Erik

by Azzi_Dietz

Summary:

This Fanfic includes the works of:
Top of the Sky
Spectrum
Ok
Dog days are over (known as You've got the watches, we've got the time)

Notes:

i don't know why i am doing this to myself and to you.

i am so sorry.

A special “Thank You” goes out to VladimirsAngel aka Mendicantelle, this guy is a master of words. He reads every chapter, checking it for brain knots and word jumbling. Please read his stories, they are AMAZING! Link is down below.

Chapter 1: Heyyy this is the first and only Warning

Well, sorry

...

First of ALL: A special “Thank You” goes out to VladimirsAngel, this guy is a master of words. He reads every chapter, checking it for brain knots and word jumbling. Please read his stories, they are AMAZING! LINK TO MENDICANTELLE

...

This story is a modern AU, set in the present day. It takes place in Germany. It is written, again, in present tense.
I’ve included some Easter eggs (mainly in Part 4), because this story is based on the "Phantom of the Opera" fandom. There are historical references, pop culture elements, and things that have happened in real life to me or others. However, I want to clearly say that if you're looking for a fluffy, 1800s/1900s adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera, you should click away immediately :-D
If you're into punk, music, pop culture, coming of age, slice of life, anxiety, fluff, and slow burn, then you might feel right at home here.

…

It is also a reboot of “You've got the Time, we've got the Watches” and “Top of the Sky” – the old readers among you will certainly recognize the stories and wonder why I’m rebooting them.

Well, through working on the comic for "You've got the Time," I noticed a few gaps. Then I re-read Madeleine's story, and eventually, I made all kinds of changes—rewriting, adding, adjusting—and now here I am. And I’m as nervous as I was when I first threw the very first chapter, “Himmelblau” out into the world. I shit my pants...really :-D

...

This story contains: 
Ableist language
Xenophobic language
Alcoholism
Insults
Dissociative moments
Dysfunctional behavior
Drug use
Eating disorder
Gaslighting
Violence
Domestic violence
Panic attacks
Suicide
Self-harm
Grief
Neglect
(Did I miss something? Life is so cruel man...)
Looking at this list, it all sounds pretty harsh and a lot. But I can assure you that I only touch on the tough subjects, such as suicide, without describing the actual act.
I also want to emphasize that I do not condone xenophobia, ableist language, or any form of insults. It serves the narrative.
…

 

Chapter 2: Top of the Sky - Willst du

Notes:

ok, so let's get the drama started this year, shall we?
have fun and enjoy it. or tears. or rage quit.

and again thank you for proofreading, Vlad

There are moments in life when two souls collide and time seems to stand still for a heartbeat. A single moment that changes everything. But sometimes, as with Madeleine and Charles, it's not love at first sight that sets everything in motion. They have missed this moment many times. Perhaps it is rather love at twentieth sight that unfolds its power here.
Madeleine and Charles, two people from worlds that couldn't be more different. Charles grew up in the comfort of a respected academic family, surrounded by books, academic discussions and expectations. Madeleine, on the other hand, the daughter of an alcoholic mother, lives in a small social housing apartment where life is harsh and unforgiving. Their paths cross fleetingly at parties, at a time characterized by the impact of the wave-gothic scene, techno and punk, riots and home takeovers.
They spend their years in Freiburg, years full of fog and dark nights, in which the streets tell stories that only those who are willing to get closer, they can understand. Their interactions remain superficial, flickering like light on a still water surface. But deep down, in the unexplored abysses of their hearts, something is growing - something that cannot yet be named.

And so their story begins, not with a spectacular spark, but with silent, repeated glances. These looks will eventually open a door  they have never seen before. A door to a love that waits patiently.

The night is still young, and the world around them rages in a whirl of noise and chaotic energy. In the dark halls of the Crash Musikkeller, the bass echoes like the beating heart of the night. Here, in this wild confusion of alcohol, acid and weed, people lose themselves - and yet they still find each other. The room is a fog of bodies pressing against each other on the dance floor, while the air becomes heavy and warm from the intense closeness.
Madeleine sits between the pulsating lights and the swaying shadows. Her gaze is calm, but her insides are buzzing. In front of her is a young man whose appearance rises out of the darkness like an enigma. His black hair is a whirlwind pointing in all directions, as if the wind itself has defined its shape. The coarsely knitted black sweater and tight leather pants give him something wild that almost matches his restless body. White Creepers adorn his feet, and in his hands he rolls one cigarette after another.
Madeleine, unperturbed by the incessant movement of the world, takes a deep drag on her joint. The smoke rises into the air and melts into the thick clouds of fog. She stares into the man's eyes and, for a moment, time seems to stand still. “EYYY GOTH, your turn,” she says with an ease that is only possible on nights like this, while the smoke begins to dance from her lips.
Slowly, the man raises his eyes. For the first time, their eyes meet. His eyes, they are yellow - like honey kissed by the sun flowing into the soft morning dew. She is overcome by a quiet moment of amazement. “Dude, craaaaaaaaaazyyyyy!” she exclaims, jumping up and crawling closer. Her eyes are fixed on his face, on the riddle that she is finally trying to decipher.
He remains calm, almost too calm, as if he is keeping a secret at this moment that is only meant for himself. “Your eyes,” she then exclaims, ”are like a cat's!”
“Thank you,” the man murmurs, his hand grasping hers with a calmness that doesn't seem to fit this wild night. He holds her hand tenderly, “I'd say the same, but your eyes... they remind me of chocolate.” 
His gaze moves away from hers, his cheeks turn slightly red, as if he has been touched by a magic he had not expected. Madeleine, surprised by this tender moment of vulnerability, stares at him for a moment. And then - a smile dawns over her  which says more than words ever could. 
A strange mixture of curiosity and nervousness sweeps through them both.
The booming sound of the party, the pounding drone of the music and the flickering lights of the club fade away, becoming quieter until they exist only in their own bubble. Just them. Just this moment. 

The hours drag on, but the evening becomes slower, more intense, the clocks marking time differently now. Maddi and Charles lose themselves in the flow of life, smoking, drinking, talking - and at some point, almost as if guided by an invisible hand, they finally walk to his home.
Charles still lives with his parents. The door opens quietly, almost cautiously, and as he closes it behind him, he takes her hand. A silent exchange leads their steps into the darkness as they sneak into the small teenage bedroom together. It's so quiet here that their breathing seems louder than the rest of the world. The room itself seems almost sterile, as if it were the refuge of a dreamer searching for answers.
Posters of Queen and David Bowie hang on the walls, heroes of music history from another world. Books are stacked on the shelves - thick, heavy volumes on physics, mathematics, the universe of numbers and theories. Hovering above the ceiling is a model of the Antonov An-2, a “Colt” airplane that tells the story of a boy's imagination. In the corner, almost inconspicuous, is a record player. There are some vinyl records on it that could fill the room with the music of various bands once the needle finds its way onto it. 
Madeleine takes a cursory glance at the room, her eyes wandering over the books, the records, the photos, the silent memories. In the meantime, Charles has sat down on the bed, his eyes fixed on her as if he wants to observe her, to capture her at this moment.
“You seem to be quite a clever fellow,” she comments as her eyes discover the bookshelf. Her voice is quiet, almost curious.
“It's just a hobby,” he mumbles, lowering his eyes as if his words are too heavy for him to say. “My A-levels were rather mediocre.”
It remains silent for a moment. In the flickering shadows of the room, Maddi sees something different about Charles than she had imagined. Uncertain. Almost shy. A part of him that she hadn't expected. She had thought he was one of those confident, intellectual types who had built a world in his head that is clearer than the outside world. But here, in this small room, surrounded by the chosen sounds and numbers, he seems like a boy who wants to know more about the world than math can teach him. A boy who perhaps doesn't yet know what he's doing in this world.
“So you're a math nerd?” asks Maddi as she sits down on the bed, crossing her legs.
A soft smile plays on his lips, as if he's wondering about the question himself, he thought it was obvious. “I tried something else once... But math is the only thing that really makes sense to me. Everything else is...” He pauses, his thoughts weighing on his tongue, “...more complicated.”
Maddi just mumbles a quiet “Mhm” as her gaze wanders around the room. Her eyes touch the world around her, as if she is trying to understand every little detail. “And what about music? Or people? Don't they make sense?”
Charles shrugs his shoulders, an almost fragile expression on his face. “Music is... okay. But I prefer it when it's not too loud. Guys... Well, I'm not so good at talking to them.” He finds the words hard, they seem to go against him. “I... often feel... hmmm... overwhelmed. Especially when a lot of people are talking.”
A soft laugh escapes Maddi's lips, almost as if she has already grasped the depth of those words. “Well, then you've come to the right place,” she says, glancing around the room, which seems so strange and familiar at the same time. “I always thought I didn't belong anywhere... But in the CRASH... or here, it's somehow... Easier.”
“Easier?” Charles looks at her as if she's opened a hidden path he's never noticed himself. “Why is that?”
“Because there are no rules,” she answers immediately, her words sounding like a mantra. “There are no expectations, no right or wrong. It's just us. And the music, of course. It brings everything together.”
She pulls her legs up, places them comfortably on the bed and leans back, as if she simply wants to let the world rest for a moment. She stretches contentedly, while Charles sits frozen next to her and stares down at her. 
“Maybe that's the difference between us,” she says after a while, her voice gentle but firm. “You're looking for answers, for order. I'm looking for chaos, for freedom.”
Charles remains silent. For the first time in his life, he has met someone who is not fleeing from chaos, but surrendering to it. It is as if he is looking at an unknown land that fascinates and unsettles him at the same time. Perhaps he feels less... clumsy, less trapped in time. Less of the boy he thought he was.
“Maybe,” he finally says quietly, almost like a discovery. “Maybe I'm just on the wrong side. But it's different with you... Yes, somehow different.”
Maddi lifts her gaze, her eyes twinkling like stars, which are suddenly shining brighter in the darkness. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” he whispers, his heart beating faster as he puts the next word in the air, as if it could lift the heaviness of the world for a moment. “Do you... feel like it?” He nods towards the bed, his voice soft now, almost hesitant, as if he shouldn't cross the line between them. 

Maddi looks at him, a grin spreading across her face, “Like what exactly?”
“You know,” he mumbles, his hands not resting. They unconsciously pluck at the corner of his sweater. “We could just...”
“Oh soooooooo,” she interrupts him, sitting up and leaning forward, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Come.”

...

But in the midst of the quiet magic of this moment, when time stretches out and the world hovers for a moment in perfect balance, there is a truth that hangs over everything like a shadow. 
Nothing, however beautiful it may seem, lasts forever.  

 

 

---

 

 

Notes:

Song:
Alligatoah - Willst du

Chapter 3: Top of the Sky - Sugar

Madeleine and Charles are standing in an empty room with a high ceiling. The floor is old, the parquet faded and stained. It creaks under their feet. The room smells dusty and there is a hint of damp on the walls. The bathroom is in the hallway and the residents of the floor have to share it with the others. There is a small kitchenette in the corner of the room, its appliances old and used. The window frames are stained, which looks as if they were painted over at some point to hide the mold.
Maddi is unable to see this. Whether she doesn't want to see it or actually doesn't see it, perhaps only she knows.
She turns in circles, her arms spread wide, dancing on the old floorboards. Her laughter echoes in the silence of the room, carefree, a little too carefree. “We'll take it! Come on, Charly, we'll take it!” she shouts, skipping across the parquet floor, which protests beneath her boots.
Charles stands by the window, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black leather jacket. The cool air coming through the window chaps his face, but he doesn't feel it. Only the oppressive feeling in his chest, crushing him like a heavy stone, is present.

He lets his tired eyes wander through the apartment. The walls look yellowed, the floor worn. If you can even call it an “apartment”. It is less than 20 square meters, and it is so cramped that it feels even smaller. There's a smell of the building's old past everywhere, of decades of survival, as if every breath was marked by dust and decay.
“Maddi...” he says quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur. “It'll always smell like food here.... it will smell like everything... and... and the mold... it's everywhere.”
Maddi stops in her tracks, turns to him, and looks at him with an expression that shifts between joy and impatience. “Oh come on, what's the problem?” she says with a broad grin. “Some furniture, a few plants, some paint here and there - and we'll just do the windows ourselves. You're the technical type, you'll get it done. We have enough space here for us. We'll make ourselves at home, you'll see.”

