Behind the light

The list of those I would most like to shoot into space, preferably without a spacesuit, top 3:
3. Ms. Sina Palm - my landlady, who constantly lurks around the house as if she expects me to burn it down, blow it up, paint it pink or do something similarly terrible to it at any moment. Since I once chased her out of my garden very forcefully, we have been at loggerheads.
2. Doctor Friedrich Lodenberg – my father, who never tires of emphasizing how incredibly disappointed he is in me. Since I quit my law studies, I am just as worthless in his eyes as all the jobs I change are like other people's underwear.
1. Alasdair Landon – my brother's best friend and my neighbor. He's gay, stubborn and arrogant. All of these are traits that I don't particularly like – and I'll be damned if I'm going to hide it! I'd much rather just ignore the guy, but unfortunately for me, that's almost impossible.
Until now, Alasdair was in fourth place on my list of the unloved, but that has just changed with a loud bang. The bang that accompanied the impact of a half-full beer bottle on my beloved garden table. I storm angrily onto the terrace and throw deadly glances at the balcony above me. “Hey, you completely stupid morons!” I yell against the party noise. Because the purest orgy is taking place above me, organized by my oh-so-highly esteemed neighbor. ‘This is a damn expensive table, you assholes!’ It actually only cost fifteen euros, but these idiots don't need to know that.
A face framed by dark hair leaned over the balcony railing. Alasdair. “The table only cost fifteen euros,” he stated coolly.
Damn it. I hate that guy! “And so you think you can use him as a garbage can?” I spat.
“I had nothing to do with the whole thing. Besides, it was probably an accident, so don't get so worked up.”
“This is your damn party, so you're damn right you have something to do with it!”
Alasdair sighs as if I were a defiant child and he were the long-suffering father. “All right,” he says. “I'll ask my guests not to throw beer bottles at you anymore.”
“And that's it?!“ I ignore the attempt to turn the situation into a joke.
“Of course not. I will identify the culprit, whip him, and ultimately force him to beg you for forgiveness by kissing your feet.” Alasdair gives me a look of forbidden innocence that makes me want to slap it off his face.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I snap and storm back to my apartment. The patio door slams shut behind me with a loud crash.
Ten minutes later, there is a knock on my front door. In the meantime, my mood has changed from “pretty angry” to “extremely angry”. The loud music and the noise of the party guests are constantly getting on my nerves. I open the door with some force and see my brother Lars standing there.
He stares at me in shock, but then immediately regains his composure. “Hey, little brother. I heard there was a little accident with a beer bottle.”
“What's it to you?” I actually like Lars, but right now I'd kick even Mother Teresa out into the street.
“I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”
“Shouldn't you be one floor up, drinking away the last of your sanity with your best friend and all the other idiots? Yelling? Raging a little?”
“Well, well. You're in a really great mood.”
Before I can say something that would certainly not have been friendly, I hear a clearing of the throat and Alasdair appears next to my brother. He must have been standing next to the door against the wall, so I couldn't see him.
I grab the door and slam it in front of them. Or rather, I almost do it. Alasdair intercepts the door and pushes it open again. He is bigger and stronger than me, so I don't even try to stop him. Instead, I fold my arms across my chest, position myself in front of the entrance like a grim guard, and glare darkly at Alasdair. In my mind, I picture strangling him. “Get out!”
“Not until I've apologized.”
“I couldn't give a damn about your apologies!”
“Didn't you just tell me a few minutes ago that you wanted an apology?”
“Didn't you claim a few minutes ago that you had nothing to do with it?”
“Oh, come on, Tom. Do we always have to argue? I apologize and you stop killing me in your thoughts. How about it?”
I stubbornly stick out my chin and size him up with narrowed eyes. Why did my brother have to become friends with this guy? I've hated Alasdair from the moment I met him. But since he and Lars realized how incredibly well they get along, I have to deal with his presence all the time. Even in my own four walls, I'm no longer safe, since Lars and I share the ground floor of the house.
“How about you crawl under the nearest bush and die there?” I reply, taking a threatening step towards him. He remains unmoved, raising only one eyebrow in a mocking gesture that always infuriates me. My hands clench into fists.
Alasdair watches me closely. “Are you going to hit me?” Again that raised eyebrow, again that mocking undertone.
“I'm not a brainless oaf who can only get his way with violence!” I hiss, my hands still clenched into fists.
“Well, I'm curious. How do you get your way then?”
Before I can answer, an arm comes around Alasdair's waist from behind and pulls him back. Simon. Alasdair's friend. Or current bed bunny. Or whatever. Do all the party guests want to gather in front of my door one by one? Do I have a tasty portion of rat poison hidden somewhere in the depths of my cupboards?
“You left me all alone up there,” the bunny whines.
Alasdair strokes his hair and kisses him on the mouth. ‘I'll be right there, sweetie.”
Immediately, Simon switches from whiny to erotic, or at least to what he thinks is erotic, and breathes, ’Oh yes, I like it when you come.”
I feel sick on the spot. For the second time that evening, I slam a door shut.
In the middle of the night, something wakes me up. In a remarkable mixture of disorientation and annoyance, I let my gaze wander around the room. It's dark. Of course. What else would it be at this time of night? And it's quiet. Very quiet. Obviously, even the last party guests have now drunk themselves into a coma. Or passed out in sheer joy at being able to enjoy the company of the great Alasdair. Whatever, I couldn't care less. As long as I have my peace.
But if it is dark and so quiet, what woke me up?
For some unfathomable reason, I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Even more, all at once my hair is literally standing on end.
A touch of panic makes me freeze. I can't move a millimeter, even though everything inside me is screaming to jump up and run away.
What the hell is this again? Did I spontaneously lose my mind overnight? Little children are afraid of the dark. I certainly am not.
At least that's what I thought.
In my mind, I walk the path from my bed to the light switch. Actually, it's only three steps. A ridiculously small distance that suddenly seems infinitely large to me. As if I had to cross a dark forest full of dark figures.
I laugh. An ugly, strange sound.
Then suddenly I hear something else. A scraping sound, as if something big is creeping along very carefully and slowly. My breath catches in my throat. I listen almost compulsively, but at the same time I want to cover my ears.
A kind of soft whistling joins the scraping. Or rather – breathing.
Just a moment ago, these sounds were not there at all, but now they are mercilessly intruding on me. Scratching – inhaling – scratching – exhaling – scratching – inhaling...
This can only be a dream, I realize. Even if it is a pretty realistic one.
This realization should actually be followed by relief, but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, I watch with growing horror as the darkness in front of me thickens, as if all the darkness in the world were gathering in front of my bed. My whole body is shaking miserably.
“Damn it, don't be like that,” I say to myself and realize that my voice is shaking too. It's just ridiculous.
The concentrated darkness comes closer, climbs over the edge of my bed, and takes over the blanket just in front of my feet. It devours it with a huge black maw. I can't help but wonder what will happen when the darkness reaches my body. I want to jump up, but I still can't move.
Like a hypnotized rabbit about to be swallowed by a snake. The thought is meant to be mocking, but it has a completely different effect on me. A scream of fear escapes from my throat.
Very loud and very piercing.
Damn, I hope I only screamed in my dream. It would be too embarrassing if someone had heard it.
The darkness is now so close to my big toe that a sheet of paper wouldn't fit in the space between. My breathing is racing and I feel drops of sweat on my forehead.
Then, completely out of the blue, the nightmare is suddenly over. No shuffling, no strange breathing, no abnormal darkness. My paralysis disappears and I jump up. Much too fast and much too violently. My feet get tangled in my bedspread, the yielding mattress offers little secure support. For a brief moment, I hang in the air, arms flailing wildly, then I fall off the bed.
A sudden pain shoots through my left hand.
“Shit! Damn!”
My swearing is followed by a loud rumble. This time not from my room, but from the one above mine. Alasdair's bedroom, as I know from painful experience. More than once I've been able to listen to the bastard during his sex games. Experiences I would have gladly done without.
Is he up there again? Or is he trying to tell me to be quiet? If so, he would deserve a good beating for it...
I refrain from swearing loudly again. Not out of consideration, but because I don't want to admit that I fell out of bed the next morning.
But that's exactly what will have happened to him.
This thought brings a smile to my face.
A little later, I am fast asleep again.
