Since not a shred of my soul or memory was hidden from him, he sniffed out my love for David right away. Oh, how he laughed!
“Now, my little mosquito,” he said, “how do you think you could be close to him — a living boy? Don’t you think he’d be scared out of his mind? And even more important, how could you resist biting him? You remember how you felt on the beach, right? His pulsing vein, your burning hunger? And you ran away! From such a wonderful piece of meat, from one who wanted to die anyway! You would have done him a favor!” Mr. Fishy laughed until he choked. And while he laughed, the whole boat shook, and a thousand pieces of broken ice applauded.
“I can be your friend,” he said. “Absolutely! But only once you’ve become what you really are. Right now, you’re nothing at all!”
He let the width and breadth of his damnation travel so deep into me I could feel my own nothingness and that nothing else existed. I felt crushed and laid on the boat like a whipped dog. Then I felt anger start to rise in me, at first just a spark. He noticed it, of course.
“Why are you mad at me, little flea? You’re the one making it more difficult for yourself by trying to be something you’re not. Focus on me all you want, but soon enough you’ll realize the one you’re fighting is yourself. Bye for now!” And he lifted up from the deck and fluttered like a stupid scarecrow before he shot into the air and flew away so fast I didn’t see him disappear.
The strange thing was I felt more abandoned than ever. However horrible he was, I still wanted him to come back. But he didn’t return. Still, I had many hundreds of years ahead of me to run into him again, right?
I was still mad. That small speck of anger grew and in my mind I heard his raw laughter — at my love and longing! I was going to prove him wrong. I would show him I could make it work — or be brave enough to try.
My wrath did not subside and neither did my longing. I decided to go on an outing to Hässelby strand. I was going to make myself as beautiful as possible. In an apartment, I found a lace dress; perhaps it was for a child, a flower girl at a wedding. I’m so thin and tiny it fit. I wore perfume, and combed my hair, fastening flowers into it.
Then I headed to his house — David’s house. I was so afraid I thought I might faint. I saw light in the window, I knew which room was his.
I was in luck: he was the only one in the house. It was about ten at night, but he hadn’t shut the curtain. He was sitting on his bed playing guitar. He had just taken a shower and was wearing a black robe.
I couldn’t stay outside. This was what I had been afraid of — that my longing would overpower me. I had not intended to go through the wall, but my longing forced me to, and there I was in his room.
At first things looked promising. He didn’t seem afraid, only surprised. I don’t know what I looked like in his eyes; perhaps I was nothing more than a breeze or a shadow, now that he’d decided to live. I wasn’t a monster, at any rate. Perhaps a vague ghost, a feeling rather than an experience? He started paying attention, the way a cat focuses on something without us knowing why. I could actually read his thoughts: There’s something in the room. There’s a ghost haunting this room.
No, I wanted to scream, it’s me, Alma. The one who saved you; now you can save me! See me, embrace me!
Then I noticed the photo on his nightstand. A stupid, cute, laughing, living human girl. A girl of the daylight, spoiled, sorrow-free. She’d used a gold marker to draw a heart around her childish face and the words To David.
What can I tell you? Jealousy, loneliness, unending pain — everything I mourned shot through me like a silent black explosion. I fell to pieces. Whatever had held back my hunger now dissipated and my true nature took over. In one jump I was on top of him. I’d turned into a demon, focused on his throat.
His blood — a dreamed-of nourishment, a drink more pleasant than anything I could imagine; I became whole, complete, at home in myself. He tried to defend himself, but it was all in vain.
But see, I didn’t kill him. Don’t look so frightened. He’s still alive. Because I came to my senses when I heard Mr. Fishy’s laugh echoing in my memory. I could stop myself because I realized I was doing just what, in his cynical and triumphant way, he’d predicted I’d do. So I stopped myself, I drew back, I pulled myself out through the wall. I disappeared down the street, out of the neighborhood, away to this wintery hill where I’m staying now. I’m ashamed, but I’m still proud I didn’t kill him. I’m alone, in an eternal land of limbo, where my old dreams have no place. I can’t dream of him. I can’t dream of being human again. And obeying my own nature... no! Turning into that hideous phantom, stinking of cold blood, cynical and greedy, with no shame and no conscience.
So I’m staying here, and not just because it’s closed for the winter, but also because I want to run into my mama who’s still living in the apartment building across the way. I can read thoughts a bit, and I want to read hers to see if she misses me. If she ever loved me, even a little. David’s blood has given me a shot of greater potential, so I can also read your thoughts. I know how much sympathy you have for me. Perhaps you have too much sympathy. You’re writing down my winter tale even though you’re freezing, with just this little space heater to warm you. This is the second long winter night you’ve spent secretly here with me, and soon dawn will break. Soon.
Still, before then, you’re going to fill that little egg cup with blood for me. Yes, just enough of your heart’s blood to fill that fine porcelain egg cup, and I promise not to want more later, not to demand more — don’t come too close to me — I’ll be content with just a little bit, it’s not going to control me. Just a little cut on your hand — not your throat! — and then it will run down into that little cup and I’ll drink it while it’s still warm. As if it were hot chocolate. Put down your pen. I’ll tell you more later. You need tales, just as I need blood. We’re almost related. We’re twins, you and me. You were sixteen once, weren’t you? And you died from being sixteen and abandoned. Part of you died and from what remained you recreated yourself. You understand me. PUT THAT PEN DOWN NOW AND GIVE ME WHAT I WANT — THIS IS NOT A FAIRY TALE!
Northbound
by Lina Wolff
Translated by Caroline Åberg
Saltsjöbaden
Awhile back I decided to join a dating site and created a profile starting with the following description: I’m thirty-six years old and I’m looking for a gentle, but not too gentle, man.
Under “Interests” I wrote none, under “Favorite Writer” I also wrote none. As well as under “Favorite Food” and “Favorite Places.” Under “Life Motto” I came up with: Meeting the man mentioned above. Then I thought about the word motto, that it’s probably something else, a sentence or something you could use as your words of wisdom in certain situations. But I’ve never had a motto like that, so I didn’t change it — even though that could say something about me, could reveal a nonverbal side that might repel some people. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking for a verbal person.
After I’d written what I’d written, I posted a photo of myself. It’s a picture a friend of mine took, where I’m lying on my stomach on his bed. My signs of aging don’t show in the photo, because the only light comes from a few candles, and, like my friend says, most people look fairly decent in that kind of lighting.