Children of Divorce

There are many of us, the children born in a divorce. Some might call us lucky; we never had to go through the dividing of a once whole family. We wouldn’t have to wonder what we did wrong, what we said, or what we could have done to make it all work. Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family. Never had a moment of everything being at its proper place. The dream will never be complete.
We have it better because when someone asks for your dad, you don’t know who to refer to. What a benefit we have, knowing all transportation systems between the parents’ houses by heart. How fortunate we are, being born with the features they hate about each other. We are their constant nightmare, reminding them of their former love, their past. They cannot escape us. We are the reminder they never wished for. Do not mind us, the kids who will never know who they are because their personality traits are despised by both sides. We cannot grow as we have no ground to stand on. Where do we come from; who do we belong to? These are questions that haunt us on the midst of the day. We have no place to escape, no one to turn to.
Ask a one of us to define Good and Evil. We will answer vaguely as we know that those who intentionally hurt other people are evil, but we don’t want to think of our parents as evil. There are no right or wrong, yet there are always two sides of a story, hard to separate from the truth. Excuses are vivid, we live among people who want to protect us, but drag us further down the rabbit hole.

Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family.



The Hardest Part

The most frustrating part of writing is when you have an inspirational moment or thought, you can’t sit down and write, but when you do the thought is gone. It’s not like it actually is gone, forgotten, the spirit of writing it out has left me. I hate it above all. Everyone has writer’s block from time to time, but that’s only the first layer of Dante’s fearful hell. Losing the spike of inspiration is the eighth and unofficial layer as it is so horrific that no one dares to acknowledge it.

In my previous post I intended on writing so much more. My mind had drawn a beautiful story of how friendship saves life, brings back the identity, and how little is put into its true value. Everyone’s focus surrounds the idea of a perfect friendship; knowing each other so well that there only needs to be screamed “Vatican Cameos!” and the friend would understand. The desire for the endless trust is great, yet it takes more than just a couple of common interests for one to open up.
It’s the moment when you are there for someone while their heart is broken, when the tears are streaming endlessly and you can hear the sorrow in the cramped voice. The moment when you find the tissue instead of another person that can help, when you stay for however long it takes, regardless of how uncomfortable the position is. That is when your friendship begins.

Sometimes this is all I need. To ramble about my thoughts. My ideas are clustered at all times, I think too much, too little, am unfocused and wander off.  Nevertheless, my work is not finished. This is not my final thought. It’s a beginning, and a good one too.

Separating the United

*Unfinished, but not sure how I want it to continue. Any suggestions?*

With an arm stretched and her heart broken, it all froze. Time turned still and ice filled the air. The Sun’s comforting heat disappeared, faded out of the world. Emotions ran away and were never replaced. Their voices splintered and went through all living things, without trace. Bones began to stiffen, hearts lost its pleasures, and tears burned all the way into nothing. That is how we lost our power. How humans again became slaves for something unknown.

Through the whole building it could be heard; the scream. No one saw it come.

She held him tight. Tighter than ever, she could not lose him. All eyes wet and dropping tears. His chest was covered in pieces of her broken heart, making the blue t-shirt turn darker for each moment. A low whisper can be heard through the tiny cottage. “I won’t forget you.”  Her body shaking he tried to break through and see the face he adored. “Listen to me.” There were no eye contact, but they both understood. Their hearts could not be together anymore. “Come on, look at me.” Her shoulders were covered on beloved hands, shaking her to the present. The flow slowly found a break and her grass-green eyes were visible once again. There was no pleasure watching as the hole in her heart began sinking in her eyes. The contact was broken and once again the tears came. On his knees he found a tear sliding down her chin, feeling its wet surface with his thumb. Surprisingly warm it burned in his mouth. Her eyes wondering she looked at him. Her mouth forming a smile she found a tear from his chin, used the other hand to catch one of her own. All eyes watching she did something that never should have been done. She brought the two tears together. They longed for each other, finding and blending together. Hot on her fingers they melted and froze to stone, forming a perfect drop. Colored in ocean blue and surrounded by an aura of sorrow and hope, it laid in her hands, waiting. Her fingertips, burning after the last parts of magic she had left. She held it tight; afraid of losing it, and suddenly with a loud sigh she broke it in two. A stream of blood poured out from the broken parts and left in a red steam, hanging in the air.