The next morning, still half asleep, I drag myself into the kitchen and am not pleased to find not only my brother there, but also Alasdair. This is unusual for three reasons. Firstly, I am not a late riser and am normally fit and well after getting up. Secondly, my brother never gets out of bed early at the weekend and, thirdly, Alasdair certainly doesn't.
I ignore them both and go straight to the kitchenette to get a glass from the cupboard. A sharp pain shoots through my right wrist as I open the door. I must have sprained it during the night.
“Coffee's on the table,” Alasdair says.
“Fascinating.” Carefully, not to put too much strain on my aching wrist, I pour myself an orange juice, keeping my back to the two of them.
“You look tired, little brother.”
What impressive powers of observation. I say my thoughts out loud and Lars answers with a laugh. He never holds it against me when I make snappy comments. Probably because he knows that I actually like him a lot. Which, of course, I would never openly admit.
“Did you sleep badly?” Alasdair asks, as if it were any of his business.
I remain silent.
“Or did you dream something bad and fall out of bed in fright?” he asks, proving that he has not failed to notice the noises coming from my bedroom.
I turn to him abruptly, spilling orange juice on the floor. ”Shit!”
While I clean up the mess with a damp kitchen towel, I avoid Alasdair's intense gaze. Two things worry me in a way that is hard to put my finger on. There is an expression on his face as if he knows something that I am unaware of. Something sinister. In addition, I suddenly notice the fascinating contrast between the strong blue of his eyes and his dark hair. What the hell do I care about the eyes of this asshole?
Guided by a sudden urge, I go to the kitchen table where Alasdair and Lars are sitting and wring out the orange juice-soaked cloth over Alasdair's head. Two pairs of eyes stare at me in complete disbelief.
“Uh... little brother...?”
“Well, Tommy...“ Alasdair uses the pet name I hate so much. ‘...if you think I should take a shower, you could just say so.’ He gets up and walks towards the kitchen.
“As if a shower would change your stench!” I spit at him and feel an aggressiveness in me that goes beyond the normal level. I fix Lars with burning eyes. “Do you always have to let this guy into our apartment? Can't you, damn it, meet at his place? Or even better, at the nearest dump?” I feel Alasdair moving behind my back and try to ignore him as best I can.
“Do you think that's a good idea?” asks Lars.
“Huh...? What...” I can't get any further. Alasdair is emptying the rest of the orange juice from the Tetra Pak over my head. At first I'm speechless. Then I'm overcome with rage. I turn around, punching at his face with my clenched fist. But Alasdair easily dodges me. I curse, punch again, and again I only hit air. “Fucking arsehole!” This time I aim for his stomach. He brushes my arm aside with a casual movement.
“Come on, Tom. Stop it. You're acting like a madman.”
His words only fuel my anger. But no matter how hard I try to hit or kick him, I just can't do it. Not only is the guy strong, he's fast too.
At some point, he has enough. Before I can react, he is standing behind me, effortlessly grabs my arm out of thin air, twists it behind my back and forces me onto my tiptoes.
“So, now what?”
I feel his breath on my ear as he speaks. Every hair on my body stands on end and I try in vain to free myself from his grip.
“Are you going to calm down now?” Alasdair asks again.
I bare my teeth. ‘Let me go and you'll see.”
“We can stand here all day if you like. I don't mind.’ Alasdair tightens his grip on my joints a little. It doesn't really hurt – he'd have to be much more brutal than this – but it's not pleasant either.
Once again, I push against the handle. Unsuccessfully. “It was obvious that you enjoy this kind of thing,” I hiss. All at once, I become very aware of how close our bodies are. Panic rises up inside me. “Let me go!”
“Only if you promise to be peaceful.”
“I'm not promising you anything, asshole!”
“Well, in that case...” His breath brushes my cheek, which almost drives me crazy.
“Is your little friend so bad in bed that you have to snuggle up to me?” I put as much venom into my voice as possible. ”I can definitely think of better ways to spend an evening than being pawed by a damn gay!”
“First of all, I'm not pawing you, secondly, my friend is neither small nor bad in bed, and thirdly, are you sure about that?”
I can almost feel Alasdair's grin.
Anger is raging inside me, along with another, more elusive feeling. Suddenly I feel sick. Very sick. Did I hit my head when I fell out of bed? And have I overwhelmed my body with all this tussling?
“That's enough, Alasdair. Leave him alone,” Lars interjects. His voice has the calm determination for which I have so often secretly envied him. And indeed, Alasdair wordlessly releases the grip on my arm, goes back to the kitchen table and takes a big gulp of coffee. He looks at me over the edge of his cup.
I just look back, stand frozen for a moment, my mind a complete blank. Then I storm into the bathroom and throw up.
There's a knock at the bathroom door. “Are you okay?” It's Lars.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Having to deal with Alasdair again would be too much. My fingers glide absentmindedly over the cool tiles and rough grout of the floor I'm sitting on.
“Can I come in?” Lars asks. When he doesn't get an answer, he carefully opens the door and peeks in.
I give him a pained smile. “Probably something I ate, or something.” The voice scratches unpleasantly in my throat.
Encouraged by my peaceful behavior, Lars enters and sinks down on the floor next to me. “Pretty cold, the tiles,” he says.
I shrug my shoulders.
“If there's anything you want to talk about, you know you can trust me, Tom.”
I shrug my shoulders again. “What would I want to talk about?”
“That's up to you.”
“Mhm. Ok.”
We sit in silence for about ten minutes before Lars speaks again: ”What bothers you about Alasdair?”
“Is there anything else we can talk about besides that ass?”
“See, that's exactly what I mean.”
“Do I always have to have a reason for everything? I just can't stand him!”
“Is it because he's gay?”
“I don't care what the guy does in his bed.” As long as I don't have to listen to it.
“Our father is not exactly tolerant in that regard.”
“Our father is not tolerant in any respect. But I'm not him. And I don't listen to him anymore either.”
“No, of course not. But sometimes...” Lars interrupts himself.
“Sometimes...”
Lars looks at me sideways. There is caution in his eyes. “Sometimes...” he continues. “Sometimes I wonder if his opinion is not more important to you than you want to admit.”
“Nonsense!” I clarify. “Would I have dropped out of law school, which was so important to him, otherwise?”
“One doesn't exclude the other.”
“And pigs can't fly. So what? What do you actually want from me, Lars?”
“I want to know if you're okay, little brother.”
“I'm six feet tall.”
“Kar. Tall, big mouth and absolutely determined to avoid serious conversations.”
“Isn't it nice how well you know me?”
“Sure. You're like an open book to me, and I can flip through the pages any way I want.”
“You wish.”
Lars sighs, then smiles. “You know what I'd really like right now? A delicious piece of cake at Café Bach.”
A little later, we're actually on our way to Café Bach.
I just lost my job. It's an inconvenience that happens to me again and again. My brother thinks I provoke getting fired. He's only partly right. In fact, I just don't make any effort to not get fired. And if I think my boss is a brain-amputated idiot, I'll tell him so.
Of course, I'll have to look for a new job. My father is insanely rich, but since I no longer live my life according to his ideas, I don't get any support from him – besides, I wouldn't have accepted a cent from him. Not anymore.
A few months ago, things looked different. Until I turned 22, I was an extremely obedient son. Obedient and successful. My high school graduation was as good as could be hoped for, and in law school I was among the best of the best from the very beginning. My father's clients already saw me as a competent new addition to his firm.
My father thanked me for all of this with a generous financial allowance. I lived in a luxurious loft apartment in the middle of the city and went to the most exclusive restaurants and clubs. My clothes were chic and expensive, and so were my friends.
Everything seemed perfect, that is, until I woke up in my huge mahogany bed on my twenty-second birthday and suddenly realized that I hated my job as a lawyer, that my friends were nothing more than money-hungry, superficial liars, and that my large, perfect apartment was filled with nothing but expensive furniture.
Of course, these problems had been looming for a while, but I had always been very successful at repressing any thoughts along these lines. That morning, however, I couldn't do it anymore.
I quit my studies, broke with my father, who refused to accept it, and moved into the apartment where we live now with Lars. My brother is still in fairly good contact with our father. After all, he is studying medicine. That doesn't make him a suitable successor for the law firm, but it is a respectable profession. Nevertheless, Lars does not accept financial support from our father. He never has. He has always been very strict and clear in his views on this.
