I haven’t done much with my summer vacation so far. You wouldn’t be very impressed.
I put the framed photo back on my desk. It falls over. I stand it up again.
The backpack I had at the hospital is on the floor, not yet unpacked. I open it and rummage through its contents. Then I zip it up again.
I open the top drawer of my desk and take out the power cord for my mobile phone, a grubby baggie of marijuana — I can’t even remember where I got it anymore — two old rings that belonged to my mother, both of which are too big for all my fingers except my thumbs, along with my MP3 player, my passport, a couple of scrunchies, a half-empty jar of aspirin, and a stack of money. I’ve been throwing all my money in that drawer. I just never thought of anything I wanted to do with it.
I stuff the money and the MP3 player into my pants pocket. The rest of the stuff goes into the backpack. Except the scrunchies, which I throw back into the drawer. I don’t need them anymore. They cut off most of my hair in the ambulance and the rest of it when they changed my bandages at the hospital.
I look at myself in the mirror for quite a long time. Then I look for my old black baseball cap. There was a time when I was obsessed with it, but I think I may have given it to Anton in the meantime. Nope, here it is, under the bureau. I put it on and feel ready to venture out among people again.
After having a look at my fingernails, I cut them with a pair of paper scissors.
I fidget with a pen, unsure about whether to leave a note, and what to write in it. I put the pen back down.
It would be an exaggeration to say I’m in a good mood. But something is singing inside me — and the words aren’t Eminem’s.
In the foyer I stumble over my rollerblades — and then over Anton’s. I can’t imagine ever putting those things on again. I put on my sneakers and listen to the voices wafting in from the living room as I tie the laces.
I’m a little worried someone is going to ask where I am.
But it doesn’t happen.
I step out and pull the door quietly closed behind me.
It’s extremely quiet all through the Emerald. The only sound is a baby crying somewhere.
The bench in front of the building is still empty.
I throw my backpack over my shoulder, turn my baseball cap backwards, and head out into the sun.
About the author
Born in Ekaterinburg, Russia, in 1978, the author now lives in Frankfurt, Germany. Broken Glass Park, nominated for the prestigious Bachmann Prize, among others, is her first novel. Alina Bronsky is a pseudonym.