Sonntag, 29. März 2015
Three Monkeys.
quadrotriticale, 03:59h
The day when everything gets too much arrives suddenly and unexpected. For five years things went so smooth, and now it occurs to her that she can't bear all this any longer.
"The bus is killing me," she's telling me in the morning. Talks about day-to-day-life and routine, that everything always is the same.
"What do you want, then?" I ask, without being sure that I understand her problem.
"I'd like to go to France," she says dreamily.
"To France?" I ask, disbelievingly, because I cannot imagine what she could possibly want there.
"Yes." All of a sudden she's looks at me as if she realises that she just blurted out a secret. She smiles cheerfully and is back to her usual self. I wonder whether I imagined all this. She changes the subject, says she's got a headache and that she'll do without contacts tomorrow. We talk about things more standing to reason, school, the test tomorrow, and I forget the initial conversation.
The next day her glasses dangle between two buttons of her blouse.
"I can't watch it anymore." She gestures towards the glasses, says that she came here like this. "But you don't even notice the difference. Slightly blurrier, that's all." She sighs, and by now she annoys me, I want to quickly revise things for the test once more. "Doesn't improve matters."
One week later she's struck by the epiphany that, looking down on the asphalt in front of you all the time, you could be everywhere, no matter if Paris, Lyon, or this place. You just mustn't give in to all those other impressions.
"This morning I read on the bus," she starts, "and recognised the bus stop by means of who got off, without even so much as looking up. Everybody has been doing everything the same way for five years, and nothing changes, how can they stand this?"
What am I supposed to say? I've been going my route for years as well and see no reason to complain. That's the way it is.
A short time later, she starts listening to French music and arrives at school with earbuds still plugged in and glasses on her collar, where I sit bent over my notes. She does not hear anything, see anything, and seems to see no reason to stop the music, despite teachers being within eyeshot. I remain silent.
The days go by. She's getting ever paler, and I begin to worry.
"Perhaps," I suggest, "you should take a day off. Read a good book, or watch a movie, just take your mind off things. It can't go on with you like this, exams are about to start."
She smiles, in a tired way, somehow. "Maybe I'll do just that. Go down to the river for a day, read something... you are right, you know." She takes off her glasses, rubs her eyes. "I just can't endure those bus rides anymore, I've seen the route once too often."
I step closer and hug her. She hugs me back, tightly, and I feel I've done the right thing. She smiles again, very briefly, and we say goodbye for today.
The next day, she's not there, and I'm happy. At the moment she's not missing a lot, and the little she does miss she can take from my notes. And tomorrow the world is going to look completely different.
The day after that, she still isn't there. Well, if it helps.
The following days she doesn't show up either, the whole week through she's missing. Now that wasn't exactly what I meant, but I don't want to be angry with her. Saturday, I call her, in case she wants my notes. Her mother picks up. Her voice is soft, quiet, and finished with the world.
"She had an accident four days ago." Swallowing. "She walked to school over the crossroads, heaven knows why she walked instead of taking the bus. A car went over a red light..."
Words, too many.
Inside me, something that I did not know existed, freezes. A huge block of ice within me. With astonishing calmness, I inquire for the hospital.
The way she's lying there, pale, eyes closed, tears well up in me. For almost an hour I just sit next to her, my hand on hers, and cry silently. She did not hear anything, see anything. She did not want to hear anything, see anything. Only the asphalt, for the asphalt could be everywhere, Paris, Lyon, or this place.
I visit her as often as school permits me. I buy French music. In the bus, I look out of the window and stare at concrete streets, but I'm not hit by understanding, I must be seeing something else than she did.
I keep going and wait for her to wake up. And explain it to me.
Sometime.
-Liv
"The bus is killing me," she's telling me in the morning. Talks about day-to-day-life and routine, that everything always is the same.
"What do you want, then?" I ask, without being sure that I understand her problem.
"I'd like to go to France," she says dreamily.
"To France?" I ask, disbelievingly, because I cannot imagine what she could possibly want there.
"Yes." All of a sudden she's looks at me as if she realises that she just blurted out a secret. She smiles cheerfully and is back to her usual self. I wonder whether I imagined all this. She changes the subject, says she's got a headache and that she'll do without contacts tomorrow. We talk about things more standing to reason, school, the test tomorrow, and I forget the initial conversation.
The next day her glasses dangle between two buttons of her blouse.
"I can't watch it anymore." She gestures towards the glasses, says that she came here like this. "But you don't even notice the difference. Slightly blurrier, that's all." She sighs, and by now she annoys me, I want to quickly revise things for the test once more. "Doesn't improve matters."
One week later she's struck by the epiphany that, looking down on the asphalt in front of you all the time, you could be everywhere, no matter if Paris, Lyon, or this place. You just mustn't give in to all those other impressions.
"This morning I read on the bus," she starts, "and recognised the bus stop by means of who got off, without even so much as looking up. Everybody has been doing everything the same way for five years, and nothing changes, how can they stand this?"
What am I supposed to say? I've been going my route for years as well and see no reason to complain. That's the way it is.
A short time later, she starts listening to French music and arrives at school with earbuds still plugged in and glasses on her collar, where I sit bent over my notes. She does not hear anything, see anything, and seems to see no reason to stop the music, despite teachers being within eyeshot. I remain silent.
The days go by. She's getting ever paler, and I begin to worry.
"Perhaps," I suggest, "you should take a day off. Read a good book, or watch a movie, just take your mind off things. It can't go on with you like this, exams are about to start."
She smiles, in a tired way, somehow. "Maybe I'll do just that. Go down to the river for a day, read something... you are right, you know." She takes off her glasses, rubs her eyes. "I just can't endure those bus rides anymore, I've seen the route once too often."
I step closer and hug her. She hugs me back, tightly, and I feel I've done the right thing. She smiles again, very briefly, and we say goodbye for today.
The next day, she's not there, and I'm happy. At the moment she's not missing a lot, and the little she does miss she can take from my notes. And tomorrow the world is going to look completely different.
The day after that, she still isn't there. Well, if it helps.
The following days she doesn't show up either, the whole week through she's missing. Now that wasn't exactly what I meant, but I don't want to be angry with her. Saturday, I call her, in case she wants my notes. Her mother picks up. Her voice is soft, quiet, and finished with the world.
"She had an accident four days ago." Swallowing. "She walked to school over the crossroads, heaven knows why she walked instead of taking the bus. A car went over a red light..."
Words, too many.
Inside me, something that I did not know existed, freezes. A huge block of ice within me. With astonishing calmness, I inquire for the hospital.
The way she's lying there, pale, eyes closed, tears well up in me. For almost an hour I just sit next to her, my hand on hers, and cry silently. She did not hear anything, see anything. She did not want to hear anything, see anything. Only the asphalt, for the asphalt could be everywhere, Paris, Lyon, or this place.
I visit her as often as school permits me. I buy French music. In the bus, I look out of the window and stare at concrete streets, but I'm not hit by understanding, I must be seeing something else than she did.
I keep going and wait for her to wake up. And explain it to me.
Sometime.
-Liv
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