Would I have a better relationship with our father today if I had followed my own path from the beginning, like Lars, and always stood on my own two feet? Do I even know what my own path is? Shifting from one uninteresting job to the next is not truly fulfilling either.
Whatever. I shake off my gloomy thoughts. I can have a good time at lunchtime. We are halfway through the month, the rent is paid and my account is not overdrawn at the moment. So it's enough if I don't start looking for a job until tomorrow.
I spontaneously go to the city park. Although it is autumn and already relatively cool, I lie down in the middle of the meadow, which is so popular in summer, stretch my arms and legs and stare into the cloudy sky. A bird is circling in the distance. My eyes follow it without too much interest. Nevertheless, I am aware of the animal's enormous size. Some kind of bird of prey? There is something disconcerting about the way it flies. But then, my knowledge of birds is pretty limited. Shrugging my shoulders inwardly, I close my eyes and try not to think about anything, which works surprisingly well for me.
At some point, a shadow falls on me and I squint unwillingly upwards. A woman is standing in front of me. Late twenties, long blonde hair, big eyes, full lips, self-confident charisma, very pretty.
She smiles and squats down next to me. “Hi. I'm Sara.”
I remain silent, but she is not deterred. A woman like her probably always gets her way sooner or later.
“Isn't it a bit cold to lie on the meadow like this?” She runs her fingertips over the grass, barely touching it. ”And a bit damp?”
“I like it when the moisture soaks my clothes and makes them slowly become clammy,” I say with a serious voice.
She laughs, straightens up again and holds out her hand to me. ”And I like to invite pretty young men to coffee.”
“That's probably great for the pretty young men.” And presumably any man she paid attention to would do cartwheels for joy or drop to his knees. Objectively, she is absolutely desirable. Yet I feel only the all-too-familiar indifference. Sure, I've had a few girlfriends and been in bed with almost all of them. But none of them really excited me. While other guys my age are crazy about sex, for me it has only ever been quite nice. The moment of climax is of course not to be sneezed at, but after that I have never really felt satisfied. And whatever the woman has to be like to awaken my passion, it is definitely not the beauty in front of me.
She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You're not making it easy for me. Don't you like me?”
“You're a very attractive woman,” I say, and I mean it.
“But...”
“No buts.”
“Am I too old for you?”
“No, I like mature women.”
“Mature women?“ She playfully kicks me in the side. ‘I'm not that old!”
I get up after all, look at her face up close. ’You're right. Not a single wrinkle. Except maybe here...” I touch her very briefly next to her right eye.
Even if she is not the woman of my dreams, a little distraction wouldn't be a bad thing, I decide. Before she can become indignant again, I give her my best smile. “What was that again about coffee?”
We go for a drink. After that, I take her back to my place.
In the entrance hall, we meet Alasdair and his bunny Simon. The latter gives me a dark look, as if he knows exactly how I feel about him. He puts his arm around Alasdair's waist, kisses him and looks straight at me.
What's that supposed to mean?
Alasdair returns the kiss, but he doesn't seem very enthusiastic. Is the little one getting on his nerves too? I certainly hope so. I'm not interested in their relationship at all, but I'm more than tired of hearing them regularly at night. Maybe next time Alasdair will get one that doesn't squeal like a stuck pig. On the spur of the moment, I rename Simon from bunny to piglet. And I tell him right away. Including the reason.
His dark look turns into a deadly one. “You're just jealous because things are going so well between me and my Ally-babe!” he snarls.
Ally-babe... It doesn't get much more stupid than that.
“Right,” I snap back, ‘as if I'm interested in your relationship.’ Then I turn to Sara: ‘Let's go inside. Piggy and Ally-sweetheart will probably be fine without us.”
She looks at me with raised eyebrows. ’Yes, I'm sure they will. By the way, I don't squeal like a pig, but hiss and purr like a tiger. Is that better?”
I grin. “Much better.”
I simply leave Alasdair and Simon standing there and lead Sara to my apartment.
A little later, I realize that there is indeed something feline about her. My back is adorned with a few scratch marks, so passionately she pounces on me.
For me, it's the same as always: a brief climax, then a feeling of emptiness, as if something is missing. But now I have learned to hide these feelings very well, so that Sara finally lies happily and contentedly in my arms.
We cuddle a little longer, then she goes home. But not without giving me her phone number first. I promise to get in touch with her.
That night Simon squeals particularly loudly, which he is definitely doing on purpose. In between, Alasdair's distinctly deeper, rougher groans cannot be ignored either. Why does this damn apartment have to be so poorly insulated?
I pull the blanket over my head and try to fall asleep. In vain.
A rhythmic banging joins the groaning. Bed against wall, I suspect, and curse.
When an hour later there is still no peace, I've had enough. Enraged, I jump out of bed, slip into boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and march up to Alasdair's apartment like a threatening thunderstorm.
I ring the doorbell as if it were to blame for everything, and I don't stop even when I hear someone tampering with the lock.
The door is flung open and Alasdair stands before me. He is wearing nothing but skimpy boxer shorts that show more than they conceal. And for the first time, I realize how attractive this bastard actually is. About six feet tall. Well-formed muscles. Quite strong, but not excessively so. A rugged face, high cheekbones, straight nose. Full, boldly curved lips. Big, blue eyes and black, curly hair. Skin that looks so even and velvety that I am almost tempted to run my fingertips over it to see if it feels the same. Suddenly, an uncomfortable lump sits in my throat.
“You can stop sounding now,” I hear Alasdair's voice.
His strange undertone jolts me out of my reverie. I realize that I'm staring at him, feel caught, and involuntarily take a step back.
Damn! Angry and defensive at the same time, I fold my arms across my chest. “Did I interrupt something, Ally darling?” At least I manage the ironic tone perfectly.
“If you put it that way, yes, you did.” Alasdair doesn't even appear to be remotely embarrassed.
“And do you really think it's necessary to let the whole neighborhood in on your screwing?”
“Since the whole neighborhood is taking a keen interest in what I'm doing in my bed anyway, I'm just doing the good people a favor, don't you think?”
“No, I don't.” Of course, I understand his innuendo immediately and feel embarrassed, albeit unjustifiably so. ‘Can I help it if not everyone around here gets off when two guys jump each other?’ I add in a very aggressive tone.
“And what about you?”
“What?”
His next question is accompanied by a strange grin as he asks me: “Do you get off on two guys jumping each other?”
For a brief moment, I am simply speechless. Then, before I even realize what I'm doing, I give him a resounding slap in the face. The sound of the slap echoes in the empty stairwell, while I feel the urge to storm back to my apartment. But I must not do that under any circumstances. To flee now would be tantamount to an admission. And since I am certainly not gay, I don't want to give rise to such suspicions. As if I didn't have enough trouble with Alasdair already!
I glare at him angrily, he looks back silently. His eyes are large and unusually dark in the dim light of the stairwell. I try to interpret his expressionless face. I don't succeed. What is going on in that bastard's head?
“I don't want to know what you're up to and I certainly don't want to hear about it!” I return to the subject.
“Right...” Alasdair's voice sounds husky, which is something I've never heard him do before.
Are you getting sick, asshole? Poor, poor Ally-darling.
Alasdair clears his throat. ‘Maybe Simon and I have exaggerated a little.’ Now he sounds like himself again. So unbearably self-confident.
“A little exaggerated...? That seems to me...”
“...a little understated?” Alasdair interrupts me. ”Simon is angry with you. And he has every reason to be. You always go out of your way to insult him.”
“The little pig shouldn't be such a baby about it.”
“I'd like to return that to you, word for word.”
“Fuck you!”
“I would if I could.”
Alasdair and I look at each other. He's amused, as usual, I'm angry, as usual.
“By the way, we heard your beautiful girlfriend too at lunchtime,” Alasdair finally says.
“That wasn't my girlfriend.”
“But you had fun, didn't you?”
“So what? Do you mind?”
“Although... I didn't hear a peep out of you.” Alasdair tilts his head slightly and looks at me with a playful expression on his face. ”Didn't you like it with her? Or are you just a bit more reserved in bed? Although, to be honest, I don't think the latter is likely. Considering the passion with which you always go at me...”
