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Fiction

Magma

By Thora Hjórleifsdóttir
Translated from Icelandic by Meg Matich
In this excerpt from Thora Hjörleifsdóttir’s debut novel, Magma, a woman narrates the evolution of an abusive relationship.
Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “Chlamydia” in the original Icelandic
 
 

Warning: This text includes descriptions of intimate partner abuse and may be disturbing to readers.

Chlamydia

I didn’t know it would be such a big deal; it’s not like it’s incurable. Nobody’s going to die. We’ll take antibiotics and then, ten days later, it’ll be gone. But now he thinks I’m a total slut. And I must be, since I’ve infected people. But I think he’s being unfair. It shouldn’t matter this much. He acts like I’ve rejected him because I’ve been with other men. We weren’t together when I went to Central America; we’d gone on one date and I hadn’t even slept with him. I was traveling alone, so I slept around because I had nothing better to do and I needed to fill in the gaps. I didn’t know that something would grow between us; in fact, I thought it’d never happen, but I became more and more taken with him as I traveled. He sent me near-constant emails and he was always ready to talk when I went to internet cafés. We just started to connect. When I came home, we clicked; I fell head over heels. He’s beautiful and smart—I don’t know how many books he owns, at least a few hundred, and he has this crazy DVD collection.

But the chlamydia kept eating at him. He wouldn’t stop interrogating me about the other boys. I held back at first. I only told him about one guy, a Norwegian in Cuba, and then I added the next one to the list—followed by the third, the fourth, the fifth, fuck, I can’t be expected to remember everything. I tried to explain that my memory isn’t really that great, but he thinks I’m lying. We were gliding on a smooth current, and now he wants nothing to do with me. 

 
 
Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “The Ex I” in the original Icelandic.

The Ex I

He still loves his ex-girlfriend, and they’re still close friends. She’s elegant and clever. She was at the top of her class in classics in school, they both know Latin, and they’re both well-read; they toss Derrida quotes around like it’s nothing. The other day, he asked me to meet him at a coffeehouse, so it was more than a little strange that he was sitting with her when I arrived. I felt humiliated, and I wanted to leave, to turn around and walk straight out, to disappear, but they’d already spotted me and I had to sit with them. It was one of the most uncomfortable afternoons of my life. I was stressed, sweating like a pig, and I got this weird tremor. They were so relaxed together, and so much smarter than me. They talked about movies I hadn’t seen, and they went on and on about things I hadn’t ever thought about. The Ex tried to bring me into the conversation by explaining, among other things, what a strawberry milkshake was—it’s when a man cums on a woman’s face and punches her in the nose, giving her a nosebleed. Snowballing, she went on, is when a man cums in a woman’s mouth and she spits it into his mouth. He’s told me about sex with her—how nice it was, how talented she is at blow jobs. I’m pretty bad at them; I just gag.

 
 

Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “The Bike” in the original Icelandic.

The Bike

He asked me to meet him at the bar one night, but I was home in the suburbs in Grafarvogur with my mom and dad, and I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t say it like that; I just said I was going to be with my little sister, but he got moody and weird. We were pretty much always together, so it felt like we’d become dependent on each other. That night, I noticed I couldn’t stand to sleep alone anymore; I was cold and I missed him. It was hard to fall asleep, I felt off, and I regretted not going out to meet him, but I felt a little guilty, too, for how little I’d seen my parents in the past few weeks. I tossed and turned because I couldn’t stop replaying the phone call in my head. I wanted to meet him, to check on him. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided that I’d hop into my mom’s car and head to Vesturbær—I was going to surprise him, sneak into his bed, and wake up with him.

The front door to his place is always unlocked, so I showed myself in. In the entryway, I saw his shoes, alongside a pair of expensive heels from Kron. Sexy heels. I knew his roommate wouldn’t have brought home the type of girl who’d own these shoes. I figured that she’d be in the bed I’d gone there to slip into, and I didn’t need to go into the room to confirm it. I knew it. I knew in my gut that I hadn’t been enough. It’s obvious. I really thought we were going to be together—I’m a fucking idiot. Another woman always comes along.

I tiptoed into the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush, my toiletries, my birth control. He’d wake up with this new girl and it’d be as if I’d never been there. My bike was outside the apartment, and I wheeled it over to the car. I was going to disappear from his life with all my stuff, and he wouldn’t even notice. The bike was really heavy, and it took me a while to figure out how to angle the wheel so that it fit into the trunk. I could never lift that bike by myself, but that night, I hardly felt a thing as I flung it over my shoulder and forced it into the car in a rush of adrenaline. I drove for a few minutes, parked the car by the ocean at a stretch of shore called Ægissíða, and howled with tears until there were no tears left, and then, and only then, did I trust myself to drive back to Grafarvogur. Everybody was still asleep. I snuck into my room and never let on that I’d gone out during the night.

I won’t speak to him again. I should’ve known that I’d never be good enough for him. If I’d just gone to the bar when he asked me, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. The girl with the great shoes is probably a vegetarian, I don’t want to know who she is, fucking slut.

 
 
Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “Willpower I-II” in the original Icelandic.

Willpower I

He called, left a message, but I was a Teflon woman—everything slid off me.

Willpower II

For about fifteen minutes.

Graduation Party

He invited me to his cousin’s graduation party. I was more than a little excited. This definitely meant that he wanted to be my boyfriend soon. You don’t just take your fuckbuddy to your cousin’s grad party. His younger cousin had passed all her exams, which took everyone by surprise; her mother sprang into action, planning the entire gathering in less than a day. The party was in Selfoss, an hour’s drive for us, but it’s where his family lives. I borrowed my mom’s car, and as we drove past the lava fields at Hellisheiði, he told me that all his cousins on his mother’s side had competed in the Miss Southern Iceland pageant—it’d practically become a sport in his family. He’s good-looking, too, but he isn’t into these girls who cake on makeup for the county fair. I’m probably the first girl his cousin will meet who still has hair on her pussy.

I felt like a weed among the roses at the party; he didn’t introduce me to anyone, and he didn’t speak to anyone. He’d brought a book, which he read in a bedroom while his aunts and his mom sized me up in the living room. He hates chitchatting at these gatherings, it’s pointless, he says, so he always packs something to read. He says that parties give him time to enrich his internal life, to learn in the midst of mediocrity. He’s had enough of talking about the weather and how school is going.

