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Posted 12/10/2012



Here I am, sitting in this dark corner waiting, with my mind wandering the depths of my thoughts and my emotions…

I get sick when I think of him together with her… My stomach clenches at the imagination how he holds her, touches her, kisses her, sleeps with her. He does the same things to her as he does to me. Once I thought he was being honest when he assured me that I was the only one. Then I wondered where all that money came from… It’s his boss’s daughter he once told me. As if this was mandatory for employees. I believed his affirmation that it didn’t mean anything to him. His touches were so full of sensuality that it simply couldn’t be otherwise. Or was it just easier to believe? Was it my subconscious which knew the truth already back then? Which lead me here tonight?

But how could I leave him? He’s the love of my life… My feelings are so dependent on him that I can never imagine a life without him, his love, his caress, his waking up next to me. But I don’t want him to leave anymore, I want him in my little world only, at my side, not hers. Every time he was outside and has that playful smile on him I know it, he has been with her, her stench still clinging to him. At first, I tried to wash his clothes twice before I realised that he was the one who stank. Maybe he didn’t do it in the literal way but to my senses he was impure, stained, disgusting even. I couldn’t stand having him near me after he had been with her and he knew it. It separated us even more but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop…

The worst was when I saw them together… I couldn’t even glance at her but I saw the look in his eyes, full of joy and love, and my heart skipped a beat. For years I’ve known that look when it had been directed at me. I couldn’t stop crying for days but I had no one I could talk to. Who would ever understand that I didn’t leave?

I know that he’s with her at the very moment, maybe holding her hand, telling her how much he loves her and what an ugly troll his wife is. I can feel tears that want to break free but I don’t let them because this is the night all decisions will be made. My inner eye shows his lips on her mouth, his hands stroking her back and adrenaline rushes through my veins. I can’t really say that I hate her because I know what kind of effect he can have on others and I can’t even say that I hate him since I know what an awful wife I’ve always been.

In the distance, I can hear steps, interrupting my melancholic reverie. Now or never. A short click of the light switch in the hall and a faint ray illuminates the blade of the big kitchen knife in my hand. It’s his decision how this night will end…



Posted 4/8/2012



I am looking outside, my vision blurred by heavy rain. Now and then a bolt illuminates the dark chamber around me and a thunder rolls through this otherwise silent world. This is the time when I usually think about my life, deeply lost in retrospection. Some people say that we can only keep the bad things in mind. Shall I agree? I am not sure because I have never encountered anything good. I cannot even define the meaning of something positive.

I look down at my worn-out clothes when another thunder startles me. The thunderstorm grows louder which means that it is approaching the house. I know that it’s my duty to close every window and to make sure that all the veranda furnishings are inside but it doesn’t matter to me now. The beauty and the power of nature are worth the punishment I will receive later on. Under my old dress, I’m well aware of every scar on my back; another one will not matter as long as I have this time to watch the wonderful dark sky. This is the only time I feel something like relief…

I hope that this thunderstorm will last forever because it means that my master will not call me. He usually hides underneath his blanket as long as it thunders.

With a sigh, I recall my hopeless situation and I cannot see a single way of escaping it. This is my life and I have to cope with it, alone; except for my master, the gardener, and the cook, there is no one else in the house. And since I never learned to write - apart from my name - I can’t even write a diary. It’s hopeless…

In the far distance, I can see the sky clearing and I feel the sadness of my everyday life returning to me. As I start to stand back up, something knocks against the window. A little sparrow lies on the windowsill, trying to flutter away but unable to because his right wing seems to be hurt. Slowly, I open the window and lift the small bird carefully with my hands. It seems to look into my eyes as if to discern whether I’m going to rescue or kill him. Maybe he is my rescue because I have a little companion now…


The Fist

Posted 22/7/2012

The Fist


I imagined your face… There, right in front of me… I couldn’t see the loveliness I once used to adore but I saw your malicious grin and your evil look when you realised that I knew everything… Tears were beginning to stream down my cheeks and I started to choke. No! Not because of you, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH!

The first blow hit rough concrete and I felt the pain searing through me. How on earth could you do that…?! You’ve been my love, my life, MY EVERYTHING! Another blow, this time a lot harder. Hot blood began to run down my knuckles and for the first time I felt relief, as though my skin had been the barrier of my feelings. Still, my fury grew as grew my intensity of hitting the wall.

When I thought that it had been enough and when my rage subsided, I felt the pulsating pain in my smashed knuckles. After a short examination, I could only discover skin lesions. So I would bandage it and it would be alright in a couple of days.