Alasdair grins broadly. He winks at me and I would like to slap him again. Or better yet, punch him in the face. Meanwhile, the mention of Alasdair, me and passion in the same sentence strangely gives me an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I have no intention of discussing my sex life with you!” I hurl at him.
“Hm, no? Why not?”
“...
“Come on, Tommy.”
“Don't you dare call me Tommy!”
“Isn't it perfectly normal for men to talk about sex?”
“Except that our preferences are miles apart.”
“I said talk, not live it out together, Tom. But if you'd rather...”
“I'm leaving now!” I interrupt Alasdair. It's much too warm and stuffy in the stairwell. Extremely unusual for this time of year, but I can feel myself starting to sweat and find it difficult to breathe. It's definitely time to go back to my apartment.
“Too bad.” A slight smile plays around the corner of Alasdair's mouth. It creates a small dimple on his right cheek, which I just notice for the first time.
And which doesn't matter at all.
“I would have really liked to know what your preferences are.”
I tear my eyes away from Alasdair's lips and dimple and concentrate fully on my venomous reply: “I like feet, especially when they smell nice of sweat. I also like to sniff old panties and I'm crazy about nibbling on lower lips.”
“Really?” Alasdair laughs. ‘I even believe you about the first two things. The last one seems a bit exaggerated, though.’ As if it were just an unconscious gesture, he bites his lower lip. And to my shame, I can't do anything but watch him. Even as he continues speaking, I still stare at his mouth.
“By the way, I like athletic men with green eyes, blond hair and a beautiful voice.”
“I have green eyes,“ I hear myself say.
“No kidding.”
“And blond hair,” someone with my voice adds.
“Are you quite sure about that?” Alasdair takes a step towards me and is suddenly very close to me. Too close. I know I should step back, feel his breath on my neck like on the night of the party and hate it! Yet I can't move, I'm completely frozen.
Alasdair runs his hand through my hair. It's a careful but firm touch that makes my scalp tingle, then my entire body.
“Hm, actually. You are blonde,” Alasdair mutters. With one hand still in my hair, he puts the other on my shoulder and pushes me backwards with gentle pressure. On legs that no longer belong to me, I stumble backwards until I feel the cold, unyielding wall at my back. Alasdair comes even closer to me, although I can no longer retreat, trapped between him and the wall. I gasp desperately for air, feel my heart racing as if it wants to jump out of my chest.
I grasp Alasdair's shoulders to push him away, at least in theory. But instead of putting my plan into action, I cling to him even tighter, as my knees suddenly become so weak that they can hardly carry me anymore.
Alasdair puts a hand under my chin and forces me to look at him. As his mouth comes closer with excruciating slowness, his gaze pierces mine. The dark blue of his eyes is like a maelstrom I cannot escape. The pitiful rest of my mind screams first angrily and then in panic, as my body no longer makes any attempt to defend itself.
Then, all of a sudden, Alasdair stops, frozen in mid-motion. I wonder if he's just realized who he has in front of him? I breathe a sigh of relief. But to my horror, the sound I make sounds more like a disappointed sigh.
Alasdair lets go of me and steps back. His entire body radiates tension. He tilts his head as if listening for something.
Simon? – Hardly, he would have made himself heard with a loud screeching long ago.
“Go back to your apartment and close the door,” Alasdair says in a hushed voice. His tone is commanding and brooks no argument. Normally, I wouldn't have taken it, of course. But at that moment, I'm just glad to be able to disappear as quickly as possible.
Without saying a word, I turn away, hurry down the stairs and enter the apartment where Lars is sleeping peacefully, unaware of what has just happened in the stairwell. What would he say if he knew that his brother almost let Alasdair kiss him?
Almost kissed by Alasdair. And I wouldn't have resisted.
No sooner have I entered my room, this truth hits me with full force.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
In helpless rage, I beat on my old bulky waste couch until exhaustion overcomes me and I sink to the floor, completely exhausted.
Why did I let this happen? I'm not gay, I don't even like the guy. So what was that about? Why didn't I just smash his face in like he deserved?
A long-forgotten memory assails me. At the time, I was out and about in the city with my parents. My mother was still alive, so I couldn't have been older than eight years old. On a bench, I saw two men kissing each other openly. I was very irritated, but at the same time I couldn't take my eyes off the scene. “When two men kiss, they're homosexual,” my mother explained. “Just disgusting. Repulsive!” my father added. “The likes of them should be locked up!”
A tortured laugh escapes my throat. Maybe I should kiss Alasdair after all. Just to give my father another reason to loathe me.
What would his lips have felt like?
I push this thought away, but others, no less unwelcome, follow.
Why did he suddenly send me away? Did he just want to know if he could kiss me? A little bonus for my self-esteem? The chance to finally get the upper hand in our constant arguments?
“Shit!”
Suddenly I realize that it could only have been a trap. A trap that should never have been dangerous to me.
If I had been well rested and fit, none of this would have happened. Alasdair only had a chance because it's the middle of the night and I couldn't get a wink of sleep because of his damn fucking with his stupid friend!
Eventually, as dusk is already falling outside, I finally go to bed. I have myself more or less under control again and am determined not to let Alasdair take advantage of the almost-kiss. After all, strictly speaking, nothing happened at all. After all, I may have tested him too.
With these thoughts, I fall asleep 
With an elegant movement, I throw the phone in the direction of the couch, but miss the seating by miles and hit the wall instead. A crash, a crunch, then silence.
“Shit!“ Apparently I underestimated my strength a little. Maybe I should start a career as a professional wrestler. Tom Lodenberg – the destroyer, the terror of all electrical appliances, the telephone devil, the...
“What was that?” Lars peers into the living room.
“Our phone.”
“And why are you throwing it around?”
“Because I didn't have a grenade at hand?” I suggest.
Lars rubs his temples hard. ‘And who was it?”
“Our beloved daddy.”
“I see,’ says Lars, as if I had just given him the answer to all the unanswered questions in the world. ”What did he want?”
“To talk to you and disinherit me.”
“He would never disinherit you.”
“Of course not. Otherwise he would have to renounce his most popular threat.”
“He still cares about you, you know that, Tom.”
“He still cares a lot about the son he would like to have. By the way, I told him that you can't come to the phone because you're jerking off right now.” When I remember this part of the conversation, I giggle softly to myself.
Tom, on the other hand, doesn't seem to share my joy at all. He is rubbing his temples again. “Did it ever occur to you that I might actually have wanted to talk to him?”
“You can always do that. The phone is over there.“ I crane my neck, look in the direction I'm pointing, and correct myself: ‘Or at least part of it. But the rest can't be far away either.”
My apologetic grin is ignominiously ignored.
With a growled ’Fix this,” Lars disappears from my field of vision.
That same afternoon, I am sitting on the terrace, an exciting book in one hand, a cup of black tea in the other, which I am addicted to.
After spending the morning trying in vain to fix the phone, then replacing it with a new one, having a long argument with my landlady, Mrs. Palm, about the length of the grass in the garden and the size of the straw bale in her head, and finally seeing off my still disgruntled brother to his week-long symposium abroad, I am clearly entitled to some rest and relaxation.
Unfortunately, my esteemed neighbor seems to disagree. Alasdair. Can't the guy just vanish into thin air? Forever? Ever since he set foot on his balcony, I feel as if I'm being watched. And this is not just my vivid imagination.
Although I have my back turned to Alasdair, I can see his reflection in the large patio window. He has placed a sketchbook on the balcony railing in front of him and works the paper sometimes with small, quick movements, sometimes with sweeping, expansive ones, like the caricature of a masterful painter. In fact, he can't be that bad. After all, as an artist, he earns enough to make a living.
On the other hand... When you think about all the stuff that passes for “art” these days...
One of his pictures, a charcoal drawing of a crooked house in a no-less-crooked forest, hangs in our living room. Much to my dismay. Unfortunately, Lars stubbornly refuses to accept that the picture would be perfectly at home in a dark corner of our cellar.
But what concerns me even more at this very moment is a single question: what on earth is Alasdair drawing right now?
Unfortunately, there is only one plausible answer. Because whenever he lifts his eyes from his sketchbook, he meets me.
I strangle him!
“Hey, moron! Don't you have anything better to do? Throw yourself in front of the next train, for example?“ I snap over my shoulder, without turning to face him completely.
“So you think it's more desirable to take your own life than to draw you?” Alasdair laughs out loud. “Come on, you're not that horrible to look at. To be honest... not at all.”