After a while, his mom settled on introducing me as “a friend of her son.” Then his grandmother, who had sunk into a deep recliner in the living room, called out, “You know he has kids?” as she nibbled creamy cake from a tiny fork.

The aunts waited for the penny to drop. “Yes, I know about that,” I answered, holding my voice steady.  

His grandmother continued: “I don’t think he’ll ever finish university. He really loves to read.” She let out a raspy laugh as she bent forward in the recliner, her plate seeming to refill itself with her daughter’s endless pastries.

Prevention I

In Cuba, I smoked filterless cigarettes called Flor de Aroma. They’re the best cigarettes I think I’ve ever smoked, hand-rolled in the region. They smell of tobacco flowers. They aren’t as strong as cigars, but they are still intense. I smoked up all of them right after I left the tropics.

He thinks smoking is ridiculous. Only idiots smoke, he says. I’ve really cut down on my smoking, and now I only do it when I’m out or if I’m at a café. But after I’ve smoked, he sniffs me, frowns, refuses to kiss me. He says that I stink. The other day, he took it to the next level—he wants me to quit smoking, and for every cigarette I smoke from now on, he’s going to fuck eight women. I don’t want him to sleep with more girls. He should only be with me. I’ll never smoke again.

Oral Sex

I’ve been working on my blow jobs. It’s not going very well. I always gag, sometimes loudly, and throw up in my mouth. But now I’ve started to swallow the puke and the bile and keep going instead of giving up right away, like I always did before. When I blow him, tears run down my cheeks, but I’m not crying, it’s just a reflex. I’m always surprised by how long it takes—I’m at it for half an hour or something before he cums, but in porn, it only takes about two minutes. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. But sometimes I can’t keep going, and it’s always right before he ejaculates, and then he gets pissed off and looks at my face, which is usually covered in tears, and says, “Wow, is being with me really that good?” 

Plato’s Moon Child

It’s incredible to me that this big, strong man can also seem just like a fragile little boy. When we sleep together at night, he wraps himself around me, so peaceful and beautiful. We lie heavily against each other the entire night. Our bodies are two pieces of a puzzle. When we lie together, I feel like I’m finally complete. There’s neither too much nor too little; only a simple precision, just as it should be. Some mornings, when I wake up, he’s so hungry for me that he’s already pushed himself inside me. It’s almost automatic how he just slips in. Then he’s so gentle that I feel a sting of gratitude.

Vanity I

I really don’t own cosmetics; I’ve never been very good at dressing myself up. My makeup bag is so empty that when I unzip it, I expect moths to fly out. But instead, old mascara, half-empty powder, lipstick, and a Swiss Army knife clink around inside the bag. I bought the knife right before I traveled to Central America. I mainly used it to open beer, but I once used it to slice a mango on a beach on the way south, in Mexico.

It’s so wonderful how he likes me exactly as I am. He gets irritated, even seems hurt, if I put on makeup, and he asks accusingly, “Who are you doing that for?” I don’t understand why he gets so jealous; I would never want to be with anyone else. He’s so ethical, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He just doesn’t want me to poison him with additives and preservatives. I don’t need to wear lipstick for him; he thinks my bare lips are perfectly kissable. 

Limits I

He keeps asking me about anal sex. I just say that I don’t understand why he wants it so much. Then he gets this dreamy look on his face and says he can’t even describe how good it feels. So tight and unique—something totally different. In the end, I give in.

It isn’t good or bad, just uncomfortable, and I am so stressed the entire time. I worry that his penis might be like a plunger and when he takes it out of me, shit will just empty all over the bed. But that doesn’t happen. When he is finished, he is so euphoric that I can’t do anything other than feel happy along with him. I want him to believe I’m the best in bed.

Limits II

He’s started to do it regularly—ride me in the ass. Once, he went from there straight into my pussy. I asked him to stop, asked him if I could just get a washcloth. I pictured his penis, the little clots of fecal matter that clung to it as it slid into my vagina. It was like an extreme version of wiping in the wrong direction. But he was so horny and so hungry for me that he couldn’t stop before he got off.

Wedding

One of his childhood friends is going to get married in Selfoss, and he invited me to come with him. It’s the first time that I’ll meet any of his friends, apart from his roommate and his hopeless pickup artist pal. The ceremony was beautiful, everyone at the reception drunk on love. His friends thought I was really great, and one even said to him in astonishment, “Where have you been hiding this one?” We drank and danced, he twirled me in a circle on the dance floor and kissed me in front of everyone. He’s usually so private; he never does anything like that.

As night approached, we took a bus with his friends back to Reykjavik. On the way, he kissed me and, for the first time, said that he loved me. He said it again and again, I love you, I love you. When we arrived in town, I was pretty tired and much too drunk, so I went straight to his place. He went to Kaffibarinn with his friends. I woke up alone the next morning. He came home around noon and jumped straight into the shower.

Love

He’s peeled me like an onion. Surrounded by the leavings of my own sallow skin, I’ve dwindled to nothing, and my eyes smart.

Disappointment

“What’s this? Do you still have a fever?” Mom asked when I climbed into the passenger seat.

“No, no. I think I’m coming around,” I answered, flipping on the radio. It was just past four in the afternoon, but the sun was on its way down. As we inched forward in the traffic, Mom told me about some friend drama with my sister, Gunna. One of the girls had had sex for the first time, and she showed Gunna and the other girls a pair of bloody underpants to prove it. 

“They’re only twelve—should they be having sex already?” Mom asked, launching back into her story before I had a chance to respond. “Gunna’s lost all interest in the piano. We really have to push her to practice at home.” My mother talked and talked as we slowly made our way toward the shopping center at Skeifan. I leaned against the cold window, watching a drizzle of sleet fall to the sidewalk, melt into the grayness of the pavement.

Mom parked in front of a pricey furniture store and unstrapped her seat belt. I felt like I couldn’t move. I had no way to muster energy for this snob store.  

“Come on,” Mom said, urging me to unhook my seat belt. I had such a lump in my throat, I couldn’t speak. As soon as we made eye contact, I broke into tears. She was completely taken aback. By sheer force of will, I was able to stutter, between deep sobs, “I’m . . . not . . . doing so . . . well . . .”

Mom leaned over the armrest, wrapped her arms around me, tried to comfort me. I felt I didn’t deserve how good she was with me, not with how self-centered I’d been. In a calm, almost sedative voice, she asked, “What’s wrong, love?”