Then, a sudden image in my brain: You, looking at me, grinning malevolently when I discovered your little secret. YOU’RE NOT WORTH ANYTHING!

Another blow with all the power left in me. With a cracking sound I could hear my fingers fracture…


In your Eyes

Posted 13/5/2012

In your Eyes


In your eyes

I am egocentric because I sometimes think of myself.

In your eyes

I am adamant because I pursue my own objectives.

In your eyes

I am overemotional because I act out my feelings.

In your eyes

I am stubborn because I like to have my questions answered.

In your eyes

I am too difficult to handle because I have a will of my own.

In your eyes

I am depressing because I tend to be moody.

In your eyes

I am not worthy to be loved because I am so utterly individual.

In your eyes

I am annoying because I try to get to the bottom of almost everything.

In your eyes

I am replaceable because I am so different from anybody else you know.


My eyes are dead, so I need to look through your eyes………


The Frozen Tear

Posted 26/4/2012

The Frozen Tear


She was running like wild, running like she had never run before, running as if there was no tomorrow. Her only aim was to get away from that terrible place and most of all from him: a good-looking young man with good manners on the outside but still a monster in a human form.

While she was trying to escape with her long, velvety evening gown flying behind her, she could still feel his piercing blue eyes on the back of her neck. It gave her the chills and as she was turning around, she nearly stumbled. But there was no one there; just the night and herself… Nevertheless, she knew that she had to keep on running although she did not know how far away she had to go to be ultimately safe. So she ran, and ran, and ran, until she could feel her feet starting to bleed in her high heels. But the remembrance of his sweaty hands on her thighs made her neglect the pain and she was even quickening her pace.

Now she was noticing for the first time how freezing cold it was. The sharp, cold, nightly air was biting the skin on her face and then she suddenly fell to her knees: Her right foot had hit a small pebble stone. This was the moment she could not hold her tears back anymore; she started to cry like she never had before.

Only a couple of minutes later, she forced herself to get back up, knowing that she must not give up. Hence, she left her shoes besides the stone and went on; the cold, hard ground underneath her feet didn’t matter to her. In her ears, she could still hear his hoarse voice and she could still feel his hot breath on her skin. As she remembered his words, her breathing became faster and her heart was beating more rapidly with every minute.

After a while, she finally broke down. It was over. She did not know how far she had been running and if the distance would be enough but her feet had stopped her. They had become numb and her toes had taken on a bluish colour. The chilly wind made her shiver and she was not able to stop crying. The tears were freezing on her face, leaving icy streaks…

She knew perfectly well that she would never be able to forget him and his touches. He had managed to break her and her will entirely and although he had not killed her she felt completely empty inside. That made her realise that what he had done to her was even worse than killing, that her flight was completely senseless. There was no real escape…

Totally exhausted, she was sitting on the icy ground, staring at the starry sky that soon was covered by a blanket of clouds. Just as her mind began to become blank, tiny snowflakes started to fall and she could feel a new, last tear forming in the corner of her eye. Slowly, the tear ran down her cheek and fell to the ground, freezing on its way and shattering into a million tiny, nearly invisible pieces…


Thank you

Posted 7/3/2012

Thank you


Thank you that you never judge me…

Thank you that I can always count on you…

Thank you that you accept every single part of my being…


Thank you that you always try to make me laugh…

Thank you that I can talk with you about literally everything…

Thank you that you always share my sorrows instead of pushing them aside…


Thank you that you never try to change me…

Thank you that I can laugh with you about all sorts of funny things…

Thank you that you let me cry whenever I need to and that you are a comfort…


Thank you that you never leave me alone…

Thank you that you make me feel like I was someone special…

Thank you that you never try to impose your point of view on me…


Thank you that you always try to encourage me…

Thank you that you always try to help me find a way…

Thank you that you never become angry whenever I need some time for myself…


Thank you that you are yourself!

Thank you that you are my friend!