But Charles can't imagine how this is supposed to work. The feeling that something is wrong with him becomes more and more present. The thought of living with her in such a small space, with a communal toilet shared by five other households, constricts him. The idea that every mouthful they cook here will infuse the room with a smell that will never quite leave it makes him nervous.
“This is...” His words falter. He looks down at the floor, like he wants to take the room apart to understand its disorder.
“This is not... what we need.” It's not what I need, he would like to say. But he lets go of the thought.

Maddi looks at him, and for a moment it seems as if she understands him. But then she shrugs her shoulders and moves closer. Her energy, her lightheartedness - it fills the room, like the smoke from a cigarette that won't go away. It settles into him, into his every fibre.
“You overthink everything far too much, Charly,” she says quietly, almost caringly, and puts a hand on his arm. “Neither of us has much, but we have each other. And we have enough for both of us. Here we can start building everything from scratch, exactly the way we want it.”
Charles feels the warmth of her hand on his arm, which calms him down for a moment. But the thought that she wants to feel at home here frightens him even more. She sees it differently, but he can only perceive the room as a boundary, as a space that restricts his freedom of movement. He can't sugarcoat the chaos that will always be with him here. And he knows that he cannot simply ignore the fact that he is here - in this apartment that looks more like a transitional space than a home.

“It's not going to be easy... Maddi it...” he mumbles, almost like an apology. “My parents... they kicked me out, they won't help us if... after...”
“After you got me knocked up,” she interrupts him, without hesitation. “Yes, I know. So? We're here now. We have each other, okay?” Her gaze softens, almost loving, as she looks deep into his eyes.
Charles closes his eyes for a moment. These words she keeps saying, they give him a little comfort, but also fear.

How long will it last?
How long can he endure the chaos they have created for themselves?

“Come on,” says Maddi, pulling him gently by the hand. “We'll take this apartment, and we'll make something great out of it. Something new, you know?”
Charles nods slowly. There is no other choice. They have nothing else. They are both unemployed, with no real prospects. Maddi hasn't finished school, and he has lost contact with his family. The decision to stay here feels like a last resort, a way out of a life he has never understood. A life that always passed him by even as he tried to fit in.
“Okay,” he finally says, and the word in his mouth feels heavy, like it's carrying the weight of the universe.

“We'll take it.”

---

 

Chapter 4: Top of the Sky - Obstacles

Notes:

thanks to my brain, i posted the wrong chapter. good for you all, now you have 2 short chapters...

The apartment is quickly furnished. Charles' teenage room has found its new place - the old desk, the worn bed, the record collection in the corner. Everything they have fits in here, even if it is cramped. Maddi has nothing except a few clothes that she took with her when she fled from home.
No heirlooms, no mementos.
Just what she can bear.
They share the small teenage bed. Every night they lie intertwined on the narrow mattress, which barely has room for two. For a young man like Charles, who at 1.98 meters towers over almost everything in the room, this is a real challenge. And then there's Maddi, who is now carrying a child. The growing life in her belly is a constant reminder that everything they do now has a different meaning.
Nevertheless, they are happy - in their own way.

Charles sits at the small kitchen table in the middle of the room and searches for job advertisements. He circles an entry again and again, then takes a sip of his black coffee and lights a cigarette. The smoke rises, floats in the stuffy air of the small room and mingles with the smell of burnt toast and cheap cheese.
Maddi lies on the bed and slowly strokes her stomach. “I'm good with numbers. I'd fit well in accounting,” Charles mumbles after a while, taking a drag on his cigarette. He hands it to Maddi, who takes the cigarette, takes a deep drag and then smiles wryly at him.
“Well, with your super A-levels, I'm sure it'll be something,” she says with a slightly teasing tone.
“Mediocre A-levels,” he corrects without looking up from his newspaper.
“Yeah yeah, A-levels are A-levels,” she replies and takes another drag on the cigarette before handing it back to him.
“You could catch up on your A-levels. It says here that there's an evening school...”
“No, thanks. I'll be a mother, and you will look after us,” she says with a grin and puts her hand on her stomach. Charles is silent. He drinks the last sip of coffee, folds up the newspaper, puts out the cigarette and stands up.

“I'm going to make a phone call,” he mumbles, turns to the door and disappears.
It's typical of Charles that he doesn't say much. He's a secretive guy, someone who thinks more than he talks. But that doesn't bother Maddi. She does the talking for two, quite literally. While shopping, eating ice cream, everything. She makes the decisions, she talks to the sales clerks, she asks questions, she doesn't let there be any silence. And that's a relief for Charles. Their conversations flow in a rhythm that pleases him, even if he doesn't always join in.

...

On a sunny afternoon, they are sitting on a park bench in Freiburg's Lakes Park. The lake glistens in the sun and the swans slowly circle in the water. The air is fresh, but not cold, and the scent of grass and flowers mingles with the light, familiar smell of cigarette smoke. Maddi strokes her belly and watches the birds.
“Charles?” she finally asks, her voice soft, almost a little thoughtful.
He takes a drag from the cigarette and hands her the butt without really looking at her.
“Hmm?”
“What should we name our child?” she asks, her voice sounding almost a little uncertain.
He looks at the glistening water in front of them. His gaze is lost in the way the sunlight dances on the waves, as if he is trying to find the answer in the movement of the water.
“Hm,” he mumbles after a while. “I don't know. You decide.”

“And if you don't like the name?” she asks, but also a little defiant.
“It will be fine,” he says calmly, his voice low and even. “After all, it will be your choice. Our child will have the name you chose, what more could I want?”
Maddi looks at him sidelong. It is rare for Charles to speak at such length. Normally he stays short and to the point, and almost always in a tone which requires no explanation. But now she hears a hint of thoughtfulness in his words.
He drops the cigarette end on the ground and puts it out with the front of his black Creepers shoe. The small, almost imperceptible moment of silence feels heavy.
Then he says quietly, as if he has never thought this before, as if he is only now realizing it himself:
“I can hardly wait to meet our child.”
The sentence resonates. Maddi looks at him in surprise, her eyes widening as she realizes that he does feel more than he is letting on. That he imagines a future with their child, that he is really looking forward to it, despite all the uncertainty.
She smiles, “Me too,” she says quietly.

 

 

Chapter 5: Top of the Sky - Wasteland

Notes:

today i was talking to a tumblr friend because i was wondering why i often get so few comments.
i came to the decision to encourage you to write comments. i'm always happy to hear what you think about the things i write. whether it's criticism like “so that shouldn't have been” or “uff you missed this, that, in your research” or even “what the hell is happening here” - apart from insults, everything is welcome :-D go ahead!

They sit next to each other, the piece of paper between them on the table.
Maddi is now five months pregnant and the changes in her body can no longer be overlooked. She keeps stroking her belly, she can already feel the small movements of the child that is taking up more and more space in her life.
And soon Charles' life too.
“You got the job!” she suddenly shouts, her voice a little too loud for the small room, and shakes him. “You've got it!!!”
Charles stares at the letter, the news seems very unreal to him. “I... got the... Job?” he repeats quietly, his eyes squinting as he struggles to comprehend what he's reading. He never thought in his wildest dreams that he would get this job. The interview had been a complete disaster. He had found it so difficult to find the right words. He could barely open his mouth, so anxious that even his hands were sweaty.
Had his future boss noticed? Had he noticed the moment they shook hands?
“It starts tomorrow,” he then mumbles, his voice rough. “That's... quick.”
Maddi wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him close. Her warmth, the security that radiates from her, is almost physical.

She holds him tight - almost to say: everything will be fine. You're not alone. “That's good, Charlie,” she whispers, her lips gently touching his forehead. “Then you won't have time to be afraid of it or to overthink it.”
Charles looks at the paper still in his hands, but he doesn't really see it now. The words on it are almost irrelevant because he can feel Maddi's closeness, her firm arms around him, her calming breath that makes him feel like he's not lost.
He is silent, for a moment it seems as if the surrounding space is standing still. But then he turns to her and pulls her onto his lap. She settles, and her legs find themselves wrapped tightly around him.
“I love you,” he whispers. And although he has never been a man for big words, this is a truth that he can no longer hold back at this moment.
She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes for a moment. “I love you too,” she murmurs.
And in this small space, between all the challenges, the uncertainties and the future they don't know yet, there is only this moment - the moment when they have each other. Where words are sometimes not enough, but the silence says it all.

---

Chapter 6: Top of the Sky - Love of my Life

Notes:

i promise, there will be longer chapters soon.

“I love you,” Madeleine whispers, her voice is cracking with the last words, and she lowers a rose to the fresh earth. The delicate petals touch the ground.
Slowly she stands up, holding her big belly with one hand she has to hold the child inside her as if it is the only thing that still connects her to him. Tears keep running down her cheeks and the wind blows in her face, almost trying to carry the pain away, but the pain remains. It envelops her like a cold, gray cloak.
“You... are such an asshole, Charles!” she screams, the words shattering against the hazy silence of the afternoon. “Such a fucking ASSHOLE!”
The echo of her screams fades as the crows, startled by the noise, scatter across the gray sky. Their cawing sounds like a shrill echo, tearing her anger, her disappointment apart in the air. The world around them seems to stand still, only the incessant cawing of the birds breaking the heavy silence.

The cold crawls across the ground, creeps under her clothes, pierces her skin and takes hold of her heart. She feels the warmth fleeing from her body, as if everything she knew about herself is disappearing into the earth. What remains is only the emptiness, the bitter cold that remains anchored in her - a feeling of disappointment and brokenness that gnaws deep inside her.
Her hand unconsciously moves to her stomach, trying to feel the child that is still growing inside her. But even this small comfort cannot banish the cold. The world is no longer what it used to be, and she wonders how she can go on without Charles.
The crows finally disappear, and silence falls again, but it is a different silence now.

One that feels heavy and final.

 

---

 

Chapter 7: Top of the Sky - Wasting my young years

Notes:

well, there are waiting 3 more short chapters. after that it is getting longer and not that depressing (i guess)

Gloomy days pass by like an endless stream of rain pattering against the dirty windows, and yet it feels quieter inside her than ever before. It's as if the noise of the world enters the room, but none of it ever reaches her.

The one-bedroom apartment is suddenly far too big - like a space that is too wide for her fatigue and her thoughts, which can no longer find a ground. And yet at the same time it is far too small, the walls are getting closer and closer, trying to crush her. Too small for all the emptiness she carries within her and for all that is left of her.
Madeleine lies on the bed, the ceiling above her seeming to stretch endlessly until it blurs the outlines of the room. She stares upwards, but she no longer feels like she is really here. She is pulling herself out of her own body and turning her back on the world. Her thoughts are fragmented into shards that can no longer be put back together. She wants to remember the months she had with Charles - the pain and the happiness she found in him. But the memories seem to disappear in a fog that keeps blocking her view.

Her hand touches her stomach, almost mechanically, needing to feel herself to know that she still exists. That there is still something she can hold on to. But even that motion feels empty. Her hand on her stomach is like a foreign body that reminding her of something she can no longer grasp.

What she still has.
What she has kept.
A child.

But even the thought of the child feels like a shadow - something she can't touch, something that slips away when she tries to reach for it. It is the only thing that reminds her of him. But even this small spark feels like is a fading image, disappearing more and more into the darkness.
And then those dangling feet appear before her eyes once more - an image that floats in her mind again and again, a returning curse.
“Why?” she whispers, the words barely audible. They fade into the silence of the room without finding an echo. She no longer screams. There is no more pain that she can put into words. The pain is too deep, too silent, too overwhelming. It has burrowed into every cell of her body until it has dissolved her soul. She is like a shell, empty and hollowed out, her innermost being shattered into a thousand splinters and the wind has blown everything away.

There are no more answers.
Only silence.
Just this endless, crushing emptiness that she feels inside.
And the rain that will never stop beating against the windows - a constant, incessant pounding that is just as meaningless to her as the pounding of her own as her own heart.