I couldn’t tell her what happened, couldn’t talk about it. I had promised to keep the secret, but only halfheartedly. I lifted my arms, turned my wrists toward her. 

Mom gasped. And said sadly, “My girl.” She tightened her arms around my shaking frame, and we cried together to the murmur of traffic in the parking lot.

Cold Slab

Night after night, I have the same nightmare: I’m having cocktails, and I’m surrounded by attractive, well-to-do people. The scene glitters with light refracting off crystal champagne flutes and necklaces clasped around women’s necks. Frivolous laughter. The clinking of glasses. In the middle of the room, under an enormous crystal chandelier, there’s an elegant buffet set with exotic fruits, berries, and colorful canapés. In the middle of the table lies a thin girl, stripped of her clothes. She’s awake, staring straight ahead, sublimely detached. Before her, a row of carefully laid knives, sharpened to a sure point, not unlike the sterile scalpels of surgical carts. A grand middle-aged woman in an emerald dress that drags on the floor taps a spoon on her glass, announcing that it’s time to dig in. They line up one after another, slicing into the wafer-thin skin, binging on the pale morsels of her body. I go up to the girl, prod her with a knife, but she doesn’t react. I slice strip loin from her skinny frame, relishing the cold, salty meat.

As the room empties out, the woman in the green gown is beside herself because there’s so much food left over. She asks me to take the remains of the meal home.

I follow the woman into the kitchen. The girl is standing there, ghostly pale, wrapped in plastic. I throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carry her to my car. But it feels too cruel to put her in the trunk, so I place her in the passenger seat. When I put the car in gear, she begins to tremble violently, as if she’s just come alive, and she begins to breathe quickly, erratically. I take her home, wrap a blanket around her, and talk to her. She doesn’t seem to comprehend anything. She shakes, consumed by choked breaths. I can’t save her. I can’t ease her suffering. I am complicit. I know she won’t linger much longer. I try to offer her food. I try to do something good for her, but I know the time for salvation has passed. 


Kvika published 2019 by Forlagið. © Þóra Hjörleifsdóttir, 2019. By arrangement with the publisher. Translation © 2021 by Meg Matich. All rights reserved.

English Icelandic (Original)

Warning: This text includes descriptions of intimate partner abuse and may be disturbing to readers.

Chlamydia

I didn’t know it would be such a big deal; it’s not like it’s incurable. Nobody’s going to die. We’ll take antibiotics and then, ten days later, it’ll be gone. But now he thinks I’m a total slut. And I must be, since I’ve infected people. But I think he’s being unfair. It shouldn’t matter this much. He acts like I’ve rejected him because I’ve been with other men. We weren’t together when I went to Central America; we’d gone on one date and I hadn’t even slept with him. I was traveling alone, so I slept around because I had nothing better to do and I needed to fill in the gaps. I didn’t know that something would grow between us; in fact, I thought it’d never happen, but I became more and more taken with him as I traveled. He sent me near-constant emails and he was always ready to talk when I went to internet cafés. We just started to connect. When I came home, we clicked; I fell head over heels. He’s beautiful and smart—I don’t know how many books he owns, at least a few hundred, and he has this crazy DVD collection.

But the chlamydia kept eating at him. He wouldn’t stop interrogating me about the other boys. I held back at first. I only told him about one guy, a Norwegian in Cuba, and then I added the next one to the list—followed by the third, the fourth, the fifth, fuck, I can’t be expected to remember everything. I tried to explain that my memory isn’t really that great, but he thinks I’m lying. We were gliding on a smooth current, and now he wants nothing to do with me. 

 
 
Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “The Ex I” in the original Icelandic.

The Ex I

He still loves his ex-girlfriend, and they’re still close friends. She’s elegant and clever. She was at the top of her class in classics in school, they both know Latin, and they’re both well-read; they toss Derrida quotes around like it’s nothing. The other day, he asked me to meet him at a coffeehouse, so it was more than a little strange that he was sitting with her when I arrived. I felt humiliated, and I wanted to leave, to turn around and walk straight out, to disappear, but they’d already spotted me and I had to sit with them. It was one of the most uncomfortable afternoons of my life. I was stressed, sweating like a pig, and I got this weird tremor. They were so relaxed together, and so much smarter than me. They talked about movies I hadn’t seen, and they went on and on about things I hadn’t ever thought about. The Ex tried to bring me into the conversation by explaining, among other things, what a strawberry milkshake was—it’s when a man cums on a woman’s face and punches her in the nose, giving her a nosebleed. Snowballing, she went on, is when a man cums in a woman’s mouth and she spits it into his mouth. He’s told me about sex with her—how nice it was, how talented she is at blow jobs. I’m pretty bad at them; I just gag.

 
 

Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “The Bike” in the original Icelandic.

The Bike

He asked me to meet him at the bar one night, but I was home in the suburbs in Grafarvogur with my mom and dad, and I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t say it like that; I just said I was going to be with my little sister, but he got moody and weird. We were pretty much always together, so it felt like we’d become dependent on each other. That night, I noticed I couldn’t stand to sleep alone anymore; I was cold and I missed him. It was hard to fall asleep, I felt off, and I regretted not going out to meet him, but I felt a little guilty, too, for how little I’d seen my parents in the past few weeks. I tossed and turned because I couldn’t stop replaying the phone call in my head. I wanted to meet him, to check on him. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided that I’d hop into my mom’s car and head to Vesturbær—I was going to surprise him, sneak into his bed, and wake up with him.

The front door to his place is always unlocked, so I showed myself in. In the entryway, I saw his shoes, alongside a pair of expensive heels from Kron. Sexy heels. I knew his roommate wouldn’t have brought home the type of girl who’d own these shoes. I figured that she’d be in the bed I’d gone there to slip into, and I didn’t need to go into the room to confirm it. I knew it. I knew in my gut that I hadn’t been enough. It’s obvious. I really thought we were going to be together—I’m a fucking idiot. Another woman always comes along.

I tiptoed into the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush, my toiletries, my birth control. He’d wake up with this new girl and it’d be as if I’d never been there. My bike was outside the apartment, and I wheeled it over to the car. I was going to disappear from his life with all my stuff, and he wouldn’t even notice. The bike was really heavy, and it took me a while to figure out how to angle the wheel so that it fit into the trunk. I could never lift that bike by myself, but that night, I hardly felt a thing as I flung it over my shoulder and forced it into the car in a rush of adrenaline. I drove for a few minutes, parked the car by the ocean at a stretch of shore called Ægissíða, and howled with tears until there were no tears left, and then, and only then, did I trust myself to drive back to Grafarvogur. Everybody was still asleep. I snuck into my room and never let on that I’d gone out during the night.