Posted 2/2/2012



11:54. The red digits of the clock shone bright in the almost complete darkness, illuminating the face and the laughter lines of my dear wife. According to her recent REM phase, she must have reached deep sleep by now. From the outside, heavy rain was knocking on the windowpanes and the branches of the huge beech tree in front of the house were rustling in the wind. A stormy November night when most people wouldn’t feel the inclination to leave a warm, cosy home. 11:55, five minutes left before I had to go, four hours and five minutes until I would be back.
Silently, I closed the bedroom door and went through the hallway where our precious family memories, unaware of the late time, were smiling at me. My parents-in-law, my wife, my kids, moments full of joy that made me think about my own childhood. As I had grown up, my mum had always told me that everything in life, especially if you had a good or a bad time, was determined by habits and rituals and that it was essential to keep those rituals alive. So, when I had started school, my days had followed a strict pattern: getting up, a fast breakfast, school, lunch, homework, time for and with friends, dinner, bed time and then the next day began with an exact to the minute plan. The only exception had been weekends when school had been replaced by family issues like visiting my aunt and uncle or going to the zoo. But in order not to change too much of the everyday rituals, I had never ever been allowed to sleep late.
When I was 10, my mother died in a tragic car crash when someone who hadn’t known his drinking limit took her right of way. Family and friends had been utterly shocked and after so many years I could still remember my first thought when they had told me: “But, mum, this doesn’t belong to the ritual!” I had been so totally angry with her and her huge breach of the ritual that the first time I had felt sadness and even loss had been long after her burial.
In the end, it remained my part to keep the daily rituals going because my dad couldn’t.  Nowadays, I know that the day my mother had died, I’d lost him too; he never became the same man again. But I had had no choice but to accept it when those tiny pink pills became his new friends because he then stopped to disturb my rituals. I had even accepted to be replaced by the bright blue pills which seemed to be a better family for him. One day, even they hadn’t been enough anymore and he had started to take the white ones. Those apparently hadn’t been too friendly: He died when I was 21.
11:58 and a still on-going storm outside but it didn’t matter. I was looking at our wedding photograph and was wondering why she never had noticed that we had sex every second Friday per month. The reason why was so simple: I knew that she’d be fast asleep afterwards and now and then a soft snore coming from the bedroom confirmed it.
In the garage I used to have a second pair of shoes and a rain coat, originally dedicated to gardening on rainy days. Now, they helped to conceal my absence. My “every second Friday per month ritual” could only exist because our kids were allowed to sleep late on Saturdays and this made it easier for me to still get some sleep when I returned. But I could never be absolutely sure that no one would get up in the middle of the night so I’d taken some extra precautions. On those nights, I always left my mobile phone on the kitchen table where an open message said “Emergency!” Someone who would miss me would automatically conclude that I had to be at the clinic trying my best to help one of those poor severely-addicted drug users who always looked for the final shot, the final pill, the final whatever. This left behind message would also be the perfect excuse for any cuts and bruises that I might get since it happened rather frequently that I literally had to fight to gain control.
12:06 and I already was on my walk to the train station where my train would leave in exactly nine minutes. In additional 24 minutes I would be in the next city where it was more than unlikely to meet my boss. Another precaution so I wouldn’t lose my reputation.
While the old train which most certainly shouldn’t be in use anymore was rattling slowly through my city and then the dark landscape, I was observing the other ones who were using this last connection. There was an aged man who always fell asleep until his chin touched his breast, then his head suddenly shot up and he blinked as if trying to discern where he was. When he finally recognised his surroundings, he fell asleep again. Since it became somehow hypnotising to watch him after a short while, I looked away and straight into the bright green eyes of a woman in her 30s. She was really attractive, slim and with a well-fitting skirt and blouse. I didn’t exactly know why she took this train but I assumed that she had to work late and that this old rattling thing would carry her home. She was there every time I was and she always looked at me in return, this time with an interested curiosity. The concept of politeness had always been something I highly appreciated and so I smiled at her when she did. Maybe she thought I was flirting with her, I was not. And as a matter of fact, I didn’t care.
When the terminal stop was announced, I was getting ready to leave. But before I was able to walk away from the lonely, dimly lit train station I heard something that startled me. “Hey, pretty lady” by a slightly drunk raspy male voice. I possibly wouldn’t have reacted at all if I hadn’t heard a somehow panic reply of a woman: “What do you-?!”
Without a second thought, I strode to the old man and punched him hard in the face. Instantly, my knuckles began to hurt but right then it didn’t bother me. The man had definitely got what he deserved. With a high-pitched scream the woman had run away and the dirty old man stared at me in shock and disbelief, his hands clasped over his probably broken nose. He mumbled something that sounded like “bastard” and spat blood at me. I never used to be someone who looked more daunting than others, some even called me too handsome to be strict and said that I even had mild eyes. In this moment, however, the blue became cold as ice and my expression stony. Apparently, this seemed to be enough to discourage the drunkard who muttered another curse and turned away.
I waited for another five minutes until I was certain he wouldn’t return. Except for some falling leaves from the nearby trees the wind carried through the cold air the train station was now completely deserted. A sigh of relief left my lungs and I noticed that I still had my fists clenched. Looking at my knuckles, I saw some minor bruises but they didn’t really hurt.
12:55 and I was standing on the bridge above the tracks. Usually, I stood there to watch my train disappear in the far distance as if it said goodbye. Today, that silly man had destroyed this ritual of mine but nevertheless, I allowed myself to stay there for a little while, looking along the now unused tracks, taking deep breaths, trying to suck in the stormy night: This loneliness, this almost complete silence that couldn’t be interrupted by any human being. Just those left tracks, the sounds of rain, wind, rustling leaves, a distant croak of a crow … and me.