“Oh, thanks for the compliment. I'll go find a vase to throw up in.”
Now I get to enjoy the mocking raised eyebrow as I shoot deadly daggers at Alasdair's reflection.
“Do you always respond so charmingly to compliments?”
“Can't you just leave me alone?”
“I was until just now.”
“Yeah... sure... are you delusional?”
“Every now and then I seem to be. A moment ago, I thought there was a nice guy sitting on the terrace. Now I realize that it's a small, venomous garden gnome.”
“Small? GARDEN GNOME?”, I say indignantly, turning around at last. Who does this guy think he is? I may only be almost 1.80m tall and he may tower over me by more than a head, but that doesn't give him the right to make such jokes at my expense.
Alasdair leans forward a little and gives me a conspiratorial wink. “And poisonous,” he adds.
That's not really worthy of a response. I get up and turn towards the patio door.
“Are you planning on fleeing to the living room?”
“No!” Of course that's exactly what I had in mind. But to nip any further remarks in the bud, I just get the phone from the apartment instead. The brand new phone that I'm going to test extensively now.
Actually, I had never intended to get in touch with Sara as promised, but now I dial her number. She is pleased to receive my call, without overdoing it, as I know it from some other women. So a casual conversation develops, which I hadn't expected at all. I might even really enjoy it if I weren't constantly aware of Alasdair's presence, who is now busy drawing again and has of course chosen me as his subject again. The bastard is doing that on purpose.
“You sound distracted,“ Sara notes at some point. Her voice can be heard clearly from the phone's loudspeaker, which I activated at the beginning of the conversation. Firstly, to disturb Alasdair's peace. Secondly, so that I could put the phone down on the table in front of me.
“It's nothing,” I reply.
“Would you rather we talk another time?”
“No!“ To interrupt the conversation at this point would mean conceding victory to Alasdair. ‘I just keep thinking about what it was like to touch your body,’ I hear myself say instead. Even though that's a lie. And even though Alasdair can hear every single word I say.
“That's outrageous,” Sara murmurs suggestively.
“And that's not even the worst of it...” I continue speaking without knowing exactly why. ”I'm imagining you sitting in front of me in a flimsy dress.”
“Hm...?”
“And how I slowly stroke up the inside of your thigh with my hand... Isn't that even more outrageous?”
“Absolutely. I'm shocked.” Sara pauses for effect before continuing: ”I would find it even more unforgivable if you were to run your hand up your thigh until you reached between your legs.”
I can't do that, I want to say. My hated neighbor is standing on the balcony watching my every move.
But instead of saying these words, I put my hand on my leg and let it slide up slowly. Involuntarily, my gaze flickers to the windowpane, to Alasdair's reflection. He has raised the pencil to the next stroke, but stands motionless, staring at me intently.
Our eyes meet in the window.
Blood rushes to my center so suddenly that I startle. An unmistakable erection bulges my jeans.
“So, have you been a good boy?” Sara's voice breathes out of the phone.
“No.” I clear my throat. ‘Not at all.’ All of a sudden, speaking is surprisingly difficult for me. I realize that I should disappear into the apartment as quickly as possible, now more than ever. Yet I can't bring myself to get up.
Instead, I watch motionlessly as Alasdair swings over the balcony railing and lands with a smooth leap on the terrace behind me, as effortlessly as if he had just crossed a low garden fence.
As if hypnotized, I watch his reflection.
“Tom? Tell me what you're doing right now,” Sara demands.
But I have no words. My head is frighteningly empty.
Then Alasdair is standing close behind me. Very close. I feel the warmth of his body and see the shadow that falls over me.
“My right hand glides slowly over your shoulder to the neckline of your dress,” he whispers in my ear. He prompts me as if I had no idea what to say.
And I don't.
“Tom, my darling? Are you still there?” Sara again.
And although I feel more like fleeing at once, I actually repeat Alasdair's words.
Sara rewards me with a contented sigh.
I gasp loudly. For no sooner have I spoken the words than Alasdair's right hand glides over my shoulder to the neck of my T-shirt. His fingers literally burn into my skin and my heart is racing as if I had just finished a marathon. Helpless and bewildered, I sit on the chair.
Get out. Now! my mind advises me.
Again I hear Alasdair's whisper: “Very slowly, I slide my hand lower, circling your nipples, but not touching them. Not yet.”
In the silence that follows, I can only hear my wildly beating heart and my heavy breathing.
Alasdair bides his time. If I repeat his words, he will put them into action, as he has done before. I am fully aware of that.
So I just have to keep my mouth shut. Then he will understand that I don't want him to touch me.
“Very slowly, I slide my hand deeper, circling your nipples, but not touching them. Not yet,” I hear myself say, horrified.
I completely miss Sara's reaction. I am far too preoccupied with my own to feel Alasdair's hand on my chest. He moves gently, carefully and so agonizingly slowly that it seems almost unbearable to me. My head sinks powerlessly back, finding support on Alasdair's stomach. It is hard and yielding at the same time, rising and falling with my rapid breathing.
Our eyes meet and I see a sparkle in his blue eyes. Challenging and filled with a wild hunger.
Then his index finger almost casually brushes my left nipple and for a brief moment, everything goes dark before my eyes.
“I want you to touch your thighs again,” Alasdair whispers to me. His tone of voice brooks no contradiction and I obey almost automatically.
“Caress yourself.”
I do as he says.
“Keep going up.”
I follow his instructions. Even though a part of me is still shocked by my violent reaction to Alasdair.
My hands continue to move upwards and my hips involuntarily stretch a little higher. I have almost reached my erection, longing for this touch with a desire I have never felt before. Nevertheless, I force myself to move slowly.
“Stop,” I suddenly hear Alasdair again.
This time I don't do what he asks. So he grabs my arms and holds them tight.
“Let me go!“ I demand breathlessly, but he just laughs softly.
“So you want to touch your cock?” he finally asks. His tone alone sends another wave of arousal through my body.
I can only nod weakly.
“Then unzip your fly and pull your jeans down to your knees!”
Alasdair releases my arms. His right hand finds its way under my T-shirt again, his left caresses my neck, my chin, touches my lips, which involuntarily part. A throaty groan escapes me as he pushes his thumb into my mouth.
With trembling fingers, I rip open my belt, unbutton the top button of my jeans and pull them down over my legs.
“And now the boxers!” Alasdair's thumb enters my mouth with steady movements, moving between my lips in a provocative gesture. Which only serves to heighten my arousal further. I suck on it and circle it with my tongue. The last remnants of reason are swallowed up in a truly overwhelming sensation.
Without hesitation, I pull my boxers over my knees as well and expose myself to Alasdair. My cock is so hard that it hurts.
Again I try to touch myself and again Alasdair grabs me before I can do it. In one unstoppable movement he pulls my hands behind the back of the chair and holds them there. I groan in agony and frustration.
“Do you want to touch yourself?” Alasdair asks and his voice sounds like pure temptation.
“Yes, damn it!“ I gasp.
“And do you know what I want, too?”
“What?” I bite my lower lip and push against his grip. But I have no chance against him.
“I want...” Alasdair breathes. ”...you to come. Now!”
His words pierce me, more intensely than any touch.
Surprised, I gasp. Then I come so hard that I almost lose consciousness.
I don't know how much time has passed. Beneath me, I feel the unyielding surface of the chair like a saving island. I feel Alasdair's belly at the back of my head, feel the breath flowing through my throat and my heart, which is slowly calming down again.
My mind reemerges from the whirlwind of lust and passion. And the clearer my head becomes, the more horror spreads within me.
I try to connect with what has just happened and can't. Don't want to!
I sit bolt upright and reach for the phone. The connection is still active. I press the red receiver, reflexively and without thinking, without asking if Sara is still there.
What has she heard? The thought whirls through my mind until I realize that Sara is the least of my problems.
I jump up from the chair, tripping over my trousers, which are still hanging around my ankles. Hastily, I pull them up, ignoring Alasdair, who is saying something, and storm into the living room, slamming the patio door behind me.
I stand in the shower, letting the hot water pour down on me, and soap myself for the fifth time, as if I could wash the memories away. Which is, of course, completely pointless. The telltale traces of semen have long since disappeared from my body, but again and again I feel Alasdair's fingers. On my chest, my neck, my arms, in my mouth. And it's not an unpleasant feeling. Not at all. I've had an erection again, which is getting bigger and harder.
