I know the unpleasant feeling of losing your balance, of your rootless body flying through the air, with your heart beating like mad in fear of what’s going to happen when you come down. It only lasts a second or so, but in that short space of time I had the great pleasure of seeing fear change his pretty face into a twisted, bewildered, ugly grimace. He swore, waved his arms in the air and came down on the stairs with a crash. There was a loud crack, like the sound of a thick branch being snapped in half. Then complete silence reigned for a moment as he lay sprawled across the steps, his legs in different directions; he groaned, and his face contorted like in a silent movie as he tried to sit up. But his right leg jutted out sideways, the trouser leg was torn at the knee, and his shin bone stuck out through it, pink and unreal. In that moment of astounding silence my chest filled with a lovely warmth, and then he screamed, and you came bolting down the stairs after him as fast as you could. You dabbed the cheek of his swollen, uglified face with a white handkerchief (loverboy was crying!) and knelt beside him like a good fairy, comforting him with gentle, caring words and constantly kissing him as if he was an injured little bird, not a grown man.
And so I was separated from you again, imprisoned within the walls of my monstrosity. I withdrew into the bathroom, but you didn’t even notice I was gone. You were obsessed with your lover’s injury, dashing about around him; you called an ambulance and various friends, moved him from the stairs to the bed and pampered him there with devotion, while a whirlwind of jealousy raged inside me despite my best efforts to prevent it. Oh yes, he enjoyed the role of the wounded man, with you there to wait on him day and night, and now he could relish your velvet skin and culinary charms in equal measure. Meanwhile I suffered as the worm of envy gnawed at me and my heart crumbled, but it was all in vain – you were bound to be constantly by his side, and all because of my idiocy!
I know I was a burden to you, Mother, even when I was still in your belly. That Party functionary who enjoyed your magnificent body night after night, my supposed father, shamelessly abandoned you when you told him you were pregnant. He kicked you out without a word, forgetting all the times he had crept between your legs and whispered sweet nothings about not being able to live without you. That power-hungry jerk, that selfish crawler, was petrified lest you impinge on his fucking career. The stinking bastard left you on the streets like a homeless, pregnant bitch.
How your kind, elegant soul suffered because of that injustice! You had those heavy bags crammed with encyclopaedias, from A to Mai in one hand and Maj to Z in the other – four thick, heavy volumes on each side. You lugged them through the steep streets of the city all day and arrived home exhausted and bathed in sweat, still carrying the encyclopaedias, which you had to heave up the stairs of our block of flats, five floors up, and then down again, and up, and down again. But despite all your superhuman efforts, I wouldn’t let you rid yourself of me. Why didn’t I let you do it? We would have been happier, both of us. You would have enjoyed your life with your lover, or lovers, because, Mum, you’re the most attractive, sexiest woman I’ve ever met. From my earliest childhood, there was no overlooking the way men devoured you with their eyes, with all their male ganglia firing, the way they flashed seductive smiles at you, and the more daring ones, with one eyebrow raised, would venture on into the realm of allusions. But as soon as Mr Bold’s glance wandered down to me, his expression changed abruptly: the enchantment swiftly ebbed away, leaving a face full of unconcealed horror. I felt so ashamed at times like that, Mum, to have embarrassed you, to have humiliated you with my presence!
I don’t understand why even now, so many years after the incident in the bathroom, I still get the stupid urge to cry again. Forgive me, Mum, I know my crying is not like that of a normal human being, but I’ve never been normal. It’s not that I haven’t tried to live and to find meaning even where there is none. But it never worked. I wasn’t even able to kill Kyrie, although I planned everything meticulously, just as I did with your lover. The time: midnight, when all the patients, nurses and orderlies at the sanatorium were in bed and Kyrie was returning to her room after her last round. The place: a dark corridor, and I was waiting for her behind a toilet door. The weapon: a long screwdriver I stole from the garage where we had to wash Kyrie’s VW Golf as part of our ‘occupational therapy’.
I forgot just one thing – that I’m so short. I needed ten centimetres more to be able to stab Kyrie with the screwdriver where I wanted to; in the heart. I also disregarded the fact that she was no walkover: Kyrie the Matron was a little surprised by my attack but in no way scared. With a quick, sure move that seemed part of a well-trained repertoire, she grabbed me by the wrist, whipped me around and pushed me to the floor. My lunge had only grazed her in the groin, and she managed to grab the broom that was leaning against the wall and brought the handle down on my face with all her might. I blacked out and all I felt was the warm blood splashing my face and filling my mouth. I only have a vague memory of what happened afterwards: the cops dragging me away and hitting me, an old doctor stitching the cuts on my face without anaesthetic and disfiguring me even more, if that’s possible, and a judge sneering: ‘You’ve got it coming to you now, midget, you’re up shit creek!’ If anyone had asked me if I had really been to a sanatorium and if people were really cured there, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I also have a fleeting memory of a supposed lawyer pretending to be my defence counsel and arguing that I was a victim of my circumstances, which had made me a helpless multiplier of irrational violence, but I didn’t care any more. I just have to admit being a bit disappointed, Mum, that you didn’t come to the trial. But when they told me later that you were on holiday at the Borovets ski resort in Bulgaria – with your lover, what’s more – I was glad you were able to take a break from all the mess and problems I caused you. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank your lover for the present he sent me, although it only cost eight euros (that’s what it says on the box) and I did the jigsaw in just a few minutes. Twenty-piece jigsaws like that are for small kids.
But don’t you worry, it’s not as bad here as you might expect. They call the place a Corrective Centre for Juveniles, although it reminds me more of a dungeon. Still, it’s not that grim. I’ve learnt that there are many boys here with stories like mine, lads much taller and better looking than me who are just as hapless. My cell here, unlike the ‘Damned Cell’, has a window with bars on it, but it is still a window. I can watch the weather through it and tell if it’s sunny or cloudy, raining or snowing, and every night I can watch the stars and count them idly as I chew my potatoes; there are always boiled potatoes for dinner. If I stand on tiptoe in the cell I can even see beyond the walls of the Centre and spot people and cars going down the street. I can even see the crowns of the trees: in leaf yesterday, and with bare branches today. They say our only task here is to kill time, but I have no problem with that. I could live here in this prison for years without getting bored. The days might seem long, but viewed in sequence they actually become shorter. I’m satisfied. The food is frugal but you can rely on it – three meals a day plus a morning snack. We have compulsory PE every morning in the courtyard. You know what they say, Mens sana in corpore sano. Perhaps I really will succeed in strengthening my body and building up some muscles, and maybe then I will improve on the inside, too...
How long will I stay here? – until I’m nineteen. Then I’ll have to leave the place, but I’ll manage. I’ve actually heard that if I attack one of the guards I could get a few more years, and then be moved to a real prison. But don’t you worry. Now that you’re a safe distance away from my obnoxiousness it’s only fair that you now finally enjoy love and all those other little things that make one’s life fulfilled.
Just imagine, Kyrie the Matron testified at the trial – ostensibly in my defence – that I had wanted to stab her with the screwdriver because my mother hadn’t given me enough warmth and affection. How despicable of her! She even mentioned my phoney father, that gutless Party functionary, as if he was the reason for you becoming unfeeling towards me. I was still in a daze from the thrashing the policemen had given