Suicide had never been an option for me but I was able to understand and feel the possessive melancholy of this place and of this view nevertheless. But I simply couldn’t grasp the idea or any reason why I should try to end my life. It was remarkably perfect: I had a wife whom I loved very passionately and together we had two wonderful children; my job was well-paid and it was my pleasure to help those poor souls who couldn’t stop taking those damn drugs; every 33 days I met my best friends and had a great time with them. I couldn’t imagine a better life.
Vigorously I shook my head: Enough of that! I remembered that man from earlier. It wasn’t always that easy to find such an opportunity for spreading justice on my nightly strolls. Sometimes I had to do without it but tonight I was full of joy and my swollen knuckles were the perfect proof for a good deed. What still remained was the destruction part…
And while I was standing there following my darker thoughts, I heard a strange rumbling that soon became louder and louder. This irritated me and my plan so utterly that I started to sweat under my rain coat. My first shocked thought was that I’d probably stood there for two and a half hours and that it was already time to go home. But as soon as I saw the dark rusty brown of a goods wagon illuminated in the train station I sighed full of relief.
I glanced at my watch: 01:32, definitely enough musing for today. Rapidly quickening my pace, I went to the city, straight to the district that was famous for its prostitutes and drug dealers who were always up to no good. I hadn’t even noticed that it had stopped raining for a short while but now, suddenly, I felt the patter of rain on my hood and small drops were trickling down my cheeks like tears; or at least I suspected this should be how tears felt like. Never before had I cried, not even when my mum or my dad had died. On the other hand, I hadn’t ever cried out of joy either. I remember being totally stoked when my first son had been born but there hadn’t been any tears, never. Why should I actually cry?
Turning around the next corner, I perceived a peroxide blonde under a small refuge who looked at me with a provocative grin while shaking her enormous breasts in a red bra that revealed more than it concealed. Black leather boots with very high heels and shorts that could have been mere underpants eliminated the last doubt about her profession. Still smiling somehow maliciously, she seemed to await any kind of positive response. I looked into her eyes, “You’re disgusting, you really are”. She looked at me as if I were an exotic plant she’d never seen before, then her mouth opened for a counterattack but I simply turned away and went on.
Destruction? No, certainly not. She would be happy with the next guy who came along, dropped his trousers and paid her.
I went on to the drug dealers, my actual destination. They were easy to find since I knew very well where they used to be and especially what to do to gain their trust. This being another city meant that they would never care to come to the clinic so I was easily disguised. We who work there call those “the lost ones” because they’d never accept any help. So, it was my task to see to it that those got another kind of “help” and this was the reason why all of them knew me by a fictional name and believed that I belonged to their drug-addicted family. Why else should I regularly buy all those pills?
All of those mostly young men, some even still teenagers, seemed to be stoned 24/7 and so they were never able to notice when one of them vanished forever as soon as I showed up. What a funny coincidence! But in a world where drugs and death ruled something as trivial as a coincidence simply didn’t exist at all...
This time I chose the one with the tousled brown hair and the blue cap who always tried to look more intelligent than he really was. How much of a brain could be left after so many drugs? And since drugs were the only thing someone like him had in mind, I went straight to him with the most inviting smile I could accomplish. My index and my middle finger formed the peace sign which indicated that I didn’t want the usual stuff but wanted something special instead. He led me around the corner but before he could say one word I told him that I wanted to go farther away just in case the others would try to eavesdrop. This time I took the lead.
As soon as I thought it to be the right distance, I turned around too suddenly for a man whose brain was blurred by years of drug abuse. My left knee hit his crutch and with a loud moan he collapsed. “Hey, do you even feel this?” With watery brown eyes he looked at me, trying to grasp any reason for my sudden rage. I responded to his unuttered question, “You’re slimy filth which destroys other people’s life without any second thoughts or even remorse! This is why!” I spat every word at him and with a well-directed kick I broke the man’s ribs. He began to whimper like a puppy but it still didn’t trigger any mercy in me. I helped him up just to look into his eyes very deeply. Behind the veil the drugs had woven, I was still able to see a clear-minded young adult yet it didn’t convince me. It was too late: He had ruined so many lives already, his own too, and he would never stop. With a quick movement I had internalised on many occasions before I broke his neck and let him fall to the ground. Waste. Destruction. And somehow even justice. My goal had been achieved, my ritual was over.
With slow steps, fighting against strong gusts of wind, and with the certainty that the police would never really investigate the death of a drug dealer who would be missed by no one, I went back to the train station where the first train of the day was already waiting. I took a quick look-around but the man from two hours ago was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anybody else.
Feeling a sudden exhaustion, I wanted nothing else but to come home. It was 03:21 by now and the train was leaving with me as the sole passenger. Although the soft rocking was making me feel even drowsier I didn’t allow myself to fall asleep. My mind was totally empty, no thoughts left, and the fresh, cool air after the rain welcomed me at my station. I put up my collar and went home rather fast where I entered through the garage so that nobody would hear me.
The red digits said 04:00 and I was back in bed beside my beloved wife. The sheets were more crumpled now but apart from that she was still fast asleep.
It would be quite easy to conceal my bruised knuckles and my kids would wake me up in five to six hours as usual. Everything had happened as planned. Until the next time I would leave my home nobody would suspect that the caring and loving father of a family had a secret side, a ritual to free the world from at least a tiny bit of scum.
Justice and destruction. The life of a loner.


