Min engelsklärare sa till mig att jag är mycket bättre muntligt än skriftligt (vilket är så roligt, för jag har alltid varit så fruktansvärt dålig på att verkligen prata engelska), så jag tänkte att jag skulle försöka skriva lite saker på engelska ibland. För att när jag väl ska göra våra skrivuppgifter får jag aldrig in något flyt och jag känner mig som en språklig idiot.
Jag började på en novell som jag tänkte lämna in tror jag. Men det går inget bra. Eller så är det jag som hånskrattar åt allt jag skriver nuförtiden, jag vet faktiskt inte.
Family life (very very not finished at all, so have mercy)
There are three things I remember about my family. My mother, watching TV and getting fat. My father, masturbating to wet sex porn at 4 o’clock in the morning, thinking nobody was awake, and my sister, smoking at the rear end of the school, telling me that if I ever told mum and dad, she would kill me. Putting a burning cigarett to my skin, as if to further hint how capable she was of hurting me. Funny, since telling them would never had made any difference. They wouldn’t have believed my, and they wouldn’t have cared. But I still have marks on my arms from her freaking cigarettes; whenever I feel lonely, I look at them and think: it could have been a lot worse. Close my eyes and think: I could have been her. I suppose it feels pretty good I’m not.
We used to live in a yellow brick house. That was awesome. I always enjoyed the colour yellow; I always enjoyed brick houses. Furthermore, it’s harder to burn down brick houses than those made of wood. That was important. At night, I used to lay awake and think of all dangerous things that could happen to as all. Kill us in an instant. Living in a brick house, I could at least assume we wouldn’t die in a fire. Kind of reassuring.
This, I told Charlie the first time I brought her to my house. All of this, in the way I always told Charlie all the things she never wanted to hear. All the things I never even wanted to tell her. I’ve heard, I’ve heard that some people call that love, but I think that’s a freaking lie. I never loved Charlie. She was only a little better than the great void that was my life, and I found that good. And, yes, I thought her collarbones were close to perfection. But, I mean, she had crooked teeth. Of course I weren’t in love with her.
•- It’s good, I said to Charlie that day when we were standing outside the house and I was almost beginning to regret that I ever brought her here because the situation suddenly seemed to unfamiliar for me and my stomach was panicly aching. It’s good, you know, living in a brick house. Like an assurance. You know you won’t die in a fire, at least.
Charlie, oh Charlie, she laughed. Her emaciated little body, trembling. Her smile, now you could see her crooked teeth all too well. I looked away, in pure politeness.
•- That’s fucking bullshit, darling, and you know it, she said.
I nodded, smiled and believed her.
Looking back, it seems I always did.