I won’t speak to him again. I should’ve known that I’d never be good enough for him. If I’d just gone to the bar when he asked me, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. The girl with the great shoes is probably a vegetarian, I don’t want to know who she is, fucking slut.

 
 
Listen to Thora Hjórleifsdóttir read “Willpower I-II” in the original Icelandic.

Willpower I

He called, left a message, but I was a Teflon woman—everything slid off me.

Willpower II

For about fifteen minutes.

Graduation Party

He invited me to his cousin’s graduation party. I was more than a little excited. This definitely meant that he wanted to be my boyfriend soon. You don’t just take your fuckbuddy to your cousin’s grad party. His younger cousin had passed all her exams, which took everyone by surprise; her mother sprang into action, planning the entire gathering in less than a day. The party was in Selfoss, an hour’s drive for us, but it’s where his family lives. I borrowed my mom’s car, and as we drove past the lava fields at Hellisheiði, he told me that all his cousins on his mother’s side had competed in the Miss Southern Iceland pageant—it’d practically become a sport in his family. He’s good-looking, too, but he isn’t into these girls who cake on makeup for the county fair. I’m probably the first girl his cousin will meet who still has hair on her pussy.

I felt like a weed among the roses at the party; he didn’t introduce me to anyone, and he didn’t speak to anyone. He’d brought a book, which he read in a bedroom while his aunts and his mom sized me up in the living room. He hates chitchatting at these gatherings, it’s pointless, he says, so he always packs something to read. He says that parties give him time to enrich his internal life, to learn in the midst of mediocrity. He’s had enough of talking about the weather and how school is going.

After a while, his mom settled on introducing me as “a friend of her son.” Then his grandmother, who had sunk into a deep recliner in the living room, called out, “You know he has kids?” as she nibbled creamy cake from a tiny fork.

The aunts waited for the penny to drop. “Yes, I know about that,” I answered, holding my voice steady.  

His grandmother continued: “I don’t think he’ll ever finish university. He really loves to read.” She let out a raspy laugh as she bent forward in the recliner, her plate seeming to refill itself with her daughter’s endless pastries.

Prevention I

In Cuba, I smoked filterless cigarettes called Flor de Aroma. They’re the best cigarettes I think I’ve ever smoked, hand-rolled in the region. They smell of tobacco flowers. They aren’t as strong as cigars, but they are still intense. I smoked up all of them right after I left the tropics.

He thinks smoking is ridiculous. Only idiots smoke, he says. I’ve really cut down on my smoking, and now I only do it when I’m out or if I’m at a café. But after I’ve smoked, he sniffs me, frowns, refuses to kiss me. He says that I stink. The other day, he took it to the next level—he wants me to quit smoking, and for every cigarette I smoke from now on, he’s going to fuck eight women. I don’t want him to sleep with more girls. He should only be with me. I’ll never smoke again.

Oral Sex

I’ve been working on my blow jobs. It’s not going very well. I always gag, sometimes loudly, and throw up in my mouth. But now I’ve started to swallow the puke and the bile and keep going instead of giving up right away, like I always did before. When I blow him, tears run down my cheeks, but I’m not crying, it’s just a reflex. I’m always surprised by how long it takes—I’m at it for half an hour or something before he cums, but in porn, it only takes about two minutes. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. But sometimes I can’t keep going, and it’s always right before he ejaculates, and then he gets pissed off and looks at my face, which is usually covered in tears, and says, “Wow, is being with me really that good?” 

Plato’s Moon Child

It’s incredible to me that this big, strong man can also seem just like a fragile little boy. When we sleep together at night, he wraps himself around me, so peaceful and beautiful. We lie heavily against each other the entire night. Our bodies are two pieces of a puzzle. When we lie together, I feel like I’m finally complete. There’s neither too much nor too little; only a simple precision, just as it should be. Some mornings, when I wake up, he’s so hungry for me that he’s already pushed himself inside me. It’s almost automatic how he just slips in. Then he’s so gentle that I feel a sting of gratitude.

Vanity I

I really don’t own cosmetics; I’ve never been very good at dressing myself up. My makeup bag is so empty that when I unzip it, I expect moths to fly out. But instead, old mascara, half-empty powder, lipstick, and a Swiss Army knife clink around inside the bag. I bought the knife right before I traveled to Central America. I mainly used it to open beer, but I once used it to slice a mango on a beach on the way south, in Mexico.

It’s so wonderful how he likes me exactly as I am. He gets irritated, even seems hurt, if I put on makeup, and he asks accusingly, “Who are you doing that for?” I don’t understand why he gets so jealous; I would never want to be with anyone else. He’s so ethical, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He just doesn’t want me to poison him with additives and preservatives. I don’t need to wear lipstick for him; he thinks my bare lips are perfectly kissable. 

Limits I

He keeps asking me about anal sex. I just say that I don’t understand why he wants it so much. Then he gets this dreamy look on his face and says he can’t even describe how good it feels. So tight and unique—something totally different. In the end, I give in.

It isn’t good or bad, just uncomfortable, and I am so stressed the entire time. I worry that his penis might be like a plunger and when he takes it out of me, shit will just empty all over the bed. But that doesn’t happen. When he is finished, he is so euphoric that I can’t do anything other than feel happy along with him. I want him to believe I’m the best in bed.

Limits II

He’s started to do it regularly—ride me in the ass. Once, he went from there straight into my pussy. I asked him to stop, asked him if I could just get a washcloth. I pictured his penis, the little clots of fecal matter that clung to it as it slid into my vagina. It was like an extreme version of wiping in the wrong direction. But he was so horny and so hungry for me that he couldn’t stop before he got off.

Wedding

One of his childhood friends is going to get married in Selfoss, and he invited me to come with him. It’s the first time that I’ll meet any of his friends, apart from his roommate and his hopeless pickup artist pal. The ceremony was beautiful, everyone at the reception drunk on love. His friends thought I was really great, and one even said to him in astonishment, “Where have you been hiding this one?” We drank and danced, he twirled me in a circle on the dance floor and kissed me in front of everyone. He’s usually so private; he never does anything like that.