The man’s eyes were horrified. Wide-open they looked from the stone, to her and back at the broken pieces. He felt as if it belonged to him. His heart bounced harder for each second he waited, the fingertips eager to feel the surface of their tears, he could not resist much longer. “I know you want it, but listen to me.” Her once soft voice was now changed, different. He forced his eyes to look away, find his lover’s eyes and dig himself stuck to them. “Darling, I don’t know how this will work, but please listen to me. These stones are our hearts. These are what can keep us together even when we are separated. You can never, never, give it to someone else, do you hear me?” She searched in his eyes for understanding, would he manage do to as she asked for? They were blank, he was thinking of the stone and not her words.  A hard sound suddenly came. Her hand was gentle and his face red “LISTEN TO ME!” The blankness had disappeared and was replaced with total confusion. Slowly he turned his head to face her again, letting her see the red hand she had left on his cheek. “Is this how you want me to remember you?” They were changing again; pain and anger penetrated through and made her look away. No, she had to be strong. For once she had to make him listen carefully. Her hand still hurt, but she resisted letting it show. With his face in her hands he calmed. The anger vanished for a little while to let her talk. “Please…” She wasn’t a person to beg, but now was no times for normality. His lips began to shake, not much but enough for her to notice. He was shit-scared, but she knew he never would let her know. His obsession of an image to be the protector was too strong to break that. She leaned forward while she whispered in his ear, trying to make it better, if it even was possible. Their bodies were shaking, but she kept her hands around him.


The Competition

*This is something I’ve written in inspiration from the tension between Sherlock and Irene from the BBC tv-show, Sherlock. I want to write much more, though the timing isn’t the best.*

I can hear his steps between my breaths. They are far away; it will take more than a man in black shoes to hunt me down. Many shoes have tried, miles have been laid behind, yet I remain out of their reach. The game I have so joyfully enjoyed had developed to become one of those things that has to be done to keep life going. Just like the ordinaries’ need for food.
How incredibly boring it is to see them dance. I can read their moves like a child’s book. Their simple mind’s desperate attempt to understand why it’s not going in the direction they had predicted. By their calculations it should have! The poor souls get so ecstatic when something actually fits. Celebrations upon festivals upon awards and nominations are thrown around. All they desire is to be noticed. Little children striving to grow into powerful people, well-known and internationally appreciated. They are born in the corner of the world. Crawling and fighting they will look for a place in the center, where they will, after a time, die. It is their destiny and their doom. Their only certainty and yet they fear it most in the world. Dreams of achievements haunt them, never let go, and force them to reach for the stars, when the only thing in reach is the lamp on the nightstand. The greatest they can achieve is the destruction of their home. For generations they’ve worked, and even seem to know where they’re headed. Maybe in a hundred years they will have managed to meet their goal. But for now all they can do is enjoy the little things.
In some way you can say that I’m destroying them. Though that wouldn’t be quite fair. I’m only helping them to do something in their lives. Rumors have gone around that the chief inspector has put it as his life mission to catch me. Some tasks are needed in life! A couple of challenges, nothing more. Nevertheless, I can’t let him catch me. Then the game would be over. There would be nothing more to chase, no reason to keep a knife under the pillow, no cause to look around corners and search for alternative routes. It would all be over. My disappointment in their conquest has long ago turned to the acknowledgement that I will never face my equal. The only thing making me continue is the thrill. The adrenalin rush that strikes when I can feel their hands grasping in the air where I once stood fulfills me.
It didn’t take long until something else made me stretch for their attention. Another creep was wandering and terrorizing in a greater scale than myself. It was a testosterone filled creature attempting to overcome me. My performance so far was not even close to my best shot and they were going to know. They were all going to know that no one exceeds the magnitude I chose to play at. The police divided its people and fewer desired to follow my trail. The media thought they had caught the big fish when their pages were filled with the boy’s work. No one saw it coming. The competition.



