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Authors: John-Henri Holmberg
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Inside it was a wardrobe. He knew that there were clothes in the wardrobe that werenât his. He didnât know whose they were, but that didnât matter to him.
Particularly not now.
He started by taking the picture down from the wall, the one with the funnel and the melon. He folded it, carefully, and put it under his pillow.
If he returned he would know where to find it.
He went over and opened the window. The window ledge was empty. He brushed his hand over it. He would miss the charred hands, those that never touched him.
Suddenly he heard the singing, the blackbird, far away out in the darkness. He tried to see it without succeeding. He pursed his lips to whistle but refrained from doing it. He didnât want to disturb the past.
He stood at the window for a long time.
When he closed it he felt tiny, rolling movements across his cheeks. He went to the mirror, bent down and saw a face.
Is that how I look?
He regarded the face in the mirror. He recognized it. He recognized certain features, those particular cheekbones, those arched eyebrows, the mouth he had never seen before. He leaned against the mirror and let his mouth touch the mirror mouth. Then he brushed away the things trickling down his cheeks and felt that it was time.
He lay down on top of the bed.
His time had run out, for this turn, it was pointless to try to fight it.
The first few times he had done that, tried to remain in who he was.
It never worked. He screamed and cut his own body not to lose touch with it. In vain; whenever he began slipping in the wrong direction there was no return.
Nowadays he just slipped along.
He lay stretched out on his bed, his hands clutching the blanket tight; his whole body began shaking. He knew what would follow. He knew that there were a few seconds, sometimes ten or fifteen, when he was right in the middle of the interface, inside the zone, on his way from who he was to something he couldnât even imagine.
Or someone.
A few seconds that brought an unbearable physical pain.
The first time it happened he was unprepared. He slipped into the zone and didnât know what would come, not until he saw the executioner. A shadow with no face and with a long object in its hands. He stared at the shadow and never had time to react; the glowing scythe cut through the base of his skull, down through his body and through his groin.
There everything ended.
Now he was going there again, into the zone, slipping, just at the verge of letting go when he heard it.
Or them.
The knock, on his door.
The one he knew would come.
He stopped himself.
Would he walk to the door or slide away? If he slid away they would never find him as who he was now. What they would find he didnât know. Perhaps a dead blackbird on his pillow. Or two charred hands under his blanket. He ought to stand up.
He ought to rinse his hands in the freezing water and walk to the door.
But he didnât do what he ought to do.
When the knock sounded again he closed his eyes, hid his tongue at the back of his mouth cavity, let go and slipped away.
Into the zone.
Rolf Börjlind, born in 1943, and his wife, Cecilia Börjlind, born in 1961, cowrite film scripts and crime novels. On his own, Rolf Börjlind was Swedenâs most notable satirist, famous for once having been sued by one of the countryâs prime ministers for a faked interview published in Aftonbladet, Swedenâs bestselling daily tabloid, where he also published other faked interviews with, among others, tennis player Björn Borg. The prime minister lost in court. Rolf Börjlind is also a poet, an actor, a film director, and the president of the Writers Guild of Sweden, the national organization for Swedish playwrights and screenwriters. In addition, he and his wife are Swedenâs most experienced script writers, having written almost fifty full-length movie scripts, including twenty-six Martin Beck movies inspired by the Maj Sjöwall and Per
Particularly not now.
He started by taking the picture down from the wall, the one with the funnel and the melon. He folded it, carefully, and put it under his pillow.
If he returned he would know where to find it.
He went over and opened the window. The window ledge was empty. He brushed his hand over it. He would miss the charred hands, those that never touched him.
Suddenly he heard the singing, the blackbird, far away out in the darkness. He tried to see it without succeeding. He pursed his lips to whistle but refrained from doing it. He didnât want to disturb the past.
He stood at the window for a long time.
When he closed it he felt tiny, rolling movements across his cheeks. He went to the mirror, bent down and saw a face.
Is that how I look?
He regarded the face in the mirror. He recognized it. He recognized certain features, those particular cheekbones, those arched eyebrows, the mouth he had never seen before. He leaned against the mirror and let his mouth touch the mirror mouth. Then he brushed away the things trickling down his cheeks and felt that it was time.
He lay down on top of the bed.
His time had run out, for this turn, it was pointless to try to fight it.
The first few times he had done that, tried to remain in who he was.
It never worked. He screamed and cut his own body not to lose touch with it. In vain; whenever he began slipping in the wrong direction there was no return.
Nowadays he just slipped along.
He lay stretched out on his bed, his hands clutching the blanket tight; his whole body began shaking. He knew what would follow. He knew that there were a few seconds, sometimes ten or fifteen, when he was right in the middle of the interface, inside the zone, on his way from who he was to something he couldnât even imagine.
Or someone.
A few seconds that brought an unbearable physical pain.
The first time it happened he was unprepared. He slipped into the zone and didnât know what would come, not until he saw the executioner. A shadow with no face and with a long object in its hands. He stared at the shadow and never had time to react; the glowing scythe cut through the base of his skull, down through his body and through his groin.
There everything ended.
Now he was going there again, into the zone, slipping, just at the verge of letting go when he heard it.
Or them.
The knock, on his door.
The one he knew would come.
He stopped himself.
Would he walk to the door or slide away? If he slid away they would never find him as who he was now. What they would find he didnât know. Perhaps a dead blackbird on his pillow. Or two charred hands under his blanket. He ought to stand up.
He ought to rinse his hands in the freezing water and walk to the door.
But he didnât do what he ought to do.
When the knock sounded again he closed his eyes, hid his tongue at the back of his mouth cavity, let go and slipped away.
Into the zone.
Rolf Börjlind, born in 1943, and his wife, Cecilia Börjlind, born in 1961, cowrite film scripts and crime novels. On his own, Rolf Börjlind was Swedenâs most notable satirist, famous for once having been sued by one of the countryâs prime ministers for a faked interview published in Aftonbladet, Swedenâs bestselling daily tabloid, where he also published other faked interviews with, among others, tennis player Björn Borg. The prime minister lost in court. Rolf Börjlind is also a poet, an actor, a film director, and the president of the Writers Guild of Sweden, the national organization for Swedish playwrights and screenwriters. In addition, he and his wife are Swedenâs most experienced script writers, having written almost fifty full-length movie scripts, including twenty-six Martin Beck movies inspired by the Maj Sjöwall and Per
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