 

---

 

Chapter 8: Top of the Sky - September Song

Loud screams echo through the corridor outside the delivery room. The pain in Maddi's body is almost unbearable, but the screams that tear her own heart apart are not only coming from the physical - they are the echo of everything she has lost, of the loneliness she carries within her. The room is filled with hustle and bustle, with rude commanding words pelting down like a hailstorm. She has no right to speak. She is no longer part of it.
“NO! You are not allowed to take him away!” she screams, her voice an angry, desperate cry that seems to go unheard. The doctors try to hold her down while the tiny, thin newborn is torn away from her, hurriedly and without mercy. The umbilical cord is cut with haste, a sickening sound that burns into her ear. She sees the tiny body of her son - too small, too fragile, as he leaves the room with a doctor.
“Calm the fuck down! Your son needs to be examined! There have been complications!” the doctor yells at her, but to Maddi it is like a distant echo reverberating in the walls of the room. “Someone give her a sedative!”

Maddi doesn't really hear the words, only feels the terrible pressure in her chest. Everything is blurred, the world around her seems to fade away.
The air becomes thin.
The room turns gray, and then it gets darker and darker.

...

The silence is suddenly a vacuum that threatens to suffocate her. She opens her eyes - and for a moment she doesn't know where she is.

Is this all just a nightmare?
Is Charles still alive?
What about my son?

She blinks, trying to organize her thoughts. She looks around. Her hands feel heavy and uncontrolled, but when she turns her gaze to a small bed, a strange, cold panic spreads through her.

Is he all right?

Hesitantly, she sits up. The pain from the birth has settled in her body, her limbs are like lead. She rubs her face while trying to wipe away the tears that are burning her cheeks.
He is there. Her son. She sees him, but she can't believe it.
Gently she leans towards him, pulls the little bed a centimeter towards her, she has to make sure that he is really there, that he really is her son. But when she looks over the edge of the crib, she is flooded with a wave of horror.
It's not what she expected.
It is not what she had imagined in her wildest fears.
She sees the small body, so fragile and vulnerable, and then she sees what she hadn't wanted to see: the cleft in his jaw - a horrible, gaping wound that destroys the delicate features of his face.
She jerks back as if an invisible blow has struck her. Her heart beats wildly in her chest. The disgust that overcomes her is unbearable. She no longer really sees him, but only what is missing, what is so terribly wrong.
Her eyes are searching for something - for a way to suppress the image that has burned itself into her head, but she cannot.

There is no escape from this sight.

 

---

 

Chapter 9: Top of the Sky - Roscian

Maddi sits on the bed, the room silent. Except for the soft hum of the neon tube above her. The scent of disinfectant hangs in the air, mixed with the smell of her son's body and delicate skin. The little one lies in her arms, his tiny, fragile body pressed against her chest.
She has never felt him so close to her, never so entirely. It is the first time that he is with her, very close. The first time that she can touch him, that he is really hers. The warmth of his body, his delicate breath brushing her skin - it all feels good and terrible at the same time.

Her chest is full and heavy. She feels the pressure, the need to feed him, but also the insecurity. Her hand trembles slightly as she grasps him and gently puts him on. She can't help but close her eyes as the memories of the endless pregnancy and birth come flooding back - the fear, the worry, the never-ending uncertainty.

Now he is here, in her arms, but he is so terribly different. The gap in his jaw mirrors the gap in her heart.
“You need to eat, little man,” she murmurs, her voice breaks as she leans over him. Her chest is too close to his face, and she tries to guide him to the right place with trembling hands. But he pulls away, his lips avoid meeting her skin, and she can't help but realize with a deep sigh that everything is way more complicated than she thought.
It is so incredibly frustrating.
He doesn't scream. He doesn't cry. But he pushes himself away from her. His mother's misjudgment, the wrong move, the feeling, the impetuous approach to his vulnerability. The cleft in his jaw makes it impossible for him to grasp her breast properly. Her eyes fill with tears as she whispers in soft, almost inaudible words: “Why?”

For a moment, she doesn't know what to do. Her hands are soaked with sweat, her thoughts chaotic as she holds the small body in her arms. She looks at his face - the delicate, fragile skin, the gaping wound.
“Come on,” she whispers desperately, “you have to manage somehow, please.”
She puts him on again, more carefully this time, more slowly. Her chest hurts as she tries again, but he pulls away again. The small body wriggles, and she feels her hopes crumble as reality flows into her arms and pulls her to the ground. She can't feed him, can't give him what he needs. She will never be able to give him what he needs.
She has already failed.
A wicked mother.
Her teardrops are running freely. They roll down her cheeks and drip onto the child's soft, fragile face. She holds him close again, holds him tight - it is the pain of a mother who knows that she is not enough, that she cannot feed her child the way she dreamed she could.

It's as if the universe, the whole world, is against her. Her body has abandoned her, when it mattered most. Her heart, splintering further and further, each disappointment like another scar digging into her flesh.
“I can't...” she whispers, and the pain in her voice is unimaginable.

 

---

 

Chapter 10: Top of the Sky - Sons&Daughters

Notes:

the last short chapter. i promise.
and again i have to thank my mate VladimirsAngel - he reread with patience that is incredible.

The door opens slowly, a gentle knock on the thick wood, before a nurse steps into the room with a calm smile on her face. She is wearing a sterile white gown and her hair is pinned up in a practical knot. In her hands, she is holding a small bag with items for the baby. Her eyes are warm, with a hint of compassion, as she looks at the young mother.
“Hello, Madeleine,” she says softly and steps closer to the bed. Her gaze wanders to the little boy in Maddi's arms. She sees the expression on Maddi's face and immediately realizes that the situation is more difficult than she thought.

“I can see we're having a few issues at the beginning,” she says calmly and full of understanding. She pulls up a chair and sits down. “You're not alone in this, we'll help you.”
Maddi looks up, tears glistening in her eyes. She feels so incredibly helpless, her hands trembling as she hugs the baby even tighter. She feels so terribly useless. His thin wrist has a ribbon with his name on it. The name feels strangely foreign, but it's there now, this little person she's always dreamed of.
“I... I don't know what to do,” she says, her voice almost breaking. ”He won't take anything, he... he can't...”
“Yeah... It's hard, especially at first,” says the nurse sympathetically. “But you don't have to go through it all alone. The cleft in his mouth will be treated in a few months. For now, we'll make sure he puts on weight.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a special bottle attachment - a soft, flexible teat designed for babies with a cleft palate. “Look, we have these special attachments. They can help him to feed without him having to strain too much.”

Maddi looks at the attachment and feels empty for a moment. So much equipment, so many things she didn't know he would need. Her fingers stroke the soft plastic. Her breasts still ache.
“Your child needs you, but you also need support, do you understand?” the nurse says with a smile.
The woman patiently shows her how to pump, how to attach the attachment to the bottle, how to hold the baby properly and how to feed him with the bottle while gently cradling him in her arms. It's a slow, painful effort, but it works. He carefully takes his first sip and Maddi can't help but smile with relief, even if for her is a bitter moment.
“Can you see? He's getting the hang of it,” says the nurse. “He's learning.”
Maddi nods, and she holds the little life, full of love, tighter in her arms. “Erik...” she whispers as she says the name for the first time. “Erik. A fighter. Like a Viking. Charles would have liked that...” A small, almost restrained smile crosses her face. “He'll be... strong.”
The nurse nods. “Yes. Erik. A brave name for a brave little boy.”
Maddi looks at her son and then back at the nurse. The name suddenly feels less foreign, more like a promise.

A promise that her son is special, even if he is different. A name for a fighter.
“I'll be there for him, no matter what,” Maddi whispers, more to herself than to anyone else. “You will, Madeleine,” the nurse says gently. “You will.”

 

---

 

Chapter 11: Top of the Sky - Candles

It's a warm spring evening and the sky is bathed in soft pastel colors when they have their first date. Erik has to stay at home with Marie, the neighbor who is always looking after him. Marie has almost become a second mother to him. She has lovingly looked after the little boy since he was two years old. She knows him well and knows how to deal with his quirks. She is always empathetic and patient with him, which helps him to feel safe when his mother is not around. Erik, growing increasingly lively, demands more from her than she can manage at her age. Despite her deep affection for him, she feels gradually overwhelmed and worried that she can no longer support him as she used to. Madeleine also knows that her days with Marie are numbered.

She nervously pushes a few stray strands of her long dyed blonde hair behind her ears. The bulk of her hair is tied up in a thick bun. Mascara, a little blusher and lipstick emphasize her attributes. She has decided that, after four years, it's time to date again. Erik needs a father and she needs a partner. Even if not a soulmate, then at least someone she can put up with. Someone who can put up with her. Someone who can replace Marie when she is gone. Someone who won't buckle, like Charles.
She is attracted to a man who is charming and open-minded. His eyes sparkle in the twilight as he greets her.
Their first date begins in an elegant restaurant. The table he has chosen for her offers a view over the city, and everything feels perfect. He is attentive, listens to her, laughs at her jokes and asks her about all the things she loves. She feels like the center of his world. He compliments her - not just on her looks, but on her intelligence, her energy, her strength. Every word he says feels like a warm rain that washes away all her doubts.

Maybe it is a soulmate after all. Like Charles...

He talks about big plans, about the future - a future in which they are both together, in which they are happy and successful. He is the perfect gentleman: charming, courteous, interested and full of admiration for her. “You are very special,” he says in a voice imbued with honesty and affection. “I feel like I've known you forever, you're the piece of the puzzle I've always been missing.”
She feels her heart opening up.
The longing drives her on.
The fear of being alone almost tears her apart.
She will not be alone. He will save her.

...

On their second date, he surprises her with a trip to the lake park. Where the swans swim their continual. The place where Madeleine and Charles used to go for walks so often.
The man has prepared a picnic that looks like it's straight out of a glossy magazine: fresh flowers, champagne, her favorite sweets and a blanket under the trees. It feels like another dream come to life.
While they eat together, he tells her about his childhood, his dreams, his deepest fears. And Madeleine feels more and more drawn to him as he opens up to her.
Our wounds connect us.
Only you can understand me.
“You're very special, Madeleine,” he says. “I've never met anyone like you. You're the one I've always missed.”
He continues to talk about how they will lead the perfect life together, about a house, a dog, traveling together, lots of children - all these visions of the future that will make them merge into one. Everything is too good to be true, but at this moment it seems to be just that.
Too good.
To be true.

...

Winter sweeps over the country, and she decides it's time to introduce him to her son. They meet at Madeleine and Erik's house. The small one-bedroom apartment has hardly changed. A few toys have been added. Erik, who has just turned 4, is shy but curious. He is an early talker and speaks more and more clearly than other children his age, although his words often seem incoherent. It is typical for him to jump around in his conversations, change topics, and sometimes say things that only make sense to him. Madeleine has gotten used to it by now. To her, with nothing to compare it to, Erik's behaviour is normal. Children talk a lot and often mix up their sentence structure. She also knows that he needs time to get used to new people, and his open approach to the man pleases her.
The man does his best to appear friendly and welcoming.

He laughs a lot, asks questions and talks to the little one in a very gentle tone. “How old are you? What's your favorite toy?” he asks as he engages with Erik. “The Mouse runs in circles, but the tree stands still,” Erik suddenly says, which makes little sense to the man at first. Madeleine has to smile at first. She, who has gradually come to understand her son, knows that he has actually answered the questions. Erik's favorite toy at the moment is a little wind-up mouse. The calendar on the fridge shows Erik's birthday in thick circles. The calendar page illustration shows a bare tree with snow on it.
The man falters. He doesn't understand what the toddler is getting at. Madeleine notices his hesitation for a moment. But then the man gives the boy a beaming smile and continues talking to him.