*Writer’s note: This is an old text that I haven’t looked over too much. It’s not finished, but I like it.*

Plutselig begynner hjertet mitt å slå hardt, veldig hardt og fort. Jeg slenger fra meg alt jeg har i hendene og begynner å løpe. Jeg løper raskt, raskere enn jeg noen sinne har løpt. Alle jeg ser, løper. Alle har like redde ansiktsutrykk, og alle løper sin vei. Den lille hjernen min skjønner ingenting, men jeg løper så fort beina mine kan klare.

Ut av klasserommet, ut i gangen, inn i hallen, utgangsdøren står rett foran meg og jeg spurter som en gal. Jeg venter ikke på at den sakte og knirkende døren skal gå opp, men suser mot glasset mesteparten av døren består av. Hodet mitt får et kraftig smell og jeg deiser ned på gulvet, jeg kjenner blod fra nesen min renne nedover og jeg får en ekkel smak i munnen.
Jeg snur meg for å se etter den digre russeren, men han er ikke her. I stedet for kommer klassekameratene mine spurtende. Jeg kravler meg raskt opp og sammen med de andre løper jeg forbi den knirkende glassdøren og ut på skoleplassen.
Nesen min renner for alvor nå og jeg er alt for opptatt til å tørke bort blodet. Det er en av de raskeste som løper først og viser oss andre veien. Vi forlater skoleplassen og suser inn i den tette, mørke skogen.

En liten gutt kommer opp ved siden av meg og sammen løper vi for harde livet.
Gutten stapper noe i munnen og når han tar den ut igjen limes øynene mine fast på lillefingeren hans. Blodet fosser ut og han gråter av ren smerte. Gutten må ha klart å komme seg ut av det harde grepet til russeren og jeg grøsser. Han skulle bare vise oss et triks med militærkniven sin. ”Ikke noe farlig, bare noe morsomt!” Det var dét han sa. Ikke noe farlig.
Dumme gutt! Alt for nysgjerrig, lente han seg nærmere mannen og meldte seg frivillig. Men ingen visste noe om hva russeren hadde i tankene. Ingen andre enn han selv.

Hjernen min må ha streiket for det neste jeg husker er bare blod. På pulten, på klærne, på gutten. Og skrikene. Alle skrek, men gutten overdøvet hele klasserommet. Skriket hans berørte oss alle og ga oss kun en anelse over hvilke smerter han ble utsatt for.
Jeg husker grepet og gliset. Grepet rundt håndleddet, den svære sterke hånden og det grufulle gliset han viste oss etter at han hadde kappet av guttens lillefinger. Og jeg hadde kviet meg for å hjelpe. Bare løp, løp som en annen tulling som bare brydde om seg selv. Men jeg løp for livet mitt…

Jeg snur hodet og leter etter mannen med de sterke hendene. Og jeg ser ham. En grusom kjempe! Stor, sterk og farlig. Det var alt jeg fikk med meg før føttene under meg forsvant.
Hodet dundrer i bakken og hjernen sender febrilsk ut signaler om å flykte.
Tilslutt lystrer kroppen og en sidevei kommer til syne. Uten å tenke meg om følger jeg den bortover. Det er ikke tid til å tenke, mannen kan komme når som helst.
Tankene blir skjøvet bort og instinktet tar over.


Plutselig kommer en liten tanke opp i hodet mitt og beina løper ut av stien og videre inn i treklyngen. De kan ikke løpe så fort nå som røttene stikker opp fra jorden og skaper et ujevnt terreng. Nå og da glir blikket mitt bakover, men det er ingen sterk, stor og farlig russer bak meg. Farten dabber av og smerten fra beina strømmer til. Jeg føler meg sliten og jeg vet at energitanken snart er tom.
Jeg må gjemme meg.
Jeg håper på et mirakel fra Gud, for selv om det er mange trær her, finnes det ingen steder å gjemme seg! Foran meg skimter jeg en liten bakke, og nok en gang legger jeg alle tanker bak meg og løper.
Opp bakken og… jeg bråstanser.