As night approached, we took a bus with his friends back to Reykjavik. On the way, he kissed me and, for the first time, said that he loved me. He said it again and again, I love you, I love you. When we arrived in town, I was pretty tired and much too drunk, so I went straight to his place. He went to Kaffibarinn with his friends. I woke up alone the next morning. He came home around noon and jumped straight into the shower.

Love

He’s peeled me like an onion. Surrounded by the leavings of my own sallow skin, I’ve dwindled to nothing, and my eyes smart.

Disappointment

“What’s this? Do you still have a fever?” Mom asked when I climbed into the passenger seat.

“No, no. I think I’m coming around,” I answered, flipping on the radio. It was just past four in the afternoon, but the sun was on its way down. As we inched forward in the traffic, Mom told me about some friend drama with my sister, Gunna. One of the girls had had sex for the first time, and she showed Gunna and the other girls a pair of bloody underpants to prove it. 

“They’re only twelve—should they be having sex already?” Mom asked, launching back into her story before I had a chance to respond. “Gunna’s lost all interest in the piano. We really have to push her to practice at home.” My mother talked and talked as we slowly made our way toward the shopping center at Skeifan. I leaned against the cold window, watching a drizzle of sleet fall to the sidewalk, melt into the grayness of the pavement.

Mom parked in front of a pricey furniture store and unstrapped her seat belt. I felt like I couldn’t move. I had no way to muster energy for this snob store.  

“Come on,” Mom said, urging me to unhook my seat belt. I had such a lump in my throat, I couldn’t speak. As soon as we made eye contact, I broke into tears. She was completely taken aback. By sheer force of will, I was able to stutter, between deep sobs, “I’m . . . not . . . doing so . . . well . . .”

Mom leaned over the armrest, wrapped her arms around me, tried to comfort me. I felt I didn’t deserve how good she was with me, not with how self-centered I’d been. In a calm, almost sedative voice, she asked, “What’s wrong, love?”

I couldn’t tell her what happened, couldn’t talk about it. I had promised to keep the secret, but only halfheartedly. I lifted my arms, turned my wrists toward her. 

Mom gasped. And said sadly, “My girl.” She tightened her arms around my shaking frame, and we cried together to the murmur of traffic in the parking lot.

Cold Slab

Night after night, I have the same nightmare: I’m having cocktails, and I’m surrounded by attractive, well-to-do people. The scene glitters with light refracting off crystal champagne flutes and necklaces clasped around women’s necks. Frivolous laughter. The clinking of glasses. In the middle of the room, under an enormous crystal chandelier, there’s an elegant buffet set with exotic fruits, berries, and colorful canapés. In the middle of the table lies a thin girl, stripped of her clothes. She’s awake, staring straight ahead, sublimely detached. Before her, a row of carefully laid knives, sharpened to a sure point, not unlike the sterile scalpels of surgical carts. A grand middle-aged woman in an emerald dress that drags on the floor taps a spoon on her glass, announcing that it’s time to dig in. They line up one after another, slicing into the wafer-thin skin, binging on the pale morsels of her body. I go up to the girl, prod her with a knife, but she doesn’t react. I slice strip loin from her skinny frame, relishing the cold, salty meat.

As the room empties out, the woman in the green gown is beside herself because there’s so much food left over. She asks me to take the remains of the meal home.

I follow the woman into the kitchen. The girl is standing there, ghostly pale, wrapped in plastic. I throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carry her to my car. But it feels too cruel to put her in the trunk, so I place her in the passenger seat. When I put the car in gear, she begins to tremble violently, as if she’s just come alive, and she begins to breathe quickly, erratically. I take her home, wrap a blanket around her, and talk to her. She doesn’t seem to comprehend anything. She shakes, consumed by choked breaths. I can’t save her. I can’t ease her suffering. I am complicit. I know she won’t linger much longer. I try to offer her food. I try to do something good for her, but I know the time for salvation has passed. 


Kvika published 2019 by Forlagið. © Þóra Hjörleifsdóttir, 2019. By arrangement with the publisher. Translation © 2021 by Meg Matich. All rights reserved.

Magma

Klamydía

Ég vissi ekki að þetta yrði svona mikið mál, það er ekki eins og þetta sé óafturkræft, það er enginn að fara að deyja. Við tökum bara lyfin og eftir tíu daga er þetta búið. En honum finnst ég núna vera algjör drusla. Sem ég er svo sem alveg, úr því að ég er farin að smita menn af kynsjúkdómum. Mér finnst samt mjög ósanngjarnt að þetta skipti svona miklu máli. Hann lætur eins og ég hafi hafnað honum af því að ég var með öðrum mönnum. Við vorum ekki saman þegar ég fór til Suður-Ameríku, við höfðum farið á eitt deit og ég hafði ekki einu sinni sofið hjá honum. Ég var ein að ferðast og þetta ferðakynlíf var eiginlega bara blanda af því að hafa ekkert betra að gera og til að fylla upp í félagslegt tómarúm. Þá vissi ég ekki að það yrði eitthvað meira á milli okkar, mér fannst það meira að segja frekar hæpið, en svo varð ég hrifnari og hrifnari af honum þegar leið á ferðina. Hann var alltaf að senda mér tölvupósta og til í að spjalla við mig þegar ég fór á netkaffihús og það skapaðist einhver tenging. Þegar ég kom heim small allt, ég kolféll fyrir honum, hann er svo fallegur og klár, ég veit ekki hvað hann á margar bækur, örugglega mörg þúsund, og svo á hann geggjað DVD-safn.

Hann er algjörlega með þetta á heilanum og spyr endalaust út í þessa stráka. Ég meikaði ekki að segja honum allt fyrst og sagði bara frá einhverjum einum, Norðmanninum á Kúbu, síðan bættist annar við, næst sá þriðji, fjórði, fimmti, fokk, svo man ég ekkert allt. Ég reyndi að útskýra að ég sé ekkert sérstaklega minnug en honum finnst ég vera lygari. Við vorum í svo fallegu flæði en núna vill hann ekki byrja með mér.