Relief spreads through her - the man seems to really care about Erik, he seems patient and friendly, even if communicating with Erik is not always easy. He has shown no signs of frustration and does everything he can to include Erik in the conversation. Erik also seems to like the man. His eyes light up as the man takes something out of his pocket. “For you,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes, and Erik immediately accepts the gift with enthusiasm. He proudly holds it in his hands and shows it to Madeleine. “Ma, look! Grasshopper!” he exclaims happily, his eyes shining with pride. Madeleine smiles and strokes Erik's back. It's a beautiful moment. And yet a small part of Madeleine, a fleeting thought, wonders if the man is really what they need.
But then she quickly brushes this thought aside - perhaps it's just her own insecurity that causes her to doubt him. Erik has immediately taken the man to his heart, she can see it in his eyes, and that gives her the feeling that everything is all right.

...

Spring comes and Madeleine and Erik finally move in with the man. It is a three-room apartment in a social housing block in the same quarter of the city. The block is in a place where unemployment is high, and the streets are often populated by those who find it difficult to fit into society. The apartment is small and cramped. The idea that this is only a temporary solution gives her courage. There is no luxury, but no poverty either - the walls are freshly painted, and the place has a certain charm, even if it is a little run-down.
After the first few weeks, the atmosphere in the apartment begins to change. There are small differences that Madeleine had never noticed before. The conversations about the future come up again and again, and slowly she starts to get the feeling, that his visions of their future together are no longer quite as rosy as they were at the beginning. She notices that the man is unexpectedly at home frequently. At first, she thought he was just a “free spirit”, someone who wanted to use his time creatively, but then she realizes that he doesn't have a job. “I've applied for a project, but haven't heard anything yet,” he explains from time to time. There is no steady work, no clear perspective. Madeleine feels an unpleasant tug in her stomach when she realizes that he is basically just at home while she runs the household and takes care of everything. But she keeps pushing this thought aside - she doesn't want to into her doubts.
Then the man starts to talk more and more about her career situation. “You could go to work,” he suggests at one point. “It would help us both, and you'd have something to be proud of.” Madeleine can feel the words eating at her. She had already considered the idea of going to work again at some point, but not right away. Her thoughts are still with Erik, who still needs a lot of attention and care. But the man insists that she should try it, that she could do more, that he only wants the best for her.
His words hit her harder than she would have expected. She suddenly feels under pressure, almost guilty. Maybe she really should work like he expects her to? The thought that she might not be contributing enough makes her heart heavy. But at the same time, she senses that he doesn't offer a solution. He sits at home all the time and criticizes her instead of taking responsibility. But she can't simply wipe the thought away. What if he is right?
What if she's just messing around and not making the most of her opportunities?

The man's subtle remarks pile up. “Haven't you thought about working in a café or at the gas station? There are enough jobs out there,” he suggests as they sit down over a coffee in the kitchen. Madeleine listens to his suggestions and feels disappointed at the same time. After all, hadn't she hoped that he would also take responsibility? But instead he seems to make her feel more and more that she is doing something wrong. She feels like a square peg in a round hole. . The security she had hoped for seems to be crumbling more and more, and the image of the perfect partner is increasingly losing its glow.

...

It starts slowly: he questions her perception and begins to distort her reality. When she remembers something that happened differently, he claims she is deluding herself. “You must have imagined it,” he says calmly, almost gently. “It wasn't like that, you must be mistaken.” His words echo in her head and make her doubt herself.
When Madeleine tells him that he is criticizing her, he reacts defensively. “You're far too sensitive,” he keeps repeating, as if she's the one who's the problem. There is no mention of his own behaviour - just constant reassurance that she is the one who is overreacting. Madeleine begins to doubt her own sanity and every time she wonders if she's right, she can never be sure.

The boy, who is only barely aware about the arguments, is sitting in the kitchen of his new home. He is happy as always and playing with pots and pans. He stacks them, knocks on them, and repeats a jingle from a commercial. Out of the blue, the man rebukes him.
“Stop that for fuck's sake!!! You little toad!” the man suddenly hisses. And Erik drops the plastic grasshopper he had been using as a drumstick. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts and kicks the chair next to Erik with his foot, hitting the boy. The child cries out in horror. Then the man stands up, and the next moment he grabs Erik by the arm and slaps him in the face. It is fast, hard, and unexpected, and for a moment the air squeezes out of the child's lungs.

Erik stares wide-eyed and confused at the man. It is the first time the boy has experienced this kind of aggression, and he is paralyzed with shock. Madeleine freezes on the doorstep, stunned and disbelieving, watching what is happening. Then the boy begins to cry out loud. Which only makes the man angrier, he's tugging at the child's thin arm. “Stop crying!!!! YOU'RE NOT A FUCKING GIRL!”
Erik's wide eyes search for his mother, and when he finds her he screams for help, but she just stands there and watches.

…

From this moment on, something changes in Erik. At first, there is only hesitation when he encounters the man. Then he withdraws more. When the man speaks to him, Erik avoids eye contact and no longer reacts as he used to. Erik stops talking. The cheerful, creative way he used to express his thoughts disappears. The words he once spoke so proudly are now trapped in his head. The boy withdraws into himself, and Madeleine can only watch.
It is as if he has lost touch with his own self. The crooked smile that had so often been a part of him is no longer there. Madeleine tries to help him, tries to re-establish closeness with him, but the distance between them grows. Her words don't reach him. Erik is trapped in his own world, his voice silenced.

The man doesn't notice and if he does, he doesn't care. He sees it as another sign of weakness. “He'll be fine, he's just being stubborn,” he says casually when Madeleine is worried or tries to get through to Erik.
The man, on the other hand, criticizes Madeleine constantly. If Erik doesn't behave or doesn't speak, it's immediately her fault. “You have to bring him up better,” he says, ”you have to teach him how to behave. That's not normal. You're just making him soft!” Every time he says this, Madeleine feels a stab in her heart. He constantly reminds her that she has failed.

And then the day comes when she looks in the mirror and wonders how she ended up in this situation.

And she wonders if they can ever escape.

 

---

 

Chapter 12: Top of the Sky - The Wolf Song

It hurts to blink. Everything feels sharp, cutting. His eyelids have turned into sandpaper. The room is dark, and the air is heavy. The narrow gap under the door brings a little light, and a muffled sound. But for him everything is too loud. Too many noises.

He should sleep.
He can't.
He doesn't want to.
His body feels strange.

The little boy shuffles in bed, turns from side to side. The blanket is too heavy, it suffocates. The pillows are too hard. He can feel the cold floor beneath him, reminding him that it is not far enough away from his body.

He wants to get away.
Away from the voices.
Away from the screams.

It's always the same, since the man who isn't his father has been there. Every evening. The same every time. First a whisper that gets louder, then a scream that gets louder and louder until he can't bear it any longer.
The voices coming and going. The man's hand is waving. This hand is big, it looks like... like something that can punch. He doesn't know exactly, but he knows it's bad. The woman, his mother, is crying. Her voice breaks, she trembles, and the words she says are no longer clear. She doesn't sound like the mom he knows.
A bang. Loud, like thunder. It pierces his heart, the last dark place in his chest. Erik holds his breath. He is trembling.
He pulls the door open and runs.
It feels wrong to run fast, but he can't stop. He doesn't want her to scream, doesn't want the man to scream any louder. But he doesn't want to stay there either, everything is too loud.
He stops, stops in the doorway. The kitchen doesn't look good. It doesn't look good, like mom. Broken.
“Madeleine, get up, don't act like that now!”
The man is there. He's there, and he's shouting, so loud. He's standing over Mom, and his voice is angry. It's a sound Erik knows, but he can't understand why it's so loud, why the man is shouting like that.

Mom is lying on the floor.
She is... she is... she's different.
So different.
Red.
Everything is red.

Erik observes his mother, but he can no longer understand why she is so quiet, why she doesn't speak. Why her eyes don't open. Her hair is tangled, lying on the floor, her eyes, her wonderful brown eyes, are closed. Her lips, they don't twitch, they don't move at all.
The man continues to shout, then presses something against her head, which quickly turns red.
The man is... startled.
Erik doesn't know the man, when he's like this.
The man screams again, but he can't hear him properly. The words are as if wrapped in absorbent cotton, becoming quieter, disappearing behind a veil.
Erik sees the man turn. “GET OUT!”
The words break over him like a wave. He feels them in his body, they penetrate through his bones, deep into his head. But his feet remain still.
Why doesn't his body move? Why can't he walk?
He wants to go to his mom, to her. But he can't.
He won't go.
“Erik, GET OUT, DAMN IT!"
He feels his hands trembling. The man grabs him. He grabs him by the arm, pulls him, forces him to look away.
“ERIK!” the man screams. He can't understand why the man is doing this.
Why... Why...
“Mmmm... Ma...” Erik whispers. A tiny voice, lost in the silence.
Why can't she hear him?
Why can't she hear him when he's with her?
The man lets go of him. The cold creeps over his back, everything feels wrong. Erik looks around. The man walks away. Mom lies there, remains so still. She doesn't look like his mom anymore.
Erik goes to her carefully. He creeps up to her and carefully places his hand on her forehead. Her skin feels warm. Her eyes are still closed.
“Ma...”, he whispers. Over and over again.
He sees the puddle of blood.

It is red.
It's... it's... red.
She is so quiet.

Erik stares and feels the surrounding silence, the silence that doesn't belong to him.
Erik lowers his hand, and pulls it away.

Strangers come, but Erik doesn't understand them. They say things to him, but he doesn't hear them. He only sees how his mom is drifting away, being carried away into the silence.
“The boy is retarded, not quite right in the head, he doesn't understand anything,” says the man.
Then Erik... is taken away, back to his room.
The door closes.

---

 

Chapter 13: Top of the Sky - No Surprises

Old bottles, cans, two overflowing ashtrays, used handkerchiefs, empty pill blisters, old toast and indefinable green-grey leftovers on plates cover the kitchen table. In the middle is a bouquet of red roses, a strange oddity in this chaos, in a beer glass. The colors have faded, almost like the mood in the room.
It's been a while since the accident happened. Madeleine was discharged from the emergency room that same night. Her head wound was stitched up, and she couldn't find an answer to the question of how it had happened. The man, who is not Erik's father, brushed off the question and spoke of an “unfortunate accident”.
An accident.
Madeleine sits at the table, her eyes fixed on the faded roses. Her hand slowly turns the cigarette as she sinks into her thoughts. She never thought he would go this far. She is aware that he is often harsh with Erik - the boy doesn't make it easy either, she knows that. But that he would... No. She could never have imagined that.
She wipes her eyes quickly and the same endless spiral begins in her head, leading to the same point each time.

He had promised that it wouldn't happen again. He had cried and apologized. He certainly hadn't meant to hurt her, he had said. She had made him so angry. It was all her fault, she knew that now. She should have known better.
She should have...
“It's my own fault,” she murmurs under her breath.

Her eyes slide from the roses to Erik. The boy, who barely speaks, has not left her side since the incident. He follows her wherever she goes, like a shadow, always close to her. Even at night, he sneaks into the bedroom, sits on the floor or in the armchair next to her bed. He also waits outside the toilet, repeatedly tapping his fingertips in a rhythmic pattern against the door, just in case he can achieve something through the sound that he cannot put into words.
He follows her out onto the balcony, to work at the gas station. How he manages to get through the locked front door is a mystery to her. Neither she nor her partner can make sense of it. It remains Erik's secret. Madeleine doesn't know, and even the man, who is not Erik's father, often wonders how this little retarded boy always manages to escape.

Erik is sitting on a chair, his legs dangling back and forth, his feet skittering excitedly across the floor. He mumbles to himself, his words blurred as always, not quite understandable. But somehow it seems as if he is admiring the roses. “Ma...?” he finally asks, turning his head in her direction, but his eyes remain fixed on the flowers. He points to the bouquet.
“What?” she asks quietly, blowing cigarette smoke towards the ceiling.
“Ha... ha...” he stammers, his hand moving in a grasping motion as if he wants a rose.

Madeleine takes a slow drag on her cigarette and looks at him. “They're mine...” she mumbles, without taking her eyes off the roses. “I've earned them...”
The boy doesn't lower his hand, but stands on the chair and tries to put one foot on the table to take a rose. Before he can reach the bouquet, rough hands grab his arm and pull him back onto the chair. Startled, Erik cries out and begins to wriggle and kick.

