1

The straight, dark brown hair hung greasy and stringy, the sharp hooked nose with its unsightly bump directly under the furious crease at its bridge recalled a vulture’s beak, the pencil-thin lips drew bloodlessly into the drooping corners of the mouth, the brown-green eyes lay shadowy and deep, the cheekbones set high above sunken cheeks, and the chin pointed far too sharply. She would have preferred avoiding a glance at the skinny, wrinkled neck, but her eyes inevitably caught it once the defiant chin came into focus. And suddenly, displeasure became rage. What had life made of her?

Karin Fellermayr’s reflection in the unforgiving mirror forced her to confront the toll exacted by the years – a currency spent with little return. She stood there, a vessel emptied by fate’s disdain, an embodiment of wasted time. As if the whole world had conspired against her, now she was even restricted from visiting her dementia-ridden aunt Irma in the nursing home because an alleged pandemic required a complete ban on contact and the shutdown of public and social life.

A shake of her head, fueled by a mixture of disbelief and anger, dismissed the notion that a nation deemed civilized could be brought to its knees by a mere germ, an insignificant cousin of the common cold. The irony hung heavy in the air – a world paralyzed by an invisible foe, leaving Karin Fellermayr isolated, scorned, and powerless in its wake.

Until now, she had at least been able to manage her anger by going to the mountains whenever she wanted, letting off steam on ski trips in the Tyrolean Alps or embarking on challenging mountain tours. But now the border was closed, and she was only allowed out of the house with a valid reason – not to mention that the Alpine Club urgently asked her to refrain from mountain treks. This had been going on for just under a week now, the existential pressure raging ever more fiercely.

“You have to try to release your anger,” her therapist had advised her a long time ago, and taught her a technique using a specially designed pillow. For just over thirty euros, she had bought the “rage pillow” on the Internet, which had been aptly advertised:the pillow can be hung on the wall or placed on the floor. Perfect for letting out pent-up anger. Thick padding and soft fabric prevent injuries.

Since then, the rage pillow hung on the wall in the bedroom right next to the bed, the clear indentation of its center serving as the evidence of its regular use. Depending on her mood, she imagined one or the other face from the row of her tormentors and then thrashed away at it. But now, Karin felt abundantly clear that the therapist’s recommendation was a weak substitute, no-thing more than infantile gratification. From now on, she would vent her anger more effectively.

Defiantly, she jutted her pointy chin out, then began cutting off her hair. When all that was left was a disheveled bob, she reached for the long-hair clippers, set them at nine millimeters, and carefully shaved her head into a postmodern buzzcut. Next came the plastic gloves, which she used to rub her skull with bleach, which she let work for ten whole minutes before washing it out.

She admired the results. A buzz-cut, blond, somewhat angular woman’s head gazed back at her. She applied the green contact lenses and began to commence the perfect color correction with the selection of concealers she had collected. Finally, the sallow complexion was masked, the bronzing was subtle but effective, and the bags under her eyes were gone. She left the bathroom for the bedroom, examining herself in the dressing room mirror as she passed. Her boyish figure could have enjoyed being been three pounds fuller, but at least her stomach, thighs and buttocks were fairly toned for her age.

That brightened up her mood bit. And while slipping into the long-sleeved latex bodysuit, which clung to her body like a second skin, she noticed the tingle of restrained anticipation.

• • •

Rolf glanced at his gold wristwatch. He still had ten minutes left. He checked the sheets one last