 

 

Fyrrverandi I

Honum þykir ennþá mjög vænt um fyrrverandi kærustuna sína og þau eru góðir vinir. Hún er ótrúlega sæt og fáránlega klár. Hún dúxaði af fornmálabraut í MR, þau kunna bæði latínu og eru svakalega víðlesin, geta vitnað í Derrida eins og ekkert sé. Um daginn bað hann mig um að hitta sig á kaffihúsi og þegar ég kom þá sat hann þar með henni. Mér fannst það eitthvað svo niðurlægjandi og mig langaði mest að fara, snúa við og láta mig hverfa, en þau voru búin að sjá mig svo að ég neyddist til að setjast hjá þeim. Þetta var versti eftirmiðdagur sem ég hef upplifað. Ég var svo stressuð, öll sveitt og með einhvern skrítinn skjálfta. Mér fannst þau vera svo afslöppuð og miklu greindari en ég. Þau töluðu um bíómyndir sem ég hafði ekki séð og um endalaust af einhverju dóti sem ég hef ekkert vit á. Fyrrverandi reyndi að hafa mig með í samtalinu og útskýrði meðal annars fyrir mér hvað strawberry milkshake þýðir, það er þegar karl fær það í andlitið á konu og kýlir hana á sama tíma svo að hún fær blóðnasir. Snowballing er svo aftur á móti þegar karl fær það upp í konu og hún hrækir því upp í munninn á karlinum. Hann hefur oft sagt mér hvað það var gott að sofa hjá henni og hvað hún er góð í að totta. Ég er frekar léleg í því, kúgast bara.

 

 

Hjólið

Hann bað mig um að fara með sér á barinn eitt kvöldið en ég var heima í Grafarvogi hjá mömmu og pabba og nennti því ekki. Ég sagði það ekki beint, sagði bara að ég ætlaði að vera með litlu systur minni en hann varð svolítið fúll og skrítinn. Við erum búin að vera mjög mikið saman og það er eins og við séum orðin háð hvort öðru. Um kvöldið fann ég að ég er hætt að geta sofið ein, mér var kalt og ég saknaði hans. Mér fannst mjög erfitt að sofna og ég var frekar leið og með smá samviskubit yfir að hafa ekki nennt að fara og hitta hann en á sama tíma var ég líka með samviskubit yfir hvað ég hef hitt fólkið mitt lítið síðastliðnar vikur. Um nóttina bylti ég mér og var öll eitthvað svo friðlaus og stressuð. Mig langaði að hitta hann, tékka á honum, og úr því að ég gat ekkert sofnað fór ég á bílnum hennar mömmu vestur í bæ, ég ætlaði að koma honum á óvart, skríða upp í og vakna með honum.

Útidyrahurðin þeirra er alltaf ólæst svo að ég gekk bara inn. Í anddyrinu voru skórnir hans og par af hælaskóm úr Kron. Þetta voru sjúklega skvísulegir skór og ég vissi að það væri ekki séns að meðleigjandinn hefði farið heim með stelpu sem ætti svona flotta skó. Hún hlaut að vera í rúminu sem ég var á leiðinni að skríða upp í og ég þurfti ekkert að fara inn til hans til að sannreyna það. Ég vissi það, ég vissi alveg að ég væri ekki nóg. Ég hélt í alvörunni að við værum að fara að byrja saman, ég er svo mikill fokking hálfviti. En þetta var alveg skýrt, það kemur kona í konu stað.

Ég læddist inn á baðið og sótti tannburstann minn og snyrtidótið mitt. Hann myndi vakna með þessari nýju og það yrði eins og ég hefði aldrei verið þarna. Fyrir utan íbúðina stóð hjólið mitt og ég teymdi það að bílnum. Ég ætlaði að hverfa úr lífi hans með allt mitt hafurtask án þess að hann tæki einu sinni eftir því. Hjólið mitt er mjög þungt og ég var dálitla stund að vesenast við að snúa stýrinu svo að það kæmist inn í skottið. Ég hafði aldrei getað loftað þessu hjóli ein áður en þetta kvöld tókst mér að vippa því upp og troða því inn í bílinn með einu handtaki, þetta voru örugglega einhverjir adrenalínkraftar. Svo keyrði ég frá húsinu, lagði bílnum við Ægisíðuna og öskurgrenjaði þangað til það voru ekki fleiri tár eftir, þá treysti ég mér til að halda áfram í Grafarvoginn. Það voru allir sofandi heima. Ég laumaðist inn til mín og lét eins og ég hefði ekkert farið út þessa nótt.

Ég ætla aldrei að tala við hann aftur, ég hefði alveg átt að vita að ég yrði aldrei nógu góð fyrir hann, ef ég hefði bara farið með honum á barinn þá hefði þetta kannski ekki gerst. Stelpan í flottu skónum er pottþétt líka grænmetisæta, mig langar ekkert að vita hver hún er, helvítis druslan.

 

 

Viljastyrkur I

Hann hringdi, sendi skilaboð en ég var teflonkona – allt hrökk af mér.

 

 

Viljastyrkur II

Í svona korter.

 

 

Stúdentsveisla

Hann bað mig um að koma með sér í stúdentsveislu hjá frænku sinni. Ég varð ekkert smá glöð. Þetta þýddi örugglega að hann vildi verða kærastinn minn bráðum. Fólk tekur ekki bara einhverjar handahófskenndar hjásvæfur með sér í stúdentsveislur.

Litla frænka hans hafði klárað stúdentinn, öllum að óvörum, mamma hennar hafði undirbúið boð með sólarhrings fyrirvara. Veislan var haldin á Selfossi, allt móður- fólkið hans er þaðan. Hann sagði mér á meðan ég keyrði yfir Hellisheiðina að stúdentsfrænkan og allar hinar frænkur hans í móðurættinni hefðu keppt í Ung frú Suðurlandi, þetta væri næstum því fjölskyldusport. Hann er líka mjög fallegur en hann fílar samt ekki gervilegar stelpur sem taka þátt í gripasýningum. Ég er örugglega fyrsta stelpan sem stúdentsfrænkan kynnist sem er með hár á píkunni.