Anger and despair bring tears to my eyes.
“Shit!” I yell against the pattering of the water and sink to the floor along the tiled wall. Burying my head between my knees, I start to cry. For the first time since – I can't even remember anymore.
The doorbell rings repeatedly. Even louder and more persistently than before.
As if that would change anything. I'm certainly not going to let you in.
Finally the doorbell stops ringing and I'm alone with myself again. At least I think so. Until there's a knock on the bathroom door.
I hold my breath in shock and pretend I'm not there. Which is completely nonsensical, since the water is running and my bitter sobs must have been clearly audible until just now.
“Tom?” It's actually Alasdair.
How the hell did he get into the apartment? I continue to play dead.
“Are you okay?”
Of course. Never better. Now get out.
Silence.
“Can I come in?”
Silence.
“Tom?”
“Get out!”
“I just want to make sure you're okay.”
“You've done that. Now... Get out of my apartment!”
I scream the last words, after which silence descends again. I am beginning to hope that Alasdair will finally leave me alone. A hope that is almost immediately dashed.
“I can't just leave, Tom. Either you come out now, or I'll come in after you.”
“You wouldn't dare!” Suddenly I become very aware of the sight I present: naked, aroused and huddled in the shower, crying. ‘I locked the door!’ I lie.
“You didn't.”
“Stay out.”
“Sure – when you come out.”
“Fuck you!”
“Tom...”
“What, no mocking reply this time?”
“I don't want to fight with you, Tommy.”
“Then don't, Ally darling.”
In a way, I even feel better after my 'conversation' with Alasdair, I suddenly realize. With the anger, my spirits return. I get up and turn off the water. “Give me a few minutes,” I say. “And if you take even one step across that doorstep, you'll regret it bitterly!”
I hear Alasdair laughing. Nothing new. And I feel the urge to wipe that laughter off his face. Also nothing new. If only everything else could stay the same.
If I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that I fear the moment when I will have to face Alasdair again. “Stand“ is a good keyword,” my malicious inner voice remarks, and I mentally slap it. “Pull yourself together,” I order myself. And stop thinking about that unfortunate little accident on the terrace. Or about Alasdair's fingers. Or his voice. Or his body. Or...
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Enough of this.
I splash cold water over my face at the sink. But of course that doesn't do much. My eyes look terribly swollen and will probably continue to do so for a while. I briefly consider simply barricading the bathroom door. However, this is a futile undertaking since it opens onto the hallway. I'd have to tie it down somehow, and that would make me look like an idiot.
I let out a frustrated sigh, hold my hand under cold water again and then slide it between my legs.
The effect is hardly better than with my swollen eyes. So I get dressed, take another deep breath and leave the bathroom, as I am. If Alasdair says a single word about this, I'll strangle him!
My unwelcome visitor is leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom. There is something very casual about his posture, but to my great surprise, there seems to be a hint of insecurity in his usual self-confident expression.
Damn right he should be. The guy had better apologize to me.
I say my last thought out loud – only to regret it immediately.
Because Alasdair asks in a calm voice: “And what exactly should I apologize for?”
I start to give an angry answer and suddenly don't know what to say.
Should I apologize for successfully seducing me?
That you made me drop my pants in front of you?
That I had an orgasm because of you without even touching my cock
...
Finally, I silently rush past Alasdair into the living room. Of course, he follows me, albeit much more slowly.
“You practically broke in here!” I remember a reproach that I can easily hold against him.
“Your brother gave me a key for emergencies.”
“You can hardly call me taking a shower an emergency.”
“To be honest, I wasn't sure about that at all, Tom. You just took off. And you didn't look like you were doing well.”
“Of course I'm not fine. You just pawed me!” I finally break out. Only when my words fade away do I realize that I was shouting. All of a sudden I feel dizzy.
Before I can react in any way, Alasdair is with me, has grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to the sofa. “Sit down,” he orders and pushes me with gentle force onto the leather sofa. Since my legs can hardly carry me anymore, I don't protest.
Fortunately, Alasdair doesn't sit down next to me. Instead, he sits down on the living room table, which is right in front of me. That doesn't make it any better. Our knees almost touch and when he leans forward, his face is suddenly very close to mine.
It takes all my strength not to flinch. But I don't want to show any weakness again. My teeth grind together as I stare fiercely at Alasdair.
“You look like you'd like to smash my skull in,“ he says with a slight smile.
“Don't even tell me,” I growl. “By the way, I don't just look like that.”
“You're pretty unruly.”
“And you're damn intrusive.” I deliberately press my knees against his, even though it almost makes me break out in a sweat. ”Do you have to get so close to me? There's a chair over there. Sit down, or I'll throw you out of the apartment!” I am secretly proud of keeping any shivering out of my voice. Yes, I even think I sound quite convincing and self-confident.
Unfortunately, Alasdair is completely unimpressed. He leans in a little closer to me and tries to catch my eye. I avoid it and stare instead at the small hollow between his collarbones. A place where I am particularly receptive to gentle touches. Damn it! My gaze flickers to his chin. As expected, it is unshaven and for a brief moment I am tempted to run my fingertips over the dark brown hairs. Then my mind comes back to me. Just in time to prevent the worst.
“We should talk about what happened on the terrace,” my unloved neighbor states.
I slump into the back of the sofa, emphasizing the gesture with a sigh that is as exasperated as possible so as not to give the impression that I just want to avoid being close to Alasdair.
“Oh, please tell me you're not one of those guys who have to talk about everything,“ I grumble.
“Not everything, but the essentials.”
“That's excellent.” I put my head back and leave it there. “In my opinion, it is more than necessary to discuss the design of the living room ceiling,” I claim.
Unfortunately, Alasdair simply ignores this remark. “I'm sorry if I took you by surprise on the terrace, Tom.”
“This white is a bit too boring overall, isn't it?”
“But if you claim not to have enjoyed it, you're lying.”
“A few small blue elephants could spice things up a bit. And a sun in each corner of the room. With orange rays.”
“Tom!”
“Do you think the rays are over the top? You could leave them out. Or color them black. There are so many possibilities...”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alasdair getting up from the table. Isn't that exactly what I wanted? Then why do I have such a bad feeling?
The answer to that question comes immediately. Because Alasdair doesn't leave the living room, but leans on the back of the sofa to my right and left.
Not good at all.
His jaw muscles twitch and his eyes shoot angry lightning bolts in my direction. “Sometimes I would love to plunge your stubborn head into a bucket of ice-cold water to bring you to your senses!” His voice sounds strained, laboriously controlled. A steep wrinkle has formed between his expressive eyebrows, and I now stare at it as if hypnotized.
“Thank you, the same to you,” I stammer, clearing my throat. ”Only in your case, I'd throw a couple of hungry piranhas into the water.”
“Piranhas don't like ice-cold water.”
“Perfect, so their mood will be all the worse.”
“You don't need cold water to drive someone to white heat.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“Mh, how about a real compliment?” The steep wrinkle disappears, Alasdair's entire face suddenly looks different.
More relaxed, softer, more sensual. A hoarse croak escapes my throat. Sensual? More like a failed attempt at appearing sensual. If anything. Rather embarrassing. Repulsive!
“What's the matter, Tommy? All of a sudden speechless? Don't you want to enlighten me a little more about the design of the living room ceiling?”
“You don't appreciate my ideas anyway.”
“Even if you don't believe me, I do appreciate a lot about you.“ All at once, Alasdair's voice is also... revolting!
“Probably my irresistibly good looks are part of it,” I try to joke. Unfortunately, the words come out in an embarrassingly hoarse tone of voice.
Alasdair's mouth opens slightly and the tip of his tongue slides across his upper lip in an absent-minded gesture. Fascinated, my eyes follow the moist trail.
That bastard actually has beautiful lips. Of course, they're no match for Sara's, I immediately clarify. And of course, the mere thought of her is enough to make my whole body tingle and my breath fly heavily and jerkily through my throat again.
“Your irresistibly good looks are certainly not to be sneezed at,” Alasdair replies gently.
“Sara thinks I'm damn hot!” I tell him, and he laughs softly.
“I dare not doubt that.”
I feel his breath on my skin.