Foran meg står kjempen vi løp fra. Den grusomme russeren med kniven. Jeg blir livredd og jeg er på nippet til å gi opp. Gå fram til ham å si; ”Hallo. Her er jeg. Gjør hva du vil med meg, jeg gir opp.” Men jeg tør ikke. Kroppen min har hengt seg opp. Vil ikke adlyde.
Jeg ser ham klart og tydelig foran meg, men han har ikke den minste peiling om hvor jeg er. Men han ser ikke til å bry seg. Selv om jeg kun ser den svette ryggen hans, vet jeg at han har allerede fått fangst og at han smiler stolt til seg selv.
Jeg får lyst til å skrike av redsel når jeg ser hvem mannen har festet blikket sitt på. Jeg vil løpe, rope, hente hjelp! Men kroppen lystrer ikke lenger på ordre. Har en egen vilje.
Gutten sin kropp har også en egen vilje. Den har kollapset og vil ikke røre seg.
Jeg blir stående å studere ham. Slik russeren også må gjøre. Kroppen hans er spinkel og blodårene åpnes for fullt under den likbleke huden hans. Ansiktet hans er blodsprengt. Rød som en tomat. Tidligere i dag ville jeg pekt på ham og ledd som en gal. Men det er ikke tid for å le.

Jeg liker øynene hans. De har en så fin klar blåfarge så i noen sekunder glemmer jeg redselen og får lyst å gå bort for å trøste ham, men kroppen vil fortsatt ikke lystre. Synet går opp og ryggen til russeren tårner over meg. Redselen kommer tilbake og jeg skyver blikket ned på gutten igjen.

Håret hans er blondt, veldig lyst og må ha vært fint og de får øynene hans til å se enda klarere ut. Men håret er ikke så pent nå lenger. Hårstråene har klumpet seg sammen og viser at han svetter som en gris på hodet.
Selv kjenner jeg flere svettedråper renne langsomt nedover den glohete ryggen min.
Jeg har studert gutten i evigheter og enda har ikke kjempen beveget seg. Jeg får panikk. Jeg må gjøre noe! Hva som helst!
Jeg flytter på blikket mitt for å roe ned nervene, men det hjelper ikke. For synet som slår meg er mer enn grusomt.
Én tommel, to pekefingre eller var det en ringefinger også? Og blodet. Gutten må ha løpt, for blodet ligger spredt utover skogen og danner en svak sti. En knute samler seg i magen min og jeg vil spy. Jeg finner flere fingre etter hvert som blikket streifer rundt. Men det er flere enn ti fingre! Jeg er på nippet til å bli gal. Et halvkvelt skrik tvinger seg oppover halsen min og kommer seg ut. Russeren snur seg, og om blikk kan drepe hadde jeg vært et vandrende lik. På under et sekund står han ovenfor meg. Jeg føler meg som en snegle og det eneste som står i hodet mitt er å krype inn i huset mitt. Mannen gliser til meg. Jeg ser på gutten som for å få hjelp, men han er langt vekke. Øynene er vidåpne, men de eier ikke liv. Hjernen min jobber på spreng og jeg vil vekk! Vekk fra denne brutale jævelen! Jeg vil hjem til mamma, hvor jeg er trygg…