Ég var eins og illa gerður hlutur í þessu boði, hann kynnti mig ekki fyrir neinum og talaði sjálfur ekki við neinn. Hann hafði tekið með sér bók sem hann las inni í einu herberginu á meðan mamman og móðursysturnar mældu mig út í stofunni. Hann fílar nefnilega ekki svona innantómt smáspjall sem fólk stundar í fjölskylduboðum, hann tekur alltaf með sér bók svo að líf hans verði aðeins innihaldsríkara eftir svona samkomur, hann hefur fengið nóg af því að tala um veðrið og hvernig gengur í skólanum. Mamma hans kynnti mig á endanum sem „vinkonu sonar síns“. Þá kallaði amman sem var skorðuð innst inni í stofu í djúpum hægindastól þar sem hún hélt á litlum kökugaffli og var með stærðarinnar rjómakökusneið á diski:

„Þú veist hann á krakka?“

Móðursysturnar fylgdust spenntar með viðbrögðum mínum. „Já, ég veit af því,“ svaraði ég kurteislega.

Amman hélt áfram: „Ég held að hann hætti aldrei í háskólanum, hann elskar svo að lesa.“ Svo hló hún rámum hlátri neðan úr hægindastólnum og tók við meira bakkelsi frá dætrum sínum.

 

 

Forvarnir I

Á Kúbu reykti ég alltaf filterslausar sígarettur sem hétu Flor de Aroma. Það eru bestu sígarettur sem ég hef nokkurn tímann reykt, handofnar í héraði og frá þeim liðaðist ilmur tóbaksblómsins. Þær voru ekki eins sterkar og vindlarnir en alveg þrælöflugar. Þessar sígarettur spændust upp hratt og örugglega eftir að ég yfirgaf hitabeltið.

Honum finnast reykingar fáránlegar, það eru bara hálfvitar sem reykja, segir hann. Ég er búin að snarminnka reykingarnar, fæ mér rétt aðeins þegar ég fer að djamma, eða ef ég er á kaffihúsum. En eftir að ég hef gert það hnus- ar hann af mér og setur upp vanþóknunarsvip, neitar að kyssa mig, segir að það sé ógeðsleg lykt af mér. Um daginn bætti hann í – hann vill að ég hætti að reykja og fyrir hverja sígarettu sem ég reyki ætlar hann að ríða átta stelpum. Ég vil ekki að hann sofi hjá fleirum, hann á bara að vera með mér. Ég ætla aldrei að reykja aftur.

 

 

Munngælur

Ég hef verið að æfa mig í að totta. Það gengur ekkert sérstaklega vel, ég kúgast alltaf, stundum alveg með látum, og fæ ælu upp í munninn. En núna er ég farin að kyngja ælunni og halda áfram í staðinn fyrir að gefast strax upp eins og ég gerði alltaf áður. Meðan ég totta hann renna tárin niður kinnarnar á mér, ég er samt ekkert að gráta, þetta er bara reflex. Ég er svo hissa á hvað þetta tekur ótrúlega langan tíma, maður er bara að í hálftíma eða eitthvað, í klámi tekur þetta svona tvær mínútur. Kannski er ég að gera þetta vitlaust. En svo get ég stundum ekki meir og það er alltaf rétt áður en hann fær það, þá verður hann sár út í mig, horfir á tárbólgið andlitið og segir: „Vá, er svona gott að vera með mér?“

 

 

Mánabörn

Það er alveg magnað hvernig þessi stóri og sterki maður getur líka verið eins og lítill strákur. Á nóttunni þegar við sofum saman, þá fléttar hann sig utan um mig, svo friðsæll og fallegur. Við liggjum þétt upp að hvort öðru alla nóttina og sofum alltaf bara með eina sæng. Líkamar okkar eru eins og tvö púsl sem passa saman. Þegar við föllum svona hvort að öðru finn ég að ég er loksins heil. Það er ekkert of eða van, bara nákvæmlega eins og það á að vera. Suma morgna vakna ég við að hann er svo graður í mig að hann er byrjaður að ríða mér. Þetta er næstum því ósjálf- rátt, hann bara sogast inn í mig. Þá er hann svo blíður við mig á meðan að ég fæ þakklætissting í hjartað.

 

 

Hégómi I

Ég á eiginlega ekkert snyrtidót, ég hef aldrei verið flink við að mála mig. Snyrtiveskið mitt er svo tómlegt að það liggur við að þegar ég opna það flögri upp mölflugur. En í staðinn hringla þar gamall maskari, hálfklárað púður, varalitur og rauður vasahnífur. Ég keypti hann rétt áður en ég fór til Suður-Ameríku, ég notaði hann aðallega til að opna bjórflöskur og svo skar ég einu sinni mangó með honum á strönd í Mexíkó.

Það er svo frábært hvað hann er hrifinn af mér nákvæmlega eins og ég er. Hann verður eiginlega bara sár og pirraður ef ég mála mig og spyr ásakandi: „Fyrir hvern er þetta?“ Ég skil ekki af hverju hann verður stundum svona afbrýðisamur, mig mundi aldrei langa til að vera með neinum öðrum. Hann er svo meðvitaður og ólíkur öllum sem ég hef kynnst. Hann vill alls ekki að ég sé að smita í hann eitri og aukaefnum. Með honum þarf ég engan varalit, honum finnast hreinar varir mínar svo fullkomnar og kyssilegar.

 

 

Mörk I

Hann var ennþá að biðja mig um að fá að ríða mér í rassinn. Ég sagðist ekki skilja af hverju hann væri svona spenntur fyrir því. Þá varð hann dreyminn á svip og sagði að hann gæti ekki lýst því hvað þetta væri gott. Svo þröngt, dularfullt og allt öðruvísi.

Á endanum lét ég tilleiðast. Þetta var hvorki gott né vont, bara slepjulegt og óþægilegt. Ég var ógeðslega stressuð allan tímann, mér leið eins og typpið á honum væri drullusokkur og þegar hann tæki það út myndi stífla losna, tappa vera kippt úr og niðurgangur myndi flæða yfir allt rúmið. En það gerðist ekki og þegar hann var búinn var hann í svo mikilli sæluvímu að ég gat ekki annað en sam- glaðst honum. Ég vil að honum finnist best að sofa hjá mér.

 

 

Mörk II

Hann er farinn að ríða mér frekar reglulega í rassinn. Einu sinni fór hann svo beint þaðan og yfir í píkuna á mér. Ég bað hann um að stoppa, bauðst til að fara fram að ná í þvottapoka. Ég sá fyrir mér hvernig typpið á honum væri þakið kúkaflygsum sem dreifðust um innan í píkunni á mér. Þetta var eins og að skeina í ranga átt fyrir lengra komna. En hann var svo æstur og sjúkur í mig að hann gat ekki hætt fyrr en hann fékk það.

