk too much.
“So, are you a Christian?” he said, grimacing as his cigarette burned down slowly.
“No, I stopped going to church years ago.”
“That’s great, my parents still make me go.” “They think it’ll help me build better ties with the community,” he complained. “It’s bullshit, but at least my mom doesn’t bug me about cutting my hair anymore, it was a good deal.” He turned his attention back to his cigarette. Maybe his parents were right, he seemed comfortable talking to a stranger at three in the morning.
“My name is Øystein,” he said, putting out his cigarette and looking at me. “I guess we’ll see each other later… What’s your name?”
“My name is Per, but almost no one calls me that,” I replied. “They call me Pelle.”
“Well, Pelle, you should go home and be careful,” he laughed as he walked over to the fence to jump back into his yard. “By the way, your hair is great. See you later.” He jumped over the fence, and all I heard was the door to his house closing. My hair?... I didn’t even remember it existed.