Dead Life

Posted 27/12/2011

Dead Life


I eat when I’m hungry and I drink when I’m thirsty

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I do the work I’m supposed to do

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I’m a friend to those who don’t really know me

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I try to help everyone around me

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I’m glad when something works as it should

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I smile at everyone and I’m friendly

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I even laugh when something funny happens

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I become angry when someone tries to annoy me

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I cry when I see something sad

but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

I live my life as I used to

but it doesn’t mean anything to me

because I don’t mean anything to you.



Posted 25/11/2011



Lying on my back, I can still see tiny sparkles of light, dancing around my head, surrounding me like fluttering butterflies. While I watch them, I realise that they convey a message of joy and happiness, a message of warmth and love. It feels so good, so comforting. Feeling a little dizzy, I’m almost drowning in this cosiness...

I look up: What is this? My slow mind discerns a ... a ... cloud? I’m not sure but I never saw something similar before. The butterfly-sparkles seem to become excited; somehow flying chaotically, they flee into nothingness and take their comfort with them. I stay behind: left, alone and confused...

Suddenly, I become aware of the spine-tingling cold drawing nearer and nearer. I ponder on it but I still have absolutely no idea what this is. It encircles me and I notice that even the last glimmering spark has vanished. Forever?

Then small, somewhat slimy hands and fingers look for me, find me, reach out for me, and finally touch me. Although they’re very gentle, they make me shiver because they are cold as ice...

My only wish is to follow my companions, the tiny butterflies, and their light: I want to run away, I want to escape this unknown scenario. Trying to move my legs or at least my toes, I realise that I can’t move... I’m too scared. But on the other hand, I’m somehow even curious. What is going to happen? Where are the sparkles? What is this?

The hands and fingers help me to understand while they crawl over my whole body as if they tried to explore every pore of my being. I cannot see them, it’s completely dark, but I can feel even better. Creeping coldness ... everywhere... On my skin, then under it... It feels odd but not awkward.

And this is the moment when I comprehend that this is exactly the way how it has to work. I give up my last resistance and finally start to feel at ease. This is the last thing I do before the welcoming darkness reaches my inner core and I sink into blissful oblivion...


Born to be a soldier

Posted 15/11/2011

Born to be a soldier


I never used to be a normal child, I was never allowed to be one. I was drilled to become perfect, to function all the time, and I got punished if I was just what I was: a child.

Now, as an adult, I am able to understand what the term "childhood" implies. Something with happiness, love, friends. Words I cannot fully grasp although I heard others talking about them.

My behaviour determined my worthiness and since I was always worth nothing I guess I didn't behave acceptably. I needed to work harder.

But I haven't capitulated yet. I still hope to become the perfect soldier one day. Because this is a contract I can't withdraw from.