Unspoken

matters any better. She was going to turn fifteen—that meant she was practically grown up. She felt like a child in an adult’s body. She didn’t want to get any older; she had nothing to look forward to. She leaned her head on her hands, inhaling the scent of her newly washed hair. In some strange way she found that comforting. She looked down at the curve of her breasts. They had caused all the problems; her body had ruined everything. If she hadn’t gotten older, this whole thing would never have happened. Her body was a weapon that could be used both against others and against herself.
    And him. Now she mostly felt sick whenever she thought of him. His sweaty hands would paw at her, wanting to get under her clothes; he whimpered and whined like a baby. He wanted to do all sorts of strange things with her, and she didn’t dare protest. She felt disgusted with herself, revolted. He told her that now they were both involved, and she had to keep quiet about what they did together. He talked as if they shared a secret agreement, a pact. But that’s not how it was. Deep in her heart, she knew that. He said that he needed her, that she was important to him, and he gave her presents, which she had a hard time resisting. And that made her feel guilty. She was equally at fault, and she had only herself to blame. But now she didn’t want to go on. She wanted to get away from him, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine how to do that. In her day-dreams she wished that someone would come around the corner and rescue her from everything. But no one ever showed up. She wondered what her father would say if he knew.
    She went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Spot followed and looked up at her with his sweet eyes. She took out the green box of razor blades and sat down on the toilet seat. Carefully she took out a blade and held it between her fingers. Tears welled up, hot and salty, and rolled down her cheeks to land on her lap. She held out one hand and studied her fingers. What use was this hand? The blue veins ran from her wrist and into her palm filled with her blood, which pumped through her body. How meaningless. Why was she born? To take care of her mother? So that some disgusting old man could paw at her?
    She looked at Spot, and that was enough to make him wag his tail hesitantly. You’re the only one who likes me , she thought. But I can’t keep on living just for the sake of my dog .
    She took a firm grip on the razor blade and pressed it against her leg, almost level with her kneecap. She wanted to watch it pierce her skin. She pressed harder and harder. It hurt. At the same time, it felt good, almost liberating. All her fear and pain collected there, in her leg instead of in her whole body. In one place. Finally the blood began to flow, running down her leg and onto the floor.
    He saw Emma at once, as soon as she came through the door. He watched her for several seconds while she looked around. The restaurant was small, intimate, and very crowded. He was sitting in a corner at the back, and it was hard to see him from the entrance. Then she noticed him, and her face lit up. To think it was possible to be so beautiful. She was wearing a moss green jacket, and her hair was wet from the rain. It was unusual to see her in a restaurant in Stockholm, and he liked it.
    They kissed. Her lips tasted of salty licorice, and she laughed into his mouth.
    “What a day! I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I didn’t hear a thing they said. All I wanted was to get out of there. The course I was taking had absolutely nothing to say to me.”
    “Were the speakers boring?”
    He could feel that his whole face was smiling.
    She threw out her hands. “I’m sure they were brilliant, inspiring, and super-charismatic. Everybody else was very pleased. But for me, none of that mattered. I just sat there thinking about you and longing to get away.”
    Their hands met across the table, and Johan couldn’t get his fill of looking at her.
    This is how it should always be , he thought. On the ring finger of her left hand her wedding band gleamed, a reminder that he only had her on loan. Just as their food arrived, her cell phone rang. Johan could tell at once that it was her husband, Olle, calling.
    “It was good,” she said. “Interesting speakers. Mmm. I’m sitting here having a glass of wine with Viveka. Mmm. We’re leaving soon. The banquet doesn’t start until eight.”
    She glanced at Johan.