Et grufullt hyl fyller skogen og endelig reagerer kroppen min. Jeg snur meg brått, men mannen har allerede festet jerngrepet rundt håndleddet mitt. Jeg røsker med alle mine krefter, men han er sterk, fryktelig sterk.
Et nytt hyl høres, men denne gangen kommer det fra mine egne sprengte lunger. Han skvetter over den høye lyden og jeg slynger meg rundt. Men under alt oppstyret glemte jeg kniven og smerten fra hånden iler opp som en brennende kullklump. Men jeg har ikke tid til å jamre meg, løpe er det eneste som betyr noe.
Beina beveger seg raskt, men ikke raskt nok. Russeren kommer etter og han nærmer seg raskt. Panikken kommer, men jeg må holde fokus! Hånden min begynner å svi og jeg unner meg et raskt blikk på hånden. Kniven hadde skåret seg gjennom huden i håndflaten min og dannet en fin rett strek hvor blodet pumper fram. Og smerten, det er den verste følelsen jeg noen gang har kjent! Det er som om jeg har kjøttetende maur i hånden som jobber seg innover i hånden og følger armen min. Flammer som aldri vil slukke, men bare bli større!

Blodet strømmer fram, daler ned som en foss og legger en liten sti bak meg. Jeg tenker på gutten, den uutholdelige smerten som han måtte ha følt mens han flyktet fra kjempen. Jeg kjenner den nå, verre enn noen gang og jeg vil vekk.
Jeg snur meg et ørlite sekund, men før jeg rekker å se noe snubler jeg i ett eller annet og lander med det dunk på stien. Livredd snur jeg meg rundt og gjør meg klar til å reise meg.

Men landskapet roer meg ned.

Den fryktelige kjempen er ikke å se. Pulsen går ned, men brått stiger den til værs igjen. Om han ikke er her, hvor er han da?
Fingrene mine rører ved noe bløtt og jeg skvetter til. Forskrekket ser jeg ned og oppdager at jeg har laget min egen lille bloddam. Synet gjør meg kvalm og jeg kravler meg opp og begynner å løpe. Hånden har et eget hjerte inni seg som pumper for harde livet og blodet fra hånden begynner atter en gang å dryppe ned.

En tanke dukker opp i hodet mitt og jeg stopper opp. Hvilken vei er ut av skogen? Jeg hører et knekk bak meg og redselen hiver seg over meg. Jeg sjekker ikke hva lyden kommer av, men bare begynner å løpe. Jeg tar ikke sjansen på at russeren plutselig spurter etter meg mens jeg står og speider utover.

Stien min møter en annen og fra høyre ser jeg blodspor. Det er ikke mitt, men hvem er det sitt? Jeg tenker på gutten og får frysninger.
Jeg følger dem og mens jeg løper sender jeg en melding til Gud om at han må takke gutten for blodsporet han hadde lagd. Jeg håper mannen lar ham være i fred og de livløse øynene til gutten dukker opp på netthinnen min.
Jeg løper, men så er plutselig blodsporet slutt. Jeg tør ikke stanse, men fortsetter å løpe. Ikke så langt frem begynte sporet igjen. Det må være her han puttet fingeren i munnen sin.
Jeg puster lettet ut idet jeg ser enden av skogen og skimter en svak kontur av skolebygningen. Jeg har aldri vært så glad over å se skolen før, men nå er jeg overlykkelig av glede!
Jeg føler meg som et fritt menneske igjen! Fra nå av tror jeg livet mitt vil bli helt forandret.
Hodet mitt snur seg og på stien jeg fulgte ser jeg to blodspor. Det ene er den stakkars gutten sitt som han lagde da han flyktet fra den nådeløse mannen, og det andre er mitt eget. Jeg tenker på eventyret om Hans og Grete. Moren som la igjen brødsmuler så ungene kunne komme seg trykt hjem. Jeg tenker på gutten, han reddet livet mitt ved hjelp av det blodsporet. En så utrolig god gjerning, også måtte han dø for det!

Øynene mine sperres opp og i samme øyeblikk ser jeg en illsint russer spurte mot meg med en kniv i hånden. Jeg er lamslått og ingenting i kroppen min reagerer. Jeg føler et sterkt og smertefylt stikk inn i brystkassen og jeg kjenner at kniven treffer hjertet mitt. Blodet løper løpsk og alle tanker forsvinner.

