This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
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Previously published as Mordswald by the author through the Kindle Direct Publishing Platform in Germany in 2013. Translated from German by Maria Poglitsch Bauer. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921447
Printed in the United States of America
Prologue
The stupid cow. The slut. She does it with everyone. Now she’s making out with this guy in front of the house even though everyone knows
that she and Carsten are an item. She’s like a hooker; that’s what she is.
Now what? She’s going home by herself? I’m sure she made out
with practically everyone tonight. Got plastered, too; I can see that.
She can’t even walk straight. She doesn’t even notice that I’m trailing her. I bet she wouldn’t recognize me if she saw me; she’s that drunk.
And to think, we were once a couple, she and I. At first she couldn’t get enough of me, and then she just dropped me like a hot potato. Found
herself another guy. But maybe it was a good thing to see early on how she operates.
She’s turning into the park now. Makes sense. It’s the shortest way
to her house, to Mom and Dad. It’s quite dark here, especially under the trees, where the moonlight doesn’t reach the ground. She’s just a shadow now—a shadow that stumbles and hiccups. What a fool she’s
making of herself. It’s good we’re not together anymore. I wouldn’t do it with her now even if they tied her up underneath me.
Now she’s holding on to a tree. It looks like she’s about ready to
puke, but no, she walks on. For a few seconds I can see her face under Maria C. Poets
the streetlight. Her lipstick is a bit smudged, but she actually looks quite pretty. I’m so close now that I can smell her. She’s reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke, but there’s also a trace of perfume. The perfume I once gave her as a present. How cool is that—she’s still using it.
She’s stopping again. Sniffles. Oh, she’s crying! Why? She got
everything sluts her age want: she looks good, half the guys her age run after her, and her parents are totally cool, not nasty like mine . . . But really, she’s blubbering. There she is, in the park, bawling.
I don’t know why . . . Somehow I’m feeling sorry for her. I mean,
if someone’s bawling like that, she must be going through a ton of shit.
So I go to her.
“Hi,” I say.
She looks at me. The moon is throwing edgy shadows on her face,
and her eyes shimmer in the moonlight—like diamonds, like stars,
like . . .
She stops crying. She’s laughing now. It sounds as if she’s laughing at me. “Oh, it’s you . . . I didn’t notice you at the party.”
No wonder. I wasn’t there, I think, but don’t say it. Instead I just look at her. Two or three tears are still gleaming in her eyes. Her lips are almost black even though I know she’s wearing red lipstick. She’s wearing a miniskirt and an extratight top. I’m starting to get hard. Her tits are bigger now than they were before. Cool. Way cool.
She stops laughing. “So what d’you want?” she asks.
I can’t stop staring at her tits. Man, they’re epic. A woman’s tits, not those of a girl; not like before. I reach for them, but she steps back.
Suddenly she’s looking at me strangely, as if she’s afraid. Cool. I take a step toward her. She takes another step back. I follow. It feels like I have an iron rod in the front of my pants.
She’s trying to turn around and run away, but because she’s smashed
and in such high heels, she stumbles. If I hadn’t caught her, she would have landed right on her pretty face. But now I’ve got a hold of her, my hand squeezing her arm tight, and I don’t let go.