2 – San Francisco, Tuesday, February 7th, 2012

I stand in the furthest corner of the living room, frozen. My back pressed against the wall. Spruces are flying by outside the window. No roots. No stability. Fear. Blood. Andreas is kneeling on the floor, holding our mother in his arms. She screams in pain, pressing her hands against her stomach. She’s bleeding. Father crouches over her. In his right hand he holds the dagger. He bares his teeth, looking down on mother with disgust. I shiver, trying to withstand Mum’s screaming. Father’s stare transfixes me. Panic surges through every fibre of my body. Finally I break out of my rigidity. I start to run…

My skull is pounding like hell. I feel absolutely whacked. Even more than usual. A tear runs across my cheek.

I wake up.

Again the dosage was too low.

Again this goddamned nightmare.

I’m lying next to the toilet. In my puke. It smells horrible. My daily nightmare starts once more.

I tear my clothes from my body, climbing into the shower, turning the faucet all the way up to cold. I writhe in pain. My stomach is digesting itself. I throw up into the drain. Only bile. Nausea. Vertigo. Then a ravenous appetite. I haven’t eaten anything except the two disgusting croissants yesterday. I put my head on the rusty acrylic tray and enjoy the icy water and I start crying.

Maybe my time hasn’t come yet.

Maybe I am not allowed to leave.

Maybe there is yet something I am supposed to do in my lousy life, something I have to do.

I laboriously push myself upright.

The same ritual every awful morning. Shaving. Perfect parting of the hair. Grey upon grey upon grey. Eyes burning. I get the suit from my suitcase and a white shirt. Like always. The tie with its grey, white and red stripes matches perfectly. While tying it I think about Patrick’s words. He was right, the job isn’t that bad. There are