“ SHUT THE FUCK UP!” shouts the man who is not his father. He has just come through the kitchen door. Erik hadn't noticed him before. The boy always knows where this man is, but distracted in that moment, he hadn't noticed. Erik curses himself for losing his attention.
Madeleine hears it, but she remains silent. She can no longer look.
“Ma!” Erik shouts, and he tries to free himself from the man's grip, but the pressure around his wrist only gets stronger. The man looks at him with a devastating stare, and Erik feels even smaller than usual.
“If you don't want to hear, you have to feel,” the man says in a cold, merciless tone.
The words echo, but Madeleine stands up without saying another word. She leaves the room. She has to get out, has to leave this moment behind her. But the little boy, who is always with her, follows her with his eyes.

Like a shadow.

“I'll give you a reason to cry in a minute,” the man hisses with a menacing smile.

 

---

 

Chapter 14: Top of the Sky - Pissing in a river

Darkness spreads its arms and wraps the earth in a silent cloak. Night falls, and the room is suffused with the dull, dim light of the television. Erik's eyes are wide open. He sits next to his mother on the couch. A cat jumps onto the backrest, stretches, meows and starts scratching the already damaged fabric of the couch with its claws.
A man with a chainsaw flickers on the screen. Loud screams echo through the room in tandem with the sound of the flickering. Madeleine leans forward, picks up the lighter and lights a cigarette. “Do you want some more ice cream?” she asks without really looking at him. Erik continues to stare at the screen, his eyes wide and empty. He shakes his head absently.
“Open your mouth!” she demands with a slight, annoyed undertone. “You need to talk more, Erik. You have to go to school in two weeks. You used to talk so much in the past!” Her voice softens towards the end, almost sad.

Sometimes she really misses him, little Erik, who used to be so full of life. He was curious, full of questions and not afraid of the world. He was interested in everything around him. And he loved the neighbor he always visited when Madeleine had to work. But the neighbor was too old, and he was just... too much.

Just too much.

Now, he is still too much and too little at the same time. Madeleine doesn't understand what happened. She doesn't understand why he stopped talking. Even though she saw what happened. At first, she thought he was doing it out of anger. A punishment for her. She talked herself into it. But then strange things started to happen.

The keys to the apartment of the man disappeared first. They reappeared at the oddest places - in the washing machine, in the freezer, in the garbage can. At some point, they disappeared completely. The man had to call the locksmith. And then, at some point, the front door was sealed - with glue, almost like the lock had never existed. The man had to call the locksmith again.

Erik, who had walked through these events with quiet but sure steps, had done all of this. Somehow he knew how to move through locked doors, how to make things disappear without anyone knowing where. But they could never prove anything against him. So the man punished Erik anyway. It was always the same, a hard punch producing an unjustified scream.

After that, Erik changed more and more. He spoke less and less, avoided eye contact. He was difficult to calm down - and sometimes no one was able to touch him. Even his eating habits changed. At first, he only ate chicken fricassee, then he suddenly refused to eat even that, almost throwing up every time he smelled it. And yet Erik always found a way to hold on to the music - the music gave him what words could not. He could sing songs after hearing them once. It was as if the music spoke a language that he understood, one that could function without words.

Charles' old record player was still in the living room. It was worn out, the arm squeaked softly when it was pushed into position, but for Madeleine it was like a reminder of better days. When she was able to take a little time for herself, in the hours between conflicts and heavy thoughts, she put on a record. It was usually Patti Smith, whose raw, poetic songs she had listened to in her wild years, or David Bowie, whose music had never really let her go. Sometimes it was Joy Division, the melancholy sounds that filled the room and left a feeling of something lost in the air.
Then, when the first notes broke the silence, Madeleine danced around the living room. Her movements were like a kind of liberation, a brief pause in the eternal stream of days. While she lost herself in the rhythm, Erik sat on the floor, his eyes wide and focused, absorbing every note. He sang along softly, his clear, bright voice blending with the sounds of the music. It was a strange moment of peace between them, like being together in a room where only music and silent closeness existed. Without words, but still connected.

It was one of the few times when Madeleine really felt that she could still reach her son. In those moments, between the melodies, he was a piece of what he used to be - curious, alive, full of little wonders.

He was too much and too little.

“So. What do you say?” Madeleine asks again, her voice lower this time, but still urgent.
Erik doesn't respond. The screen shows a man fleeing from the chainsaw. His eyes are still fixed on the television. “Erik!” she repeats several times, but the boy doesn't seem to hear. Finally, she turns off the sound and the loud screaming suddenly stops.
“ ERIK!” She claps her hands. The cat jumps off the sofa in fright and runs out of the room. The boy flinches and looks wide-eyed at his mother. “Ma...?” he asks, his voice so quiet that it is almost lost.
“ You didn't listen to me...” she states, her voice carrying frustration, but also a quiet desperation. She rubs her eyes tiredly, takes a drag on her cigarette and stares at the silent screen for a few seconds.
“ Do you want some more ice cream?” she asks again, a quiet indulgence in her voice. Erik shakes his head again.
“I want you to say it!”

He gasps for air, “N...n...”, his voice trembles. He can't get the words out properly. It feels like his tongue no longer wants to obey, like it's as heavy as lead.
Madeleine waits.
He takes a deep breath, then again: “N... No... No...” It's a struggle, a fight with his crooked lips.
“ Can you manage it as a sentence? No, thanks, I'm full. ” She says the words quietly, as if she's trying to help him find the right letters.
The boy nods uncertainly, the words are almost a foreign body in his mouth. A hesitation, then a slow, uncertain “A... a... Ne... No...” But he comes to a halt.

Has he already said no? What does he have to say next? He no longer knows. The TV flickers on, and for a moment - just a tiny moment - he looks at the screen where someone is being cut into pieces. His eyes widen. “Ma! Look!” he shouts, pointing his finger at the TV.
Madeleine doesn't look. Her eyes are fixed on her son. Then she shakes her head, stands up and takes the ice cream bowl into the kitchen.
“How can you be so unspeakably stupid?” her voice echoes from the kitchen, full of anger and despair.
Two cats run after her.

 

---

 

Chapter 15: Top of the Sky - London Calling

Notes:

A school cone (also known as a sugar cone in some parts of Germany) is a cone-shaped package, usually made of cardboard, which school starters take with them when they start school. The tradition of giving school starters school cones as a gift has been practiced in Germany since the 19th century and has since spread to Austria, the Czech Republic and parts of Poland.

Erik squeezes his mother's hand tighter, and it feels as if he can't hold on tight enough. He rocks nervously from one leg to the other. His black, cropped hair shines, freshly washed and combed in the light. Madeleine had spent almost the entire previous evening getting him into the bathtub - a task he found just as difficult as putting on his new clothes. A child's plaster with little ladybugs is stuck over the inflamed scar above his upper lip. They seem just as out of place against his childlike innocence as the many other hings about him he simply can't explain.
Today, for the first time, he is not wearing worn-out jogging pants, which he had long since outgrown. Instead, the skinny boy is wearing new, freshly washed jeans that fit his size and a sweater that is a little too big but features a prominent T-Rex. It is the first sweater he has chosen for himself - for the start of school.

He can hardly wait. At last, he can go to school. At last, he will be able to learn to read, write and do math. At last, he can ask all the questions that have been buzzing around in his head, especially about science. A small dream comes true for him. The man - who is not his father - will no longer be by his side all the time. He will finally find friends and play outside. Maybe he'll even form a gang like the big kids he always admired.
At the age of 10, he will graduate from school and move out. The thought of it makes him giggle - a soft, childlike giggle that feels like a gentle melody in the hush of the morning.
He can barely contain his anticipation. As early as 5 a.m., he quietly sneaks into the bedroom, wakes his mother and gets her up. He barely touches his breakfast. While Madeleine, still half asleep, staggeres through the small kitchen, Erik stands on the small corner bench and drinks his warm cocoa.

He is holding a small school cone in his hand, which he clutches to his chest with an almost childlike seriousness. Madeleine found it on sale in a one-euro store. It is just 30 cm long and looks tiny compared to the other children's huge cones. It is plain, without any great decorations, just a little bow on top. She notices the difference immediately when she looks around. The other children are wearing neat, expensive clothes. Their school bags are big, colorful and often homemade. Some of them carry bright, fashionable brand-name school bags - not like the worn backpack that Erik got from the man.
Madeleine shakes her head slightly. But she can no longer concentrate on her thoughts as she watches her son. The bag in Erik's hands may be cheap, but it is filled with his favorite candy: dark chocolate. Although she can't really understand why he loves this chocolate so much, at least he eats it. He typically only takes a few tiny bites before he says that he can't take anymore. But dark chocolate always works.

Erik continues to rock impatiently from one leg to the other, his hand ever more firmly in Madeleine's. “Ma!” he whispers again and again, as if he wants to make sure she's still there, that he won't lose her. “I'm here,” she mumbles absently. How she would love to have a cigarette right now. But in front of the other parents, the teachers, the children - she doesn't.
“ Now, all children, please line up here!” An older woman shouts loudly as she raises a camera. “Come here, everyone, stand on the steps here at the entrance!” Some children obey immediately, others are shy and need some encouragement from their parents.
Erik doesn't react at all. “Hey!” Madeleine crouches down, searching for his gaze. His eyes wander restlessly from one face to the next. So many children, so many school cones. When he turns away from her, her hand is still clasped in his, fascinated by the colorful world around him.
“Erik!” she calls out again, clapping her hands. Erik flinches, looks at her in confusion, and then, slowly, he turns his body in response. “You have to join the others. They're taking a photo of all of you - as a class!”

“A... as... Class,” he repeats, nods and walks off. The teacher is surprised when she sees him running. Despite his crooked posture, Erik is taller than all the other children. He runs past the teacher and in order to get a place on the stairs, he pushes his way somewhat awkwardly between the others.
“ Hey, wait a minute!” The teacher puts her hand on his shoulder, but Erik immediately moves away and stares at her in irritation.
The teacher raises an eyebrow, looks questioningly at Erik for a moment, then points to a step further down and smiles kindly. “Stand there, then you'll be level with the others.” Erik mirrors her smile, even if only vaguely, and stands dutifully in the place indicated. He is the only one in the row.
Madeleine watches the action from a distance. A chill of shame runs through her body. She can feel the helplessness and anger building up inside her - a coldness that she can no longer control. She knows that Erik is different - different from the other children here, different from what she had imagined.

But why does he always have to behave so conspicuously?
Why is he always so... embarrassing ?
“When I say: cheese!” the teacher calls out to the class and points the camera at the children. “Then you all shout: CHEESE!” The children laugh, some squint into the sun, others simply shout “CHEESE!” as the photo is taken. Only Erik - he doesn't even look at the camera. He is distracted by a robin that lands in a bush right next to the school steps.

After the photo, the small group moves on to the school tour. The children scurry around while the parents keep their distance. Many of the children already know each other from kindergarten, where Erik has never been. For him and his mother, this is foreign territory, an invisible network to which they do not belong.
Madeleine remains at the back of the small crowd while the children wander through the school with their teacher.
“Each of you can now take a little wooden butterfly from the desk. Each color is only available once!” the teacher calls out as she enters the classroom. The children rush to the butterflies. Erik, who is pushing his way through the others, chooses a blue butterfly and sits down on a chair.

He looks forward, stands up again, moves to the next chair, then back to the first. Again and again, until he is warned to finally sit down.
He looks uncertainly at his mother. Can a stranger really tell him what to do?
Madeleine looks back and shakes her head slightly. Behave , she thinks to herself, he should behave , damn it!
Erik looks back at the blackboard, confused, irritated. Sitting next to him is a girl with shaggy bangs and a dirty blonde ponytail, who gives him a big smile. “I'm Sofie! I like horses and Ariel the Mermaid!”
Erik looks at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. A shy smile. Her eyes wander from the wide gap between his teeth to the scar on his lip that flashes out from under the plaster. Then to his eyes, which squint a little past her. She asks, “And... you are?” Her voice slows.
“ E... ehn...” The smile breaks. He takes a breath. “Erik!” he then calls louder. Children's heads turn. The teacher looks over briefly, then turns back to her conversation with a mother.
Madeleine turns red.