 

 

Brúðkaup

Annar æskuvinur hans var að fara að gifta sig á Selfossi og hann bauð mér að koma með. Þetta var í fyrsta sinn sem ég hitti einhverja af vinum hans, fyrir utan meðleigjandann og vonlausa viðreynsluvininn. Athöfnin var falleg og allir voru ölvaðir af ást í veislunni. Vinum hans fannst ég mjög skemmtileg og voru mjög undrandi: „Hvar ertu búinn að vera að fela þessa?“ Við drukkum og dönsuðum, hann sneri mér í hringi á dansgólfinu og kyssti mig fyrir framan fullt af fólki. Venjulega er hann svo prívat, vill ekki gera neitt svoleiðis.

Þegar leið á nóttina tók vinahópur hans rútu til Reykjavíkur. Í þeim bíltúr kyssti hann mig og sagði í fyrsta skipti að hann elskaði mig. Hann sagði það aftur og aftur, ég elska þig, ég elska þig. Þegar við komum í bæinn var ég orðin frekar þreytt og var eiginlega aðeins of drukkin þannig að ég fór beint heim til hans. Hann fór á Kaffibarinn með æskuvinunum. Ég vaknaði ein í rúminu morguninn eftir. Hann kom heim um hádegisbil og fór beint í sturtu.

 

 

Ást

Hann er búinn að flysja mig eins og lauk. Ég er orðin að engu, umkringd skæni og mig svíður í augun.

 

 

Vonbrigði

„Hvað er að sjá þig, ertu nokkuð ennþá með hita?“ spurði mamma þegar ég hlammaði mér í farþegasætið.

„Nei, nei, ég held ég sé að hressast,“ svaraði ég og kveikti á útvarpinu. Þó að klukkan væri bara rétt rúmlega fjögur var farið að dimma úti. Við rétt lúsuðumst áfram í umferðarþunganum og mamma sagði mér undan og ofan af vinkonudrama hjá Gunnu systur minni. Ein þeirra var farin að sofa hjá og hafði sýnt Gunnu og hinum stelpunum blóð- ugar nærbuxur til sönnunar þess.

„Þær eru bara tólf ára, þetta er ekki í lagi, finnst þér það nokkuð?“ spurði mamma en hélt svo áfram áður en ég svaraði nokkru. „Svo er hún Guðrún orðin svo áhugalaus um píanóið, við þurfum alveg að pína hana til að æfa sig heima.“ Mamma hélt áfram að tala og tala meðan við siluðumst í átt að Skeifunni. Ég hallaði mér upp að köldum glugganum og fylgdist með hundslappadrífunni hverfa ofan í grátt slabbið sem þeyttist undan bílunum.

Mamma lagði fyrir framan Epal og gerði sig líklega til að stíga út. Mér leið eins og ég gæti ekki hreyft mig. Það síðasta sem ég orkaði að gera var að fara inn í þessa snobbbúð.

„Jæja,“ sagði mamma uppörvandi þegar hún sá að ég var ekki búin að losa bílbeltið. Ég var með svo mikinn kökk í hálsinum að ég gat ekki talað. Þegar ég mætti blíðu augnatilliti mömmu fór ég að hágráta. Mömmu brá við þessi viðbrögð en með herkjum náði ég að stynja milli ekkasoganna: „Mér … líður ekki … nógu vel …“

Mamma settist hjá mér, tók utan um mig og reyndi að hugga mig. Mér fannst ég ekki eiga skilið að hún væri svona góð við mig, ekki miðað við hvað ég var búin að vera sjálfhverf. Mamma spurði mig sefandi: „Hvað er að, elskan mín?“

Ég gat ekki sagt hvað hefði gerst, gat ekki talað um það, ég var eiginlega búin að lofa að vera ekki að tala um þetta, en með semingi bretti ég upp ermarnar og sýndi henni sáraumbúðirnar.

Mamma saup hveljur en sagði svo dapurlega: „Lilja mín.“ Hún þétti takið utan um mig og við grétum saman á bílastæðinu meðan síðdegisumferðin niðaði í kringum okkur.

 

 

Kalt borð

Mig dreymir sömu martröðina nótt eftir nótt: Ég er stödd í kokteilboði, umkringd fallegu og vel til höfðu fólki. Það er glitrandi birta þarna inni sem endurvarpast af kristalsglösum og skartgripum kvennanna. Fólkið flissar af léttúð og skálar í kampavíni. Í miðju rýminu er veglegt hlaðborð undir stærðarinnar kristalsljósakrónu. Þar er búið að stilla upp ávöxtum, berjum og litríkum snittum. Á miðju borðinu liggur mjóslegin, nakin stúlka. Hún er vakandi en starir stjörf fram fyrir sig og er gjörsamlega aftengd. Fyrir framan hana er búið að raða upp hárbeittum hnífum, ekki ósvipuðum þeim sem eru á skurðstofum. Glæsileg kona á miðjum aldri í smaragðsgrænum síðkjól slær í glasið sitt og býður fólkinu að gjöra svo vel. Það gengur hvert af öðru að stúlkunni og sker örþunnar, fölbleikar kjöttægjur utan af henni. Ég fer líka upp að stelpunni, klíp hana en þegar hún sýnir engin viðbrögð þá sker ég mér bita úr síðu hennar og gæði mér á köldu, söltu kjötinu.

Þegar gestirnir byrja að tínast út er konan í græna kjólnum alveg miður sín yfir hvað það er mikill afgangur, hún biður mig endilega að taka eitthvað með mér heim.

 

Ég fylgi konunni eftir inn í eldhús og þar stendur stelpan, náföl, vafin inn í matarplast. Ég lyfti henni upp í bóndabeygju og ber hana út í bíl, mér finnst eitthvað kuldalegt að setja hana í skottið svo að ég óla hana niður í farþegasætið. Þegar ég ek bílnum af stað fer stelpan allt í einu að hríðskjálfa. Það er eins og hún vakni til lífsins og hún byrjar að anda hratt og óreglulega. Ég fer með hana heim, vef teppi utan um hana og reyni að tala við hana. Hún meðtekur ekki neitt, skelfur bara og andar á hryglukenndan hátt.

Ég get ekki bjargað henni, ég get ekki linað þjáningar hennar, ég er samsek. Ég veit að hún á ekki langt eftir ólifað, ég reyni að bjóða henni mat, gera eitthvað gott fyrir hana en veit að það er um seinan.

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