Me on the Floor, Bleeding

by Jenny J

  ‘Oh, sorry, Enzo! But your expression, it was fantastic!’

  Enzo aimed a slap at my head with his maths book but I ducked, feeling the gust of air rush over my hair.

  ‘You little shit,’ he said.

  I carried on laughing like I couldn’t stop, but Enzo kept quiet and it made me worry that I’d gone too far.

  ‘Enzo-Benzo! Stand up straight!’

  I sighed to myself. That voice was easily recognisable. It was clear and sharp, kind of like high-pitched. Vendela. And next to her was FAS-Lars with the obligatory can of Coke in his hand. FAS as in Foetal Alcohol Syndrome, which you can get if your mum drinks while she’s pregnant. We had read about it in biology and Lars ticked all the criteria: small head, flat face, turned-up nose, hyperactive, low intelligence. Those last two were the total opposite of me: underactive, high intelligence. It was obvious we didn’t get on. Obvious we didn’t like each other.

  Enzo jumped and automatically straightened up. It was true his posture was bad, as if he wanted to hide himself, hide his own body. But you noticed him even more when he walked about hunched over like that.

  ‘Maja manky Müller. Sawn off any more fingers lately?’ said Vendela, looking at me confrontationally. Rumours of the bloodbath had clearly spread. Probably Simon had posted pictures on every idiot site he could find. Hooray.

  FAS-Lars laughed maniacally and slurped the last of his Coke loudly.

  There was one unusual thing about Vendela: she was a bully even though she was studying science. Weren’t bright, academic girls supposed to be kind? Wasn’t that written in the small print in a clause somewhere on the confirmation letter? In which case she had definitely not read it.

  I said nothing, only looked at her indifferently. Her short blonde hair. Her large blue eyes. The little turned-up nose. She could be pretty. If she wasn’t so flipping ugly, of course.

  I tried to imagine I was looking at a dead object. A stone. She was a stone. That was another look I had practised in front of the mirror: trying to look unmoved and cold. Very handy. I had tested it on Dad and it had driven him mad. “Stop staring at me like that!” he had yelled, waving his hands. “You look like Jana. You’ve got the same … look”’

  Even though I really didn’t like him saying that, there was some truth in it. The look did remind me of Mum. When she sort of “drifted off”, as she described it herself. When she became, like, distant and detached.

  Detached.

  Is that what we were like, me and her? Was I really like her?

  ‘Answer then, bitch,’ said Lars, who seemed to go in for the role of sidekick one hundred percent.

  ‘I asked a polite question,’ said Vendela. ‘Have you sawn off any more fingers lately?’

  ‘Not this one, anyway.’ I gave her the finger. Almost stuck it right up her nose.

  ‘My, you’re in a bad mood,’ said Vendela, managing to sound offended. ‘I was only asking. Because I absolutely get it, you know. That you want to harm yourself, I mean. I imagine I would want to do that too, if I were you. But I thought you emo kids were more discreet about cutting yourselves.’

  Oh my God. Was she just being a bitch or did people really think I had done it deliberately?

  I lowered my finger.

  And thought to myself: She’s a stone.

  FAS-Lars laughed out loud and grabbed one of my braces. It was narrow and black and attached to my mint-green jogging bottoms. I had bought a complete 1980s tracksuit in shiny polyester from the City Mission. Fifty kronor and never been worn! It was still in its original wrapping, a rustling transparent bag, when I bought it.

  ‘And what is this? Everyone knows your emo stuff is ugly but this wins first prize! You look like you come from a fucking mental institution.’

  He said those last words in English. Then he pulled out the strap as far as he could and let it go. It stung my nipple for an instant but I didn’t show it. I only looked at him indifferently.

  He is a stone.

  ‘Yes, what is the matter with you?’ asked Vendela, pretending to be sympathetic. ‘Do you earn so little from sucking dicks that you have to steal clothes from poor retards?’

  Over and over again I thought: She is a stone. She is a stone.

  Eventually I said:

  ‘I earn shitloads, Vendela, but your mother has a problem. She’s undercutting everyone. Selling blow jobs for a few kronor. All the other whores are mad as hell.’

  Only if you looked at her really closely could you detect a reaction. Perhaps she had also been practising how to shut off her facial expressions, how to look at people coldly. But I noticed. I saw the muscles round her neck tense up and her eyes narrow.

  Out of the corner of my eye I also noticed Enzo slowly edging a few centimetres away and wondered if that was being disloyal, but decided it was mainly understandable. He hadn’t chosen this strategy. I had.

  I stared calmly first at Vendela and then at Lars for a long time, and then pushed my way past. Lars’s body was compact and tense, like a fighting dog’s. Even though I despised him with all my heart there was something inexplicably sexual about that hard, aggressive body. No doubt some sick learned behaviour.

  As I passed he whacked my head with the palm of his hand. It wasn’t an especially hard slap but it hit me right on the swelling. The unexpected pain made me sink to the floor with a loud groan. FAS-Lars looked astounded. He probably hadn’t expected the slap to have such a powerful effect.

  ‘You filthy little slut!’ Vendela hissed down at me. Small, hardly noticeable drops of saliva sprayed from the corners of her mouth. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, turned round, and walked off. FAS-Lars and I looked at each other in confusion. I guess we were both thinking: ‘Did I just win, or what?’

  Some passing students I vaguely recognised were forced to step aside to avoid my body. I made no attempt to stand up but just lay there with the sound of the smack echoing in my ears. The pain was hard and hot.

  FAS-Lars made a face that I think was supposed to be threatening and then hurried after Vendela like a randy but well-trained dog. Sadly I understood that the opportunity for making a caustic remark had passed.

  Enzo cautiously approached, clearly ready to flee should they return. He leaned over me and reached out his hand and helped me up. His cheeks hung heavily. He started to speak, fast and disjointed.

  ‘Whoa, I know you can’t … you can’t expect anything else from them but I get so … so mad … so incredibly angry at all that … talk about whores … that’s no way to … to talk about girls … women …’

  While he was searching for the right words I interrupted him.

  ‘I don’t. I don’t understand what’s so wrong about having sex and charging for it. Millions have sex without getting paid. Is that really any better? Isn’t it better to get some remuneration than to work for nothing? I think we should reclaim the whole whore concept, bring back “whore” and sort of upgrade it. You know, like the neo-Nazis have done with the Swedish flag.’

  Enzo squirmed. I was being disloyal, I knew. He only wanted to show that he was on my side. But it was a little late for that. He mumbled:

  ‘Remuneration? Can’t you speak in a language I can understand?’

  I sighed. Sometimes it was remarkable how little it took to totally make you lose heart.

  ‘Yes. Money. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? That you get paid?’

  He shook his head. It was clear he didn’t agree with me. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t agree myself. I was only trying to rescue some of my dignity. I think he understood. In a show of solidarity he said nothing.

  The corridors had emptied of students and Enzo and I walked quickly to the next lesson.

  ‘Reclaim the whore!’ I said, to cheer things up, and blew my nose on a tissue I found in my pocket. It’s harder than you think to blow your nose with only one hand.

  Two shy girls with messy hair and a thick layer of foundation walked past, late for class. They clung close toge
ther, whispering conspiratorially. They fell silent and looked at me in terror, their eyes wide. I stared back, but they carried on walking, throwing glances over their shoulders. It aggravated me. The silence of girls who were best friends did that to me. People always thought they were sweet and considerate, but how would you know that if they never said anything? They made me suspicious. They could just as easily be, well, neo-Nazis.

  ‘Maja?’ said Enzo, following the direction of my gaze.

  ‘What?’ I said, distractedly, feeling the thumping, blood-filled bump on my head. I couldn’t help moaning.

  ‘Excuse my asking,’ he grinned. ‘But did that hurt?’

  ‘Yes, Enzo, it did. Happy now?’

  ‘Yep, happy now!’

  A Stab in the Heart

  A minute later we were sitting next to each other in our Swedish lesson. Hanne had just run through the various poetry metric variations and now it was our turn to write a haiku: a Japanese poetic form with five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third, she explained.

  ‘Give the third line a kind of twist,’ said Hanne, turning her freckly face towards me.

  ‘Something that … surprises!’

  She smiled warmly and I gave her a tired smile in return. She liked me, I knew that. I suppose I liked her too; it was hard not to. She often came up to me after the lesson to discuss something I had said or written. Her written comments on my assignments were always profusely positive. “Brilliant!” was her constant opinion about almost everything I wrote. At our progress assessment before Christmas she had said that I have, and I quote: “an exceptionally good ability to express myself both verbally and in writing” and she also said that I was probably “the most gifted pupil in Swedish she had ever had.” Of course, she’s only been teaching for two years, but still.

  An A-star was a given. I needed that grade. In every other subject I was depressingly mediocre. Studying art and design called for a certain amount of artistic talent, at the very least. I had kind of used up all my talents taking the entrance exam. I never painted or drew as well before or since. I made a sculpture even though I hate sculptures. Venus de Milo. You know, that beautiful woman with bare breasts and sawn-off arms. I gave it the title “No arms, no cake,” and who knows, perhaps it was a premonition of what was to come? “No thumb, no …”, well, what? But after I had sent in those assignments for the entrance exam it was like there was nothing more to give. Once the inspiration was gone, my artistic ability burnt out like sulphur on a matchstick.

  Hanne walked up and down in front the white board on which she had written the guide lines for composing a haiku in handwriting that was as immaculate as it was impersonal. Then all of a sudden she strode up to Simon’s desk and took his mobile away from him. He looked up and managed an astonished:

  ‘But …’

  Hanne went back to her desk at the front, pulled out a drawer and dropped in the mobile without saying a word. Then she continued walking up and down.

  My thumb was hurting like mad and a vague feeling of reluctance worked its way through my body.

  Why didn’t she phone? I mean, I had sawn off my thumb and she knew it.

  Hanne came to a halt and leaned over her desk, supporting herself with her hands, her fingers outspread like a sprinter at the starting block. She looked down at her notes. Enzo passed me a slip of paper asking if we could hang out that evening. I shook my head and mouthed ‘Norrköping’, looking apologetic, and without taking my eyes off Hanne.

  Her blouse was very low cut and you could see her pale breasts heaving up and down. Each time she breathed in it looked as if her breasts would pop over the top, so overloaded was the neckline. I hoped they would; I was longing for something to happen. I looked around the classroom, sighing silently. A beam of sunlight had found its way through the window and I could see millions of dust particles, all lit up. Infinitely slowly they whirled around as if they were weightless. They looked like flying glitter. Flying glitter over Hanne’s lowered face, flowing glitter over her pale skin …

  Abruptly she straightened up, catching out all of us who were blatantly staring at her bosom. Embarrassed, Enzo immediately looked down and perhaps he was not the only one because she clicked her fingers to regain eye contact. But wasn’t that a small self-satisfied smile I saw, flitting like a summer cloud across her freckly face?

  ‘And,’ she said, ‘Here’s a little suggestion. Write about something related to the environment, to nature or the seasons, such as spring … and, well, why not the approaching summer? That will make it a little more … Japanese!’

  She nodded graciously. That was her way of saying we could start writing.

  Counting the syllables on my fingers I quickly wrote:

  Enzo cannot write

  A haiku. That’s because he’s

  Way, way too stupid

  I shoved the poem across to Enzo who opened his eyes wide in an insulted expression. He grabbed the piece of paper, stood up, pointed at me and whispered:

  ‘That’s it. This is war.’

  Then he went and sharpened his pencil. It was so obvious that he was doing it to gain time and I wondered if I should tease him about it. He moved slowly, waddling a bit. Enzo had been fat since he was a child. Yes, fat. Describing it any other way would be embellishing the truth, he said so himself. But something had happened during the past few months. Apart from growing a few centimetres he had also lost weight. His body had become more defined. I suspected he had started going to the gym, but it wasn’t something we talked about. I think it would have embarrassed both of us. Now he was quite a bit above average height and only a touch overweight. But even though he had lost a few negligible kilos he still moved the same way as before. As if he was, well, fat.

  Enzo returned to his seat with his sharpened pencil and I decided not to say anything about him giving himself time to think, for once letting go of the impulse to tease. After a while he retaliated happily with:

  Stupid? Pardon me!

  So who was it then who sawed

  Off their flipping thumb?

  I laughed out loud because it was so good, and Hanne looked at me, her eyes like slits. I knew that was a warning. Even a favourite was given warnings. So I swallowed my laughter and tried to look as if I was thinking intensely. And I was. I always did. With my bangs falling in my eyes I wrote:

  I saw thumbs, it’s cool!

  But who faints at the sight of

  Others’ blood? You nerd!

  My cheeks hurt from holding in the laughter. I bent over my writing pad and looked sideways at Enzo. He met my eyes, looking wronged, but I didn’t know if it was real or pretend. Perhaps I’d been cruel. He was ashamed of his weak side. He tried to grab hold of my paper but I held on to it. Eventually he did manage to pull it away from me but it tore with a noisy ripping sound. Hanne was leaning over Simon, who as usual didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to be doing. She lifted her head and looked around, but couldn’t localise the sound. Enzo and I stared innocently straight ahead. Hanne gave us a suspicious look and returned to Simon. Enzo began writing frantically. He wrote, crossed out, made changes. Then he thought for a while with a faraway look, waggling his pencil between his fingers, before starting to write again. I waited impatiently. Several minutes passed. I looked out of the window. The caretaker went past on his ride-on mower. Was it just me or was there blood on his blue overalls?

  Enzo was still writing. I whispered:

  ‘Is it a flipping haiku suite in seven parts, or what?’

  He didn’t answer. I gave up waiting and tried to write a real haiku, one I could show to Hanne.

  Diamond-like frost

  Enfolds black and naked trees

  In glittering cold.

  It was hardly spring related, but I was happy with it anyway. I thought it was beautiful. I also wrote:

  Shimmering dust specks

  Whirl around swelling bosom

  The fabric splits! Help!

/>   I giggled silently. It was a perfect haiku, with a description of the environment and a twist at the end. Pity I would never be able to show it to her.

  Smiling broadly, Enzo at last slid his haiku, which had become two, over to me. My smile faded.

  The poem was like a stab in the heart. I’m sure he hadn’t meant to hurt me. I’d asked for it. I always asked for it. So why did it hurt so badly?

  You think you’re so smart

  Sure. Smart, cool, tough. Makes me laugh!

  Because the truth is:

  You are so ugly,

  So stupid that not even

  Your own mum wants you!

  I forced out a laugh that did in fact sound natural and tried to pretend that I was thinking up a new haiku in response to his. But in reality I had already given up.

  Discretely I took a painkiller out of my pocket, put it into my mouth and swallowed. But it didn’t help.

  It still hurt.

  Innocence and Idiocy

  I put my book on my lap and looked out through the window, watching the open fields with newly-sprouting crops, birches with chlorophyll-green leaves and stately pines flash by. The landscape was veiled in a fine mist, as if it was early morning when in fact it was late afternoon. The sun was struggling to break through the haze. It was beautiful. I usually liked to read on the train but this time I couldn’t. I was unable to concentrate. The words evaded me, wouldn’t stick. Perhaps it was the ache in my thumb? I wasn’t sure.

  I took out my mobile and scrolled through my contacts, but there was no one I wanted to call, no one I wanted to text. Not that I had that many to choose from. I went online and onto Dad’s Facebook page. He had loads of friends. Four hundred and sixteen. That was madness. He had one friend request, an invitation to some event and a message from that Denise. So, nearly four hundred and seventeen then.

  Playing hard to get was clearly not her thing. She might just as well create a fansite in his honour while she was at it. The completely crazy Denise. Totally effing man-mad. Reluctantly I clicked on the message. There was a dull feeling of uneasiness in my stomach.