Why does her son always have to be so incredibly embarrassing?

 

---

Chapter 16: Top of the Sky - Stressed Out

Erik runs.
The houses are passing by, blurring into long, washed-out streaks. The sun burns relentlessly on the asphalt and the air seems to shimmer. Birds are screaming and children are shrieking.
The boy with the pitch-black hair runs.
Past bushes, past houses.
His steps become faster, the air heavier. Then he turns around a corner, almost stumbles and continues his run.
Behind him are the children.
The children who are chasing him.
Erik glances over his shoulder and loses his balance. His legs lose their rhythm. He looks forward again, swings his arms to catch his balance at the last moment, and keeps running. The air pierces his lungs like a knife, and he gasps as if it is taking his breath away. His mouth is dry and sticky.
Someone grabs the back of his head.
The horizon tilts. A tremor runs through him. The air leaves his lungs. The pain rises. Palms, knees, cheek - everything burns.
Panting children are standing around him, staring. Some are startled, others whisper. Erik turns onto his back and stares up at the blue sky. But the pain continues to burn, intense and deep. The tears, thick and hot, mix with the blood dripping down his cheek.
It burns.
Everything burns.
His body trembles. He gasps desperately for air. The pain crawls through his limbs. He feels like he is trapped in a confined space where he can't breathe.
He looks at the children's faces. Some smile contentedly, others look terrified. Until one of them says, “What are you crying about? It's your own fault! We've told you a thousand times that you have no business on our street!”

Erik walks home the same way every day. From the school yard across the kindergarten playground, then a few meters along the main road and past a small kiosk. Behind the kiosk, he turns into a small side street that always leads him quickly to his destination. He takes the same route every day. But every time he steps out of the alley, he finds himself in the “forbidden” street. But this street doesn't belong to anyone, it belongs to the city.

But the twins from his class live in it.
The twins. The boys who are having fun tormenting Erik. Who always manage to chase him, take away his air to breathe. They make him feel small and helpless. They are the children who tell him that he is not welcome here.

The kind of kids who hide the sports shoes.
Who deliberately kick the ball at him and hit him.
Who make fun of him because he walks and looks different, doesn't respond to his name and talks funny.
Who spit at him after school, bump into him from all sides and shout at him.
They make a joke out of his pain.

“ The next time I see you on my street,” says one of the twins, leaning over and whispering in his ear, ”I'll kill you!”
A cold shiver runs down Erik's spine. The words cut into him, deep, deep. But he doesn't want to hear them. Not now. He has to get up, he has to leave. He has to get away, and quickly.

Some children start to leave, to back away. But the twins remain standing close by and watch as Erik repeatedly loses his balance and his knees buckle. “Come on, let's go,” says one. The other shouts: “Hey, Erik! Best just kill yourself, you retard!”

The words echo in his head. “Spastic!” roars the twin behind him. The insults penetrate his head like cold needles. Erik tries not to hear them, but they bore firmly into his soul. He knows exactly what these words mean.
They are the words of the man who is not his father. The man who sometimes calls him the same.
Erik draws in his breath, trembling, the pain running through his limbs. He slowly limps the last few meters to the building. And Erik wonders what he has done to turn the children against him like this.
What have I done wrong? Why is everything always so difficult and exhausting?

He unlocks the front door, his hands trembling. The key dangles from the metal chain hanging from his trousers. But his hands have hardly any strength left, he can barely hold the key. Trembling, he pushes open the heavy entrance door, goes to the elevator and presses the button.
Inside the elevator, the pain hits him again. The pain that feels like a fire burning inside him. He cries. The elevator starts up, and the noise in his head spins in circles until it becomes a roar.
When he opens the apartment door, cigarette smoke hits him. Two cats jump forward to meet him, meowing loudly, but he can't stroke them, his hands are hurting too much. He wishes he could just run away. Just disappear.
His mother comes out of the living room. A phone to her ear, her other hand with a cigarette. She pauses when she sees him. “Erik?”
But Erik doesn't want to answer. He walks on in silence, just wants to go to his room and hide. He wants to sleep and never wake up again. He wants it all to stop. But she reaches for him, grabs his arm. “Look at me when I'm talking to you!” she yells.
He lifts his head, but he can't look her in the eye. He just stares at the brown hairline that stands out under blond hair. “Hmmm...,” he mumbles and grimaces. His smile is forced, as if he wants to defuse the situation somehow.

But it doesn't work. The right side of his face is a single abrasion. The impact on the asphalt had left its mark.
“ Shit!” she mumbles and pulls him into the bathroom. She rips his dirty and damaged pants off and demands that he lift his feet. But Erik doesn't move. His body is too stiff, the trembling too strong. “Ma... Ma...”, he whimpers, but she doesn't listen. She takes a washcloth from the laundry, runs water over it briefly and wipes his face with a rough hand. He flinches, screams, backs away. But she holds him tight.
“ Hold still, damn it!” She slides after him on her knees, continues wiping with the washcloth until she can't take anymore. The ash from her cigarette falls onto the floor, but she ignores it. He struggles, wriggles, moans and tries to hit her.
“ If you don't keep still right now, I'll kick you out!”
Erik is quiet.
Very quiet.
The air is trapped in his chest.
Erik squeezes his eyes shut in silence.
He holds his breath. The room is too loud, too cramped.

And she begins to dab him again. With her other hand, she gently strokes his unharmed cheek. His beautiful, tender face, she thinks. That small, sad child's face that has been bruised so often. But he never had such an abrasion all over his cheek. A scratch here and there, the constantly inflamed scar above his lip, but he never looked so shattered. Madeleine can see how tense he is, how he is trying not to open his eyes, as if he could shut out the world.

“Who was that?” she asks quietly, rinsing out the cloth and carefully dabbing his hands. She slowly makes sure she doesn't touch him too much - touching him makes him nervous. Then she examines each wound, carefully plucking stones from the scratches.
The boy says nothing.
“ Talk to me,” she mumbles and pulls a stone from his knee. “Erik, I know you can talk, so don't test my patience any further.” She waits, but he doesn't respond. His eyes are still closed. He is not there.
His dinosaur sweater, like his jeans, is torn. She will never get the blood on the fabric out again.
Erik begins to sway restlessly, an almost imperceptible trembling of his hands running through them again and again.
“ Hold still. It's disturbing,” she says gently.
But he can't stop. The movements are uncontrollable. Erik feels so terribly trapped. His hands - they no longer belong to him. He only feels numbness, as if his body is moving away from him. The world becomes smaller and smaller, narrower.
He hits the toilet seat, the sound echoes in his head. The emotions inside him are like black tar, viscous and heavy, and they are tormenting him, mixed up, churning faster and faster and faster.

He wants to leave.
He has to flee.
But where to go?
He wants to scream, hit, run away.
Break something.
Make everything disappear.
Away with the shame, the chaos, the compulsion, the anger.
Just...
away.

Madeleine throws the cigarette into the toilet and grabs him roughly by the arms, holding him tight so that he doesn't hurt himself. She feels his body tense up, how he struggles against her, how he almost gets in his own way trying to move.
His lower lip trembles and thick, hot tears are rolling down his reddened cheeks. She hugs him tightly. Her embrace is calm and steady, in the hope that he can feel the closeness, even if he is unable to verbalize it.
His breathing slowly calms, becomes less frantic. The loud crying becomes a soft whimper as he finally relaxes into the embrace.
“ So? Who was it?”
Erik remains silent. The room is too much, the question too big. The words are stuck inside him, somewhere deep where he can't reach them.

She lets go of him, slaps her hands on her thighs and stands up. She roughly presses plasters onto the wounds, muttering angrily to herself. With one firm grip, she takes him by the wrist and drags him out of the bathroom. The boy stumbles after her, whimpering.
“ If you don't talk to me, there's no reason to feel sorry for you!” she says sharply.
They cross the corridor, and she opens the door to a small room. The third cat of the household scurries past them, meowing, and runs into the kitchen.
The room is small. A narrow, unmade bed stands against the wall. An old tape recorder, along with a few music cassettes, is scattered on the floor. A tattered cuddly toy seal lies on the bed. Next to the bed is a small, open children's chest of drawers. The drawers are half pulled out, clothes are tumbled around. The roller shutter is halfway up and has been broken for years.
She pushes him into the room, lets go of his wrist and slams the door shut.
He remains lying on the floor. He knows that if the door is closed, he can't get out. Otherwise, there's the wardrobe. One of the few things he can remember.

The last time he accidentally dropped a cup, the man had locked him in the wardrobe. He had been forced to sit there, forgotten, until his mother found him the next day. She was furious - mainly because he hadn't drawn attention to himself. But what was he supposed to do? He was told not to shout or come out, otherwise he would have a bloody reason to cry.

The carpet is dirty, the fibers are coarse and form small, fluffy bumps. Erik wearily runs his fingertips over the rough carpet. The texture is ticklish, almost a little painful. But very slowly the tension falls away from him. The world becomes quieter again, calmer.
He sits up, pulls the seal onto his lap and stares at it. “S... Sa... Sally...”, he stammers and hugs the cuddly toy tightly to him. “Wha... wha... why...?” he asks quietly, almost more to himself than to the seal.

He hears his mother's angry voice, even though she is far away.
“ Yeah... I don't know. He came home and now the new jeans are ruined too... No... He's not talking to me! He doesn't talk to anyone! ... YES, STILL!” Her voice gets louder. “As if he wants to punish me! That little bastard!” Her voice cuts through to him with bitterness. “Now we've finally had a few weeks of peace and quiet. I thought if he went to school, he'd be exhausted. Instead, he loses his school supplies, ruins his pants... and his sweater. He came home without shoes the other day.... CAN YOU IMAGINE??? HE LOST THEM! HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!”
A tired smile spreads across his crooked lips, though he's not sure why. Maybe it's an attempt to block out the words circling in his head. He turns onto his back with the seal on his chest.
Stupid,
Stupid,
Stupid,
Erik.
“ Don't... Don't...” he whispers in the seal's ear. “Don't... ll... lost... not...” He presses his face into the soft fur of the stuffed animal. “N... not...” He knows exactly what happened to the shoes.
They had simply disappeared after the last sports lesson. Later he found the burnt remains in the forbidden street.

 

---

 

Chapter 17: Top of the Sky - Invisible Rain

The roses dried up a long time ago. After the brownish-yellow, wilted leaves fell onto the table and the cloudy water started to stink, Madeleine had finally found the energy to clean up the entire kitchen table.
The freshly emptied ashtray is already full again and has long been overflowing. But the rotten toast and the old newspapers have found their way into the garbage container along with the roses. New, old newspapers are piled up on the small corner bench.

Erik sits at the kitchen table, which is now half tidy. A plaster is stuck over his chin. The day before, the elevators in the house broke down again, and Erik still doesn't know exactly how it happened. He probably missed a step or one of his feet got stuck. In any case, he tripped and fell so badly with his chin on the edge of the stairs that he came home with a small laceration.
The scabs on his hands, knees, and cheeks fell off weeks ago, leaving behind soft, pink skin.

His mother is not at home. She currently works as a cashier in a small supermarket. She had lost her job at the petrol station due to too many unexcused absences. But what could she do? There was no way she could say she was taking Erik to the doctor every time after another fight. So she was simply absent.
On other days, she just couldn't get out of bed. Then she sometimes missed a whole week. Even then, she didn't manage to get a doctor's note. The shame was too overwhelming.

Erik shifts restlessly back and forth on the small bench. He stares at his extra tasks. He's actually long past individual letters, but his handwriting is barely readable so he has to practice extra tasks. Finally, he stands up, his bare feet pressed into the foam of the bench. He is still looking at the exercise book. He holds a pencil in his left hand. “Hmmm,” he mumbles, looks up and draws a ‘B’ in the air. Then he looks down at the notebook again.
“ SIT DOWN!” comes a shout from the living room. Erik turns his head towards the voice. The man is sitting in the armchair. The boy can't recognize the face.

He knows that the man who is not his father has been here for a long time. He has forgotten exactly how long.
He knows that the man who is not his father often hurts him.
He knows that the man who is not his father often hurts his mother too.
Nevertheless, he is there.
He doesn't go away.