“And I think she's damn hot too!”
“Is that so?”
“Of course! She's one of the most beautiful women I've been to bed with. And I've had some attractive girlfriends. And affairs and one-night stands with beautiful women.” I notice how strongly I emphasize the word ‘women’ and how ridiculous that sounds. Way too forced. But there's nothing I can do about it now.
So I just keep talking: “I had my first girlfriend when I was fifteen. Of course I wanted one much earlier. But I was a bit reserved back then. Almost shy. Can you imagine? Well, in any case, I then met Isabelle when I was fifteen. She was nineteen. Somehow I always end up with older women. Isn't that strange? Isabelle was great. Beautiful. A bit loud maybe. But still sweet. And not nearly as distant as all the other girls I knew. My friends all thought she liked me. So I kissed her on our third date and...”
The words come out of my mouth as if by magic. I know very well that I'm babbling, but for some reason I can't stop.
Until Alasdair's hand suddenly makes me stop.
At first, I'm too perplexed to react in any way. Then I jerk my head to the side. Or at least try to. But Alasdair is holding me.
“Shh. Hold still and be quiet!” He hisses at me.
I bite his hand as hard as I can and taste blood.
With a suppressed curse, Alasdair lets me go.
I squirm out from under his arms and jump up from the sofa. My self-control is almost at an end. Torn between the desire to beat the bastard in front of me and the desire to just storm off, I stand there, my hands clenched into fists so hard that it hurts.
Alasdair straightens up as well. His eyes glance past me, meeting something that makes him turn pale.
Then reality takes a back seat.
He grabs my shoulders and pushes me aside. Something dark hisses past me. A burning pain shoots across my face and suddenly I am filled with the same sense of threat that I felt in my bedroom on the night of the party. But this time it is so powerful and overwhelming that my scream of panic gets stuck in my throat.
The light in the room begins to flicker, as if the sun were not shining into the room, but an old, half-broken light bulb. And with each flicker, the darkness becomes more intense.
I am frozen with terror.
Alasdair, on the other hand, is moving step by step towards a goal that I can only guess at. A dark goal without form or shape. A being of pure darkness. A thing that no reasonable person would ever approach, not even close.
Alasdair has obviously lost his mind completely. Or I have. Because what is happening before my eyes right now cannot possibly correspond to reality.
Maybe I'm just dreaming.
The thought is extremely tempting and would explain so much. An obvious answer. Obvious but wrong.
Words fill the room. Incomprehensible and strangely distant, as if I were listening to a muffled conversation. But at the same time, every single sound fills me with an almost unbearable intensity. I am tempted to cover my ears with my hands, and at the same time I know from an inexplicable instinct how futile such behavior would be.
You can't shut out these words.
It takes a long time, or at least it feels like it, before I realize where these sounds are coming from.
Alasdair.
As he approaches this thing, this darkness, he mutters incessantly to himself. Invoking. Like the dark, eerie man in a dark, eerie movie.
And just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about surprises, the darkness around the something or other lifts and a young girl, no more than twelve years old, comes into view.
Scene two... Enter the sinister, gloomy child... the first... aaaand action!
Her eyes are large, almost huge and completely black. As if all the darkness is now resting in them. The rest of the girl, however, seems alarmingly normal. A blue dress, slightly dirty at the hem, patent leather shoes with butterflies on the straps and a carefully tied ponytail that starts to come loose here and there.
For a brief moment, the childlike appearance of the creature wipes away any sense of threat, and I feel the urgent need to throw myself protectively in front of the girl, who looks fearfully and confusedly at Alasdair.
Then her gaze meets mine and wipes away any chivalrous impulse.
She contorts her childlike mouth into a horrible smile, sending a shiver down my spine.
Whatever is lurking in my living room is neither in need of protection nor harmless.
Alasdair is now standing directly in front of the creature, but it ignores him. The terrifying gaze has found me and will not leave.
Faster than my eyes can follow, the girl has circled Alasdair and is storming towards me. A surge of icy coldness engulfs me, paralyzing my body. Small, delicate hands grab my shirt, and where they touch my skin through the fabric, sudden pain strikes me. I scream and instinctively lash out at the girl. I hit her in the face. Rosy, delicate skin. Young and innocent. A breath full of regret and terror. Then the pain seizes me again. And this time it feels like someone is piercing my palms with a burning knife. Over and over again. Mercilessly. I roar and stumble back helplessly.
The girl follows me. While I was looking at it with disbelieving shock before, as if it was something terrible but unreal, my fear is now real through and through. How can I defend myself against something that is so unbearably painful to touch?
As I step back, my hands search for something I could use as a weapon, but all I find is the sofa cushion. I reach for it and hold it protectively in front of me. It's a pretty useless shield that may look pretty ridiculous. But at least I don't care about the latter right now.
The girl is still smiling, as if to show me the absurdity of my behavior. She smiles even when a hand is laid on her shoulder from behind and the other under her chin. A short, powerful movement is followed by a sickening crunch as the creature's neck breaks.
It happens so fast that I don't even realize what's happening at first. The small, childlike body collapses like a marionette whose strings have suddenly been cut.
Alasdair lets his hands drop again.
“You killed her!” I stare at him, unable to think straight. The lifeless body on the living room floor no longer seems threatening. It's a little girl in a blue dress.
“Not her, but it. And not killed, but destroyed.”
“Whatever that was, you can't just break the neck of that creature!”
“You're right. It wasn't that easy at all.”
Before I can even begin to say something that would have been neither nice nor conciliatory nor even understanding, Alasdair utters a single word. It is of overwhelming clarity and beauty. Incomprehensibly perfect. A word that describes or represents nothing. It needs no reference point and is not subject to any rules. It is constantly changing, without ever being different. It explains itself and yet is inexplicable.
For a tiny moment, I understand all this. The next moment, I have forgotten it again and see only how the girl's body transforms. The contours blur, darkness erupts. She floats in the room for a moment and then disappears like a wisp of smoke in the wind. The sight is frighteningly fascinating.
“That wasn't a girl,“ I hear Alasdair's voice again. This time he uses normal words.
I still don't answer.
“I had to destroy her,” he adds.
I'm still silent.
“You probably want to know what that was.”
I'm not at all sure about that. “How did you do that?” Apparently my mouth decided to say something after all.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“That word.”
“You heard it?”
“Uh... yes?”
“Really?”
“No, of course not. I'm sorry. I was just guessing. How could I possibly hear something? After all, I'm completely deaf. Haven't I mentioned that yet?”
“Well... that's...”
“What? I can't hear you. Deaf, remember?”
“Tom? Shut up.”
“Mute too? Unbelievable. I really am pitiful.”
“Please sit down on the sofa.”
“Am I also blind, or did I just see a remarkably gloomy girl in my living room?”
Alasdair grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me to the sofa.
“Shouldn't your other hand be under my chin?” I object, and hear the terrible sound of a breaking neck echoing inside me.
“I would put my hand under your chin for completely different reasons.” Alasdair seems to immediately understand what I am alluding to.
However, I try to deliberately ignore what he is alluding to. ‘You owe me an explanation!’ I clarify and shake off his hands.
“You will get it. If you sit down and listen for once.”
“I can understand you very well even without hearing you out.“ Stubbornly, I fold my arms across my chest and take another step away from the sofa – even though I would have liked nothing more than to sit down.
“Fine, then like this.” Alasdair sighs and rubs his temples. A gesture that reminds me of Lars. Has he arrived safely in …? I falter and furrow my brow. Where exactly is the symposium taking place again? Somewhere in England? Lars must have told me about it. In fact, I'm pretty sure he must have done so more than once. I'm equally sure that I haven't listened to a single one of his stories with any attention.
What a shame.
“What are you thinking about?” Alasdair interrupts my brooding.
“To your death.”
“I will die falling off a snow-covered skyscraper because someone up there has lost a banana peel that I slip on with my ballet shoes.”
“... ”
“Or choke on a pea whose seemingly perfect green skin has a barely visible defect in the shape of a unicorn.”
“...
“Or be smothered by you from behind with your pillow.”
“That sounds much more realistic.”
“Does it?”
“Indeed.”
“And how do you lure me into your bed to smother me from behind with a pillow?”
