Latest ten days of posting

Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2002-06-20

     --They hate me!
My left shoe flies across the room as I kick my feet and tries to go back to my room.
     --No they don’t. Whatever gave you that idea?
I can’t get any further as a towering parental unit blocks my way. Deadlocked into a corner I try to figure out a way to escape.
     --They hate me, I just know it!
I scream despite the fact that I don’t need to. My voice is shrill and squeaky. I can’t stand it but I have little choice.
     --You’ll go to school no matter how hard you cry. So stop it and wipe those tears away.
The parental unit push me out through the doorway and slams it shut behind me. This was not the way I planned it.
     --They hate me. I wish they would die.
I whisper, afraid that someone might hear. I look about and I see no one at the schoolyard. Perhaps I’ll make it today without being beaten to a pulp, the hopeful thoughts withstanding, deep down I doubt it will happen.
     I walk across the road, I fly over the ditch and lands softly in the grass. Five metres and I feel the schoolyard under me, electrifying my feet. The air is thick and there are vibrations in that make me feel as if I should watch my back, that I should turn around. As always I don’t have that option so I cut the corner of the first building to my right. I feel a fist in my stomach. It hits me hard and I fold to the ground.
     --Hit him again! Harder!
The voice doesn’t belong to the fist, I know this because it never does. Never. Someone, a third person, picks me up and hold me up from behind while the fist hits me again. I wish I could take their heads and smash them into the concrete. To make the road turn scarlet. To strike back and bury my own fist in their faces, shatter teeth, crushing the nose, make them pay with fear and strip them from their pride. But I don’t — it wouldn’t be proper. Not just yet. I’ll turn their lives into a living hell.