Jeg tok ikke feil, livet mitt ble helt forandret.


Money Makes the World Go Around

I am a man who is not rich, neither do I have a normal income, I don’t even have an income. Once I earned more money than most people in my town, but that time has passed. Now, all of my money goes to food and what I need, really need. I will tell you the story of my life, how I ended up here.

It didn’t start with a bang like you might think. I was a wealthy man who thought of myself as a good man. On the news, celebrities were paid tribute to because they gave some of their millions to charity. My friends asked why I didn’t do the same. “It’s not that you are in lack of money!” they said and laughed until they fell off the chairs. The thought had come to me as well, but I was not sure how much I could give away. So I started with small numbers. When I had donated for a while I got a mail which said;

“Dear Mr. Humble.

We are very grateful for the money you have given us and we know a flower is not a compensation for everything, but we hope it shows you how much we appreciate your care.
Loves from 
The Pink Help”

I looked at the flower. It had been squeezed into the envelope and had left some marks on the letter. It was an close to dead pink rose. From that moment I felt more attached to the people I helped. After that I gave more money, not because it felt like I had to, but I would help them as much as I could.
One evening I decided to take a walk and deliver the money personally. I left the car at home and walked to the other side of town, the poor side. Slowly the surroundings changed and the buildings became darker, full of dirt. The streets were almost invisible. Dirt mixed up with pee and other stuff was all over the place. It was literary disgusting.
Everyone I met glared at me with anger in their eyes. I was the one outstanding, I was the outsider. I have to admit. I was afraid, especially because I was stupid enough to carry my money in cash. Hearing them making noises in this quiet neighbourhood made my pants wet.

I will tell you right away what happened. I am not very good keeping the action. I was robbed. Simple and cruel. Don’t misunderstand, I fought for those money, but I lost. They were many and I was one. They took everything. Every penny, my house and car key and the watch, they stole it all. It was getting dark and I had no place to sleep. I was near the charity centre and they might have a room left over.

It didn’t take me long before I saw the sign saying; “THE PINK HELP” I was there. The front door was open, without a lock of any kind. Inside it was a little bit nicer than outside, but only at the edge of acceptable. There was a bunch of people in there, eating. No signs of a reception or anyone in charge. I remember how embarrassed I felt when I tried to find a person to ask.
I looked in their eyes. So… warm. I could see their body shaking of cold, but their eyes were filled with so much hope I can never forget. “What are you looking for, mister?” someone called at me. “I’m… I’m looking for the person in charge. Could someone tell me where to find him?” Even the day today I’m ashamed of how discriminating that sentence was. “If you’re looking for a he you will not find him. She can be found at her office down that way… mister.” The voice did not sound very pleased, but I will not blame her. My choice of words was not good.

She was at her office as told, leaning over her desk with papers all over the place. “Excuse me? I… I came over to donate some money, but I managed to be robbed on my way. And… Well, could I ask for a room?” I asked nicely. She stared at me. It took her some time before she said anything. “Can I ask for your name, mister?” I was a little shocked. I had forgotten to tell her my name! “Of course, my name is Henry Humble. I’ve donated money to your company for a while. You sent me a letter some months ago. Remember me?” Now she looked a little shocked. She started to mumble and then said; “Mr. Humble? Asking for a room, you said?” It sounded like she couldn’t believe it. I am sure my face looked just like a tomato, but it was true what she said. “Yes, Miss. I see myself in need to ask for a room. As I told you I am broke.” I was afraid she was going to faint. That woman’s face was pale as snow! “Miss?” She really didn’t look well. “Mrs. Barkins. Mrs. Barkins is my name. Yes, of course you can stay here. I will make a room ready for you. If you may, please go down and eat some food meanwhile. I will get someone to call for you when it is ready.”

And that was how I ended up here. Sitting among you broken people, telling the story of my life. “Hey! You’re broke too!” a voice said. “I know, Billie. I didn’t mean to be offending! Come on now, tell me your story.”