For a moment I consider using the sofa cushion for this purpose. Right now. But a glance in the appropriate direction suddenly brings me back to reality, which I would prefer to block out and forget like a fleeting dream.
But that is not possible.
With a heavy sigh, I finally sit down and stare past Alasdair to the opposite wall. “Tell me!” I demand.
Alasdair sits down next to me and begins to speak. I listen to him without taking my eyes off the wall.
“That thing with the appearance of a girl was a creature called a shadow. Once upon a time, it was human. Until another shadow came along and made it one of them.” Alasdair pauses, expecting me to object or at least ask a question. When neither happens, he continues, ”I know this must sound strange to you. Like something out of a fairy tale or a movie. But you saw the creature. These shadows really do exist.”
“Shadow. What an imaginative term. Truly creative minds must have been at work here,“ I now interject.
Even without seeing it, I know that Alasdair is raising his eyebrow.
“I can also call it Egeas-Nevren Enielk. If that meets your requirements.” His voice sounds a bit irritated, which I like very much.
“Sure, why not?” I reply and smile at the wall. ”Although designations or names really don't matter in this case.”
“Egeas-Nevren Enielk,” Alasdair repeats, as if it does have a meaning. ”Whatever. There are many of these creatures. Most of them are relatively harmless, though. They prowl around in the dark. Unrecognized and unaware of their own existence. It can only become truly bitter when a master binds them. That is, when someone with special abilities submits them to their will. Then they feed on other living creatures, preferably humans, and thereby give their master strength. Vitality.
There are masters who don't want to do any lasting damage to their sources. And there are those who don't shy away from murder. Because when a shadow kills its victim, the master's life is extended immensely.”
“I see... And what do you have to do with all this?”
“I hunt those masters who have become murderers.”
“And if you find one? What then?”
“Then we hold hands and I persuade him to please, please not be so angry in the future. What do you think?”
Now I look at Alasdair after all. There is an undertone in his voice that I have never heard from him before. He sounds dangerous. And for a brief moment, I think it makes perfect sense not to incur his displeasure under any circumstances. “Okay...” To my dismay, my voice also carries unfamiliar emotions: caution and restraint. I clear my throat and hastily add, “Obviously, you're not a very good hunter. Or did you invite the girl here to play tea drinking with her and your other imaginary friends?”
“Obviously I stopped the shadow from killing you.”
“And now I owe you thanks for the rest of my life?“ You'd like that.
“Of course.”
“And I have to do whatever you ask?” Damn it, I'm talking myself out of a job again.
“Of course. Always and absolutely everything.”
“I might as well throw myself off the nearest skyscraper.”
“But please make it a snow-capped one.”
It is now dusk and Alasdair is still in my apartment. Even less than this fact, however, pleases me what I have learned during the last hour. According to Alasdair, it is as follows:
A particularly draconic master named Malgis has unleashed his shadows on a victim who they will pursue until he is dead. The first attack was carried out by a very weak shadow, the second by a stronger one, and so it will continue. Normally, the first attacker does not fail, unless someone like Alasdair stands in his way. But each time it will be more dangerous.
Alasdair has known about the threat for some time. Only one question has been answered today: Who exactly is the victim? He suspected Lars and me. But after the girl's attack...
“Why me?” My eyes fix on Alasdair as if he were to blame for everything.
“That's the really interesting question.”
“As if you really care.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“I can take the piss out of myself alone.”
“I realize that, sweetheart.”
“Call me that one more time and I'll throw you out of the apartment!”
“I would strongly advise against that, given the circumstances. When the next shadow appears, I should be near you.”
“To be honest, I'd rather have one of those murderous things here than you.”
Alasdair sighs. “Much as I enjoy these little sparring matches with you…” He nips my protest at the bud with such a commanding hand gesture that I automatically refrain from making a snappy retort. “Much as I enjoy them, we have more important things to discuss now. This is about your life, Tom. Damn it, make sure you realize that!”
“Okay.“ I press my lips together into a thin line. No matter how hard I try to imagine it, the thought of being killed by a creature that shouldn't even exist, at the command of a human who shouldn't exist, seems strangely abstract to me. I feel the danger, and then at the same time I don't feel it at all.
“So what now?” I finally ask.
“Now we will get to the bottom of why you are the victim. For the ritual that fixes its shadows on you in this way, Malgis needs not only something of your body, such as blood or hair. He needs the same from someone who betrays you as a victim. This third person is the key to your salvation. We have to modify the ritual so that they become the target of the shadows.”
“You can do that?”
“If I have something of the person's body, yes.”
“Okay...” The true meaning of Alasdair's words has settled over me like a poisonous haze. ‘You're serious about all this, aren't you?’ I ask, following the tiny spark of hope that it might all be a bad joke.
“I'm serious.”
“So someone wants me dead?”
“Yes.”
Alasdair's simple answer gives this truth a terrible irrevocability that feels like a punch to the gut. I stare at the wall again and try to keep my composure.
“I'm sorry, Tom.”
“Spare me the pretense.”
“I can well imagine how you feel right now.”
“You don't know what the fuck I'm feeling!“ I yell at Alasdair. He doesn't even flinch.
“You probably think this is all funny!” I continue to snap.
“Do you see me laughing?”
“No, I don't. Ever thought about a career in acting? You seem to be quite talented at it.”
“Have you ever considered a career as an unqualified hotline employee? You are a master at getting on my last nerve and talking rubbish most of the time.”
“Oh, I'm sorry about that. In the future, I'll put all my energy into meeting your demands.”
“Fortunately, you certainly won't do that.”
“Oh, so you like garbage?”
“I like you.”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale...
Alasdair's last words hang heavily in the air. It's actually the perfect opportunity for a mean remark or two. Actually. But first of all, I can't think of anything, and second... I don't know. My head is simply empty.
Once again, silence reigns in the apartment. Until Alasdair suddenly laughs out loud. “Now I definitely know how to shut you up,” he says. His eyes are still twinkling with amusement.
I clear my throat. “When it hails, elephants fly especially low.”
“Oh. And I thought that only applied to raccoons.”
“What makes you think that? The critters only have two beaks.”
We look at each other. For a long time. And suddenly I have to laugh. It starts as a slight tremor in my stomach, climbs up my throat, takes possession of my face first and then of my whole body. I laugh so loudly and so persistently that my stomach cramps and tears well up in my eyes.
When I finally calm down, my head feels incredibly light. I feel dizzy. But at least I can think clearly again. “I don't want you to turn me on,” I make clear, already bracing myself internally for the objection that will inevitably come.
But to my surprise, Alasdair concedes immediately. “All right.” He purses his lips and locks eyes with me. “I won't do anything you don't want.”
“Ok... Just to avoid any misunderstandings right from the start – I do NOT want you to turn me on, flirt with me, touch me, ogle me, jump me, or whatever else your twisted brain comes up with.”
“If you say so.”
“I'm not just saying it. I demand it!”
“Good.” Alasdair winks at me. ‘Or rather bad. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I reach for the sofa cushion and hit Alasdair over the head with it. An admittedly childish behavior. But it feels damn good. ’No damn chatting up!”
“My esteemed Tom. That was just a simple statement. If I were to hit on you, you'll know...” Alasdair puts the pillow aside and carefully smoothes the cover.
I decide to ignore his last remark. The battle lines have been drawn.
“Why were you able to touch the shadow?” I ask, although I'm not comfortable with this topic at all. ”I mean, why didn't the touch hurt you?”
“What makes you think it wouldn't have?”
“What?”
“The touch of a shadow in its human form is terribly painful for anyone. Even more so the more powerful the shadow is.”
“But you didn't even flinch!”
“I knew what to expect. And I had no choice. First I forced the shadow into its human form with true words and then I destroyed it. There was no other way I could have harmed it.”
“True words?”
“That's hard to explain. They are incantations whose power lies in the nature of things.”
“I see...”
“As I said, it's hard to explain.”
“You'd make a terrible teacher.”
“You've heard these words, haven't you?”
I have indeed. With an uncomfortable feeling, I remember dark, elusive sounds and that one that was so incredibly perfect.
I shrug my shoulders. “No idea... No. I didn't.” For some reason I don't want to admit the truth.
Alasdair doesn't believe me. I've now learned to read his facial expressions well enough to recognize this immediately. Fortunately, he leaves the subject alone.
“And now?” I ask for the second time this evening.
What now...?