Erik sits down again and stares at his schoolwork. The pencil trembles in his hand. His thoughts are heavy, blurred. He tries to copy the letter, but the letters flicker before his eyes. He holds his attention for two, maybe three letters. Then he lies down on the small bench and stares at the ceiling. Small animals and clouds form on the wallpaper. They dance across the wall, blur and reappear.
The boy begins to giggle as the animals jump through the clouds in his imagination.
“ Why are you laughing so stupidly?” growls the man's voice, suddenly coming closer.
Erik sits up with a jerk. He looks briefly in the direction the voice is coming from, then back at the notebook. The pencil in his hand feels heavy. Did he want to write another “B” or continue with the “C”? Is the man who is not his father still there? The boy feels his heart beating faster. A loud SCCCHRT signals that a chair is being pulled back. The man sits down. “Use your right hand,” he growls. ”Only idiots use their left hand. Do you want to be a moron?”

Erik stares at the paper. He slowly shakes his head and changes his hand. Completely tense, he holds the pencil and tries to trace the “B”.
“Redo it!”
A “B” that doesn't look like a “B”.
“ Again!”
A “B” that doesn't look like a “B”.
“What is that? Are those tits? AGAIN!”
A “B” that doesn't look like a “B”.
The notebook is pulled away, the page torn out.
“Redo it!”
The boy nods, his hands are soaked with sweat. He nervously slides back and forth on the bench.
He writes. Erases. Writes. His face hangs close to the paper. He tenses up. He desperately tries to get it right. The pencil feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.

“Try harder!” the man comments. “Erik, I swear, I'll make you rewrite it until you do better.”
The smoke from the cigarette blows towards him. Erik coughs, wipes his burning eyes, then his crooked little nose. The room is getting smaller. Too small.
Until the evening, the man, and Erik, sit at the tasks.

The notebook becomes thinner and thinner until there is almost no room left to write.

 

---

 

Chapter 18: Top of the Sky - Killer + the Sound

Music has stayed with the boy for as long as he can remember.
On good days, his mother danced and sang through the apartment. Her voice didn't always hit the right note, but it filled the boy's heart with joy and comfort.
Whether it's a jingle from an advertisement, a short radio track or simple children's music from his cassette recorder - Erik always has one or more catchy tunes that he hums to himself constantly. And on very good days, he also sings and dances around the apartment, just like his mother. Even when he gets the lyrics wrong or stutters.

Erik loves music.
Erik breathes music.
Erik lives music.

Erik sits in front of the record player. It is a memory that has stuck with him. The way his mother used to put the needle on the spinning record and the music came out of the speakers like magic. Curious, he lifts the Plexiglas lid and carefully strokes the turntable. The small grooves under his fingertips tingle, the movement feels good. The turntable resonates with the movement. The boy observes the tonearm with fascination.

He hears his mother on the phone. She's only a room away. Maybe she will come to turn on the music, but... maybe he can do it on his own.
He places the tonearm on the empty turntable. The record player starts up, the record is missing, but the platter starts spinning anyway.
Erik is fascinated. He puts the tonearm back again. The platter spins more slowly. Erik carefully stops it with one finger.
Again and again he places the tonearm on the platter and pulls it back to its original position. But then... a soft krrrk.
He looks at the turntable, startled. The platter continues to turn, but the tonearm is back in its original position.
Erik freezes. He has done something wrong.
He has broken the record player.
He drops the Plexiglas lid with a loud noise. His hands are shaking. He feels the weight of his mistake.

Terrified, he turns around and runs into his room, slamming the door. No key. Just the door that now separates him from his mother.

He hears her footsteps coming closer. Her shadow through the crack in the door.
“ Erik?” she asks. Her voice sounds harsh, much harsher than he is used to. “What happened?”
He whimpers, his hands pressed to his mouth, a desperate attempt to suppress the pain, the shame, the destruction.
“ N... no... noo... nothing!” he stutters.
The door swings open and hits him in the back of the head. She pushes him back into the room. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” Her voice is shrill and unreasonably loud.
Erik freezes. A scream escapes him as she grabs him. He doesn't fight back, it's no use.
“ WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
A cat runs through the hallway, screeching. He can barely hear the hissing.
“ I... I...” he stammers. Nothing comes out.
Whimpering, he holds his other hand over his head.
She lets go of him. “Show me!” she hisses, and her cold, commanding voice silences Erik's soft whimpers.
He stands up, staggers, and stumbles into the living room to the record player, which is still spinning even though it's broken.

He points to it with a trembling finger.

His shirt is wet from the tears he can no longer stop.
“ What's wrong with you?” she asks quietly. Her eyes stare at him, cold and unrelenting. She grabs him, turns him around and hits him several times. He screams and pleads, but nobody hears him. At some point she lets go of him, the words come quietly and hollowly: “Get out of my sight. You're driving me crazy!” He slowly withdraws, out of the living room, back into his room. The door closes behind him. He lies down on the bed and pulls Sally to him. He presses his face into the soft faux fur.
His loud, unrelenting tears have long since turned into silent weeping.

He is so sorry.
It was never his intention to destroy the record player.
But he does it again and again.
As soon as he touches something, he destroys it.
Even if his heart is attached to it.
Even if Madeleine's heart is attached to it.

A few days later, a CD player with a radio function takes the place of the record player.
On the street in front of the house is a box of Charles' old records.
As the records disappear, the music also disappears from Erik's heart.
The lack of the records makes Madeleine's heart a little colder.

She no longer dances.
Erik no longer sings.

The music dies.

 

---

 

Chapter 19: Top of the Sky - In the Dark

The boy who doesn't speak is sitting in the classroom. The class is small, the desks are in groups of four. But Erik sits alone. His desk is right by the window, close to the teacher's desk, far away from the other children. His eyes are focused on the table, and he blocks out the other children, who are working together in their groups or whispering to each other. To him, the room room around him remains empty, the noises of the other children are far away. But they are still there.

Erik doesn't understand it all as well as the others. He needs more time. Gets distracted too quickly. He is not compatible with other children.

Since he's been here, at school, it's all about rules and expectations that he can't understand or fulfill. He disrupted lessons too often in the first few weeks after starting school. He couldn't adapt, he couldn't understand what was expected. And there were also the noises of the others, those who came too close to him, their movements that confused him. Sometimes there were words that he didn't understand or that wouldn't connect properly in his head, and then he would do whatever came into his head - laughed or cried, even without knowing why. And sometimes it all just felt too much, so he would stare into the air, rock on his chair or play with his pencil.

 

The teacher hadn't liked him from the start. Erik knew that. There was something hard and impatient about the teacher from the very beginning, a constant disregard in his eyes. In the beginning, Erik had always tried to explain himself, but there were never any words that met the teacher's expectations. If he could ever really find his words in the first place. The other children had quickly noticed that Erik was different. They laughed at him or ignored him.
The teacher had long since lost his patience. He knew that Erik was not normal. And so Erik was the outsider, the other one, the one you'd rather not have in class. The other children could always get on with the task, while Erik disappeared somewhere in the void, floating behind the texts, but never really there.
While Erik never had the right words, the others seemed to take them for granted. And when they were too loud or came too close to him without being asked, he exploded. The body that didn't feel right acted on its own.

And now he sits alone.
Far away from the others.
And he still can't concentrate.

Erik's eyes remain fixed on the table. He pretends to follow the teacher's instructions. The children should be reading, but Erik can't do it. Not properly, not at the pace of the others. He can't do it if the subject doesn't interest him. And so he pretends to read. He knows what to do, he knows he has to follow the letters, but the words are blurring before his eyes. The text doesn't flow properly. The numbers and letters are dancing around, like tiny shadows that never settle. In other words, he just looks as if he is reading. He feels the pressure in his chest. He doesn't want to attract attention. He doesn't want the others to see him, to have the teacher standing in front of him again.
But then he notices something, something he has never noticed before - how beautiful an “S” is, how the little “ä” in the line looks. At that moment, he feels lighter, almost cheerful. Something that only he can see. It's like a secret that belongs only to him. His index finger begins to tap rhythmically on the table, and then a small, crooked smile quirks across his face.

 

Erik has no way of knowing that the teacher has been watching him for a long time. The teacher has seen it, the tapping, the twitching, the way the boy is fidgeting and not really reading the text. The teacher clears his throat, stands up, and slowly walks over to Erik. “Erik,” he growls. The tone is sharp, harsh, without an ounce of understanding. The boy flinches, his eyes widen. “Read aloud!” The order hits him like a slap. “Get up!”

Erik stands up, his hands trembling. The paper feels heavy in his hands. And then he opens his mouth. The words don't come. He breathes in, but the text is stuck in his head, where it gets tangled up. “O... O... Once upon,” he croaks. His voice is thin, unsteady. He wipes a hand on his jeans. “A... a... a... T... time” - the words refuse to come, “L... LL... Li... hnnn... Lili...-ttle Hwuiitch”, he stammers.
The teacher interrupts him with a sharp, “Stop! You see?” he addresses the class, ”That's what happens when you're not careful! If you're not careful, you're always one step behind. You'll experience this later in life too!” the teacher explains loudly. He looks at the class as if he is teaching everyone something important. “I'm sure that some of you will go to university later, that you'll get somewhere. But others are... rotten apples. Bloodsuckers who will be a drain on the state,” he says, looking at Erik, the rotten apple.
“ Sit down,” the teacher snaps. “We're on page 4, by the way. Don’t make a fool out of me!” he adds, leaning forward, “And it's called Witch, not Hwuiitch!”
The other children laugh, it's the same laughter as always.

Erik's chest tightens.
His head becomes heavy.
Tears are coming to his eyes, but he suppresses them.
He sits down and stares at the table.
He doesn't want this anymore.

He just wants it to stop.

 

---

 

Chapter 20: Top of the Sky - One Summer's Day

Wild chattering boys are bustling in the changing room. It's loud, the constant jabbering and laughter echoes off the walls. Erik sits on one of the benches.
Silent.
Without moving.
His hands are in his lap, fingers tightly intertwined, holding each other so he doesn't fall apart. The others are moving around, talking, gesticulating, joking. For them, getting ready for school sports is a matter of course. For Erik, it's a struggle.
Every time.
He doesn't have a change of clothes in his bag. It's not the first time. His sneakers went missing again months ago. And then there's the unpleasant pain in his joints, especially in his knees and back. The constantly growing bones don't match the muscles, which also don't let themselves be coordinated properly. And this permanent internal pressure puts his muscles in a state of constant nervousness.
He has a crooked posture and tries to make himself smaller. It's as if his body is struggling to move, fighting against itself, refusing to grow taller and thus be seen. The movements of the other boys, their quick reactions, their agility, all of this seems unattainable for Erik. He's not fast, he's not agile, once again he's not like them.
He doesn't like to run.
And when he does, it hurts.
He just doesn't fit together.
And then he's also so incredibly tired.
“Have you forgotten your shoes again?” asks one of the boys, a mocking grin on his lips.
Erik nods, slowly, hesitantly, without a word.
“Why are you so stupid?” one of the twins interjects, his voice harsh with a sneer. Erik shrugs his shoulders. He doesn't know. He can't explain it to anyone, either.
The boys leave the changing room and go into the large sports hall. The hall is wide, the sounds of the children echo in the air. They run, jump, catch balls, throw them to each other. This is their world.
Erik's world is a different one.

The others are too fast, too loud, too much. It's too much for him. His head is buzzing. The balls are flying around him, the children are running and shouting, and Erik doesn't know how to move in this chaos. So he withdraws, goes to the edge of the hall, looking for something to hold on to. And then he sees them - the lines on the floor, the markings that divide the room. They are clear and unmistakable, a firm framework in the midst of chaos.
Slowly, he stands on one of the lines. Uncertainly at first, then more and more firmly. Step by step, he feels more connected to it. He balances on it as if it were the only constant he has left. The line under his feet becomes an anchor. It gives him something that the noise and movement around him cannot - peace and clarity.
Here, on the line, he is alone with himself. No balls that suddenly appear, no others to challenge him. Just him and his steps. And suddenly he notices how the surrounding turmoil disappears, how the rest of the world recedes from his focus. It is as if the line gives him back some control. A calm, stable place in the midst of the storm.
He turns, one foot lifts slightly, and the other follows. His arms move in time, gently, almost playfully, and he feels the space around him shrink, focused on his steps. Every press of his foot on the floor is a dance, allowing him to immerse himself more in this small world that consists only of him and the line.
The line, which at first was just something he could hold on to, is now part of his dance, a partner in this silent dialog. He continues to turn, gliding across the floor, always remaining on the narrow strip. No more hasty movements, no more uncertainty. He no longer loses himself in the tumult, but becomes one with the line that guides him.
His feet find their own rhythm and at this moment, on this narrow strip, he feels light. Only the dance and the line are still there, and he knows that right here, in this small, safe world, he can really be himself.

But then the sports teacher stands in front of him.

She has noticed him. “Where are your shoes?” she asks, pointing to his bare feet.
Erik shrugs. It feels as if the question is about more than just the missing shoes. Once again, he's done something wrong.
“You forgot them last time too...” she says, ”I need to give you a letter. Your mother needs to take better care of it.”
Erik's eyes widen, the pressure in his chest increases. He shakes his head, wildly, “N... N... o... N... No!” he stammers, his voice getting quieter. The thought of taking a letter to his mother feels like a catastrophe to him.
Something that will bring even more conflict, even more pressure.
“Yes, those are the rules. And I have to make a note of this in the class book.”
Her words seem cool. She stands over him as if he is just a problem that needs to be fixed.
“In general, it would be good to talk to your mother, don't you think?”
“N... N... -HUNF”, an unintelligible word that barely comes out of his mouth when he is hit on the head by a ball.
“EMMANUEL!” the teacher shouts sharply. She runs towards the boy. Erik, experiencing it all as if in a fog, slowly turns and leaves.
He goes through the door of the sports hall and then down the corridor to the boys' changing room. He opens another door and enters. Then he locks it and sits down on the closed toilet seat. He stares at the floor in silence. Tired, he rubs his throbbing forehead. He has stopped counting how many times he has been hit with a ball.
The tiles are old, the pattern blurred, irregular. The stains and bumps are like a map that he scans again and again with his eyes, helping him to calm down while the noises outside become softer and softer.
He closes his eyes.
Peace at last.
The surrounding space becomes blurred, soft, almost like a flickering image that slowly transforms into something else. He is in a place that is familiar and yet foreign to him. The air is warm and smells of something sweet, almost of sunshine and flowers. Children are laughing and playing around him, their faces full of joy and curiosity. They look at him, but not with the look of impatience or distraction that he is often familiar with. No, in their eyes he sees wonder, awe - they love him. They turn in circles, applauding him as he moves. Their joy is like a gentle breeze that envelops him and makes him feel very special.
Then he feels a hand on his head, soft and warm. A familiar hand. She strokes his head tenderly and says in a voice that sounds like music: “I'm so proud of you. You are very special, my precious. I love you so much.”

Her words sink deep into his heart.
No doubts, no fears, just love and security.

A loud knock snaps him out of his stupor.
“Erik, are you in there?” calls a familiar voice. “Open the door! Or we'll have to unlock it!”
“M.... Ma...?” he stammers. Dazed, he wipes the tears from his cheeks and then opens the door.
His mother is standing there, the sports teacher and the janitor behind her. Erik feels like he is in a nightmare. His mother's eyes are worried, her voice sounds gentle, but her words still hit him like a blow.
“Your teacher called me at work, you just disappeared. We were all worried!” she whispers. ”Did you lock yourself in by mistake?”
Erik can't say anything. He doesn't want to say anything. There is nothing he can explain.
She carefully takes her son in her arms. The caring mother. Then she lets go of him and examines him from head to toe. “Why aren't you wearing shoes?” she then asks.
Erik lowers his eyes.
His mother looks hard at him. “Why isn't my son wearing shoes?”
“He left them at home,” the teacher says curtly, ”The children do gymnastics barefoot here when they don't have shoes.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Madeleine hisses, her voice cutting through the room. The teacher looks at her in irritation, not quite able to believe what has just been said.
“Excuse me?!” asks the teacher.
Madeleine slowly turns to Erik, who is still not making eye contact. “Where are your shoes?” she asks with a mixture of disappointment and impatience. “Have you lost them again? I know they're not at home.”
Erik slowly turns his head to the side, his shoulders drawn together. His hand moves mechanically to his mouth. Slowly, he begins to chew on the side of his thumb. It is a gesture that always surfaces when the pressure inside him becomes too great, a small escape into silence.
Madeleine sighs deeply. She grabs his hand and pulls him roughly behind her. “Apparently the shoes have been lost or stolen again,” she says, her words like sharp knives cutting through the silence. “As always! I'm sure you know that my Erik doesn't have it easy at this school! I wouldn't be surprised if one of these snots here stole his shoes!”
Erik flinches at her every word. But he remains silent, obedient, as always.
Madeleine pulls him with her to the bench in the changing room and presses him onto it with an impatient jerk. With hasty movements, she pulls his socks on, her fingers tight and rough. Then she presses the street shoes onto his feet, far too hard. “Come on now, we're in a hurry,” she mumbles, her voice laced with an an exhaustion so deep that she barely recognizes herself. “My other shift starts soon.”
She reaches for his backpack, grabs his dirty jacket and turns to the teacher, who is still standing at the door. “Thank you for calling, I'll see about new shoes, if we can afford it!” Madeleine says curtly, her words a flat politeness that have nothing to do with thanks. “Have a good day!” She pushes Erik in front of her, her hand on his back.

The walk home is silent. Erik holds his mother's hand, her fingers wrapped so tightly around his own hand that it almost hurts. The ground beneath his feet crunches. The walk feels endless, the sky above them gray, the day simply a continuation of the previous one, a repetition of emptiness.
“Why are you making it so hard for me, huh?” she finally asks, the question in her voice not really a question, more of a blame that she can't get rid of. Erik says nothing.
No answer.
Nothing.
“Just like his father,” she then mutters with a bitter edge in her voice, “Makes it hard for me, and doesn't respond.” Her words cut through the air like a knife. She reaches for the pack of cigarettes with her free hand, opens it and the smell of tobacco rises into the air.
“G... G... Go...Gone,” Erik produces, his voice almost breaking. ”Sh.... shoes...” It sounds like a whisper, a desperate attempt to explain himself somehow.
“I'm not buying you new shoes again...” she says simply, without taking her eyes off the path. She pushes a cigarette out of the packet with her lips and lights it. The smoke curls into the air and mixes with the silence between them.
“It's not worth it until you've grown out of it.”

 

---

 

Chapter 21: Top of the Sky - Hell's comin' with me

Notes:

today i haven't a downer chapter for you.

The last few years had affected the boy and pushed him to the edge of his limits. School had shaped him, but not in a good way. It had broken him. The constant teasing, the mockery, the glares - it had all left its mark, so deep that it continues to resonate in him.

It had been a year since the last incident at school. And that was the moment when it all turned upside down. It wasn't the twins who had tormented him for years who were the bad guys. No, this time Erik was the one who attacked. He had fought back without a thought for the consequences. It wasn't a heroic fight. It was simply an explosion of everything that had built up inside him.

And what had he gotten in the end?
What was the result of the anger and rage that had built up for so long?
What he had always wanted without knowing it:

Peace.
They let him be.

Erik's birthday falls on November 18th, a gray, chilly day on which the rain drums against the windows and the sky is heavy with clouds. There is often something dark about November, and it is the same with the mood in the house. The light shines through the dense clouds only shyly. It's not a day when anyone is cheering loudly or preparing for a special celebration.

The apartment is still shrouded in the darkness of the morning when Erik lies in bed listening to the sound of rain on the window. The day has no special meaning for him, he feels no urge to jump out of bed. Birthday candles, colorful balloons, a cheerful happy birthday ! - all this is for others.

For him, it is just another empty-sounding ritual.

He hears his mother's footsteps in the hallway and sees the door to his room being carefully opened.
“ Erik,” Madeleine says, her voice calm, almost tired, as she stands in the doorway. “Get up, it's your birthday today. Come on.”
Erik turns to the side, looks at the wall, and lets the words pass him by. He doesn't really care about birthday wishes, especially not when they are said so casually. For him, it's just a reminder that he's different - different from the other children who are excitedly talking about their birthdays, celebrating with their families.
It just feels... inappropriate.

Madeleine stops at the door for a moment, looks at him, then slowly continues into the kitchen. The smell of coffee floats through the apartment, but there's nothing to make Erik move.

After a while he finally gets up, gets dressed slowly because there is nothing calling him anywhere. The sound of the rain outside is constant, almost soothing. Slowly, he trudges into the hallway. A cat sneaks past him, and he has to listen. He only hears his mother working in the kitchen. The man, who is not his father, disappeared yesterday after an argument. Erik's eyes wander to the front door. Duct tape is stretched over something that must not be seen. The boy suspects that behind the tape was the reason for the loud crash in the night.

A furious punch.

Madeleine has made some breakfast, a cup of coffee and a cup of cocoa, some bread with jam. “Here,” she says as Erik comes into the kitchen, “Eat up.”
Erik sits down at the table and looks at the bread. He doesn't quite know what he should make of it. He doesn't normally eat breakfast. It feels strange to eat anything at all when he has just woken up. He stares at the bread, the jam glistens invitingly, but the feeling of eating something feels so strange, so uncomfortable. But he knows, he has no choice. Madeleine has made it for him, and she expects him to at least give it a try. With hesitation, he takes a bite, but the taste, the consistency of the bread, feels anything but pleasant. He puts the bread back down and drinks the bite down with warm cocoa.

“ I'm not going to work today,” Madeleine says suddenly, ”We could... maybe go outside. Go for a walk. Or something...” She looks at the ground, then back at Erik. Erik shrugs, if it makes her happy, he'll go along with it.
“ I got you something nice,” Madeleine says as she reaches for a small, plain package on the table. It's not a big, colorful box, but simply an ordinary envelope. It is the only present he will receive today, and he takes it in his hand, turning it back and forth. The plain paper is covered with the words “For Erik on his 9th birthday, from Ma”
“ What... Is that?” he asks quietly, almost like a whisper.
“Something silly,” she says curtly. Her eyes avoid him.

Erik slowly opens the envelope. Inside he finds a CD - the music he loves, the music he has never listened to since the record player broke. On the cover it says Best of Rock in big letters and Uriah Heep, Fleetwood Mac, Nirvana and much more in smaller letters. A collection of songs he has listened to with his mother in the past, which keep popping up in his head like a constant reminder of his misbehavior. It's the only thing she gives him.

“This one... it's for you,” Madeleine says quietly, almost uncertainly, as she watches him. Her voice sounds different from usual - softer, perhaps even a little shy.
Erik turns the CD case in his hands, looks at the cover, and a warm feeling rises in him.
Joy.
A joy that he rarely feels so clearly. Perhaps because the music is so familiar to him. These songs, these melodies that have accompanied him. He takes a deep breath and then looks up at his mother.
“Thank you,” he whispers almost shyly.

There is silence for a moment.

He wants to turn to her, embrace her, seek the closeness that he can never really show. But something inside him holds him back, makes him hesitate. He can't find the words and the gesture seems too big, too intimate for him to dare to show it. Instead, he looks at the CD again and lets his fingers glide slowly over the cover. It is as if he is trying to say more with this small, simple touch than words ever could.
Perhaps she has recognized the longing in his gaze - the silent plea for closeness that he cannot put into words. She slowly approaches him and then kneels down in front of him until their eyes are at the same level. Her hand rests gently on his, still holding the CD. She doesn't speak, but the warmth of her touch is more than enough.

Erik looks at her, hesitates, then leans forward a little. And then, slowly, she spreads her arms. Her embrace is cautious, almost shy, as if she is not sure herself how to get close to him.
Erik remains silent for a moment, unsure whether he should really get involved. But then - when he feels the warmth of her embrace, when he realizes that she