1/2986 by Annelie Wendeberg

lying atop of her makes me retch, holds my feet in place and, at the same time, drives me forward. The latter urge wins. I blink the shock aside and coax my brain into working mode. I never moved a muscle to help Marreesh, but tonight I’ll chop off balls, I swear. A job at the composting facility would be very welcome after this crap.
    What do I need? I turn away from the window and scan the room.
    My coat is draped over a chair. My boots are drying in the corridor. My skin itches so badly I want to pull it off. My hands are so sweaty it’s hard to maintain my grip on the knife. I wipe my palms on my pants, pull on my coat, slip into my boots, and follow Runner’s deep footprints to one of the yurts. When I hear a deep moan — which I identify as male, and hence, his — bile fills my mouth. I spit in the snow and, before my little courage fails me, I kick at the entrance and shout, ‘Get off her! Get the fuck off of her!’
    Snot and tears are already pouring down my face, but I don’t care. My feet are firmly planted in the deep snow. With my heart aching and my fists balled, I’m ready for anything.
    ‘Micka?’ Runner’s voice. Asshole.
    ‘I said, get the fuck off of her!’
    Soft footfalls approach, then the rug — or whatever it is that serves as a door — flaps open, showing a flustered Runner with a colourful shawl wrapped around his hips. His chest is furry and a line of black hair points from there to where his privates are. The rest is naked.   ‘What the hell is going on?’
    ‘Probation is over,’ I spit.
    ‘What are you talking about? What the hell are you doing here, anyway?’
    ‘I’m not an idiot. You flirted with that tiny girl the entire evening. How old is she? Twelve?’ I’m only slightly aware that he used a banned word. Hell. Does he believe he can get away with everything?
    ‘Thirteen.’
    ‘Thirteen! You fucking pervert!’ My voice fails, I shrieked too loudly.
    Runner’s expression is cold. He opens the door wider and I can see inside. A candle is lit on a small table. A woman is lying on a mattress on the floor, her upper body naked, her heavy breasts tattooed. The silvery streaks in her raven-black hair sparkle in the candlelight.
    Runner inhales and says with a voice that fights for control, ‘The girl you are talking about is my daughter, Ezra. And this…’ He indicates the bed. ‘…is her mother. She was so friendly to invite me tonight.’
    It feels as if the world falls deaf. Even the snot under my nose is frozen. I take a step back. I’ve forgotten about the deep snow. My view tilts and before I can say ‘Oh!’ I’m buried in the cold stuff. I can probably melt a big hole into it now, I’m so hot with shame. My fury is evaporating.
    An outstretched hand is offered. I don’t take it. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll…go.’ And off I run. I’m such an idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot!
    I lie awake until dawn. Runner doesn’t return. I would have been surprised if he had.

    ———

    Hunger and the scents of frying pancakes and fresh barley coffee pull me out of bed, although I’d prefer to hide until much later.
    Martha stands at the stove, scraping at sizzling yummy things in her black cast-iron pan. My mouth is flooding. ‘Hey,’ I mumble when I see Runner. I’m so ashamed I don’t dare look at him.
    ‘Sit, please.’ He indicates the chair next to him as he rises and gets plate, fork, knife, and cup, which he sets down in front of me. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I guess he’s being nice now so he can deliver the heavy blow without a bad conscience.  
    He turns on the tap, boils water, and mixes something in a large bowl. When he sets the bowl on the floor in front of me, I scoot away from him.
    ‘Allow me, please.’ His face looks…I don’t know…sad, maybe?
    Feeling awkward and ridiculous, I move my chair back to where it stood, but not one millimetre closer.
    He holds out his hands. An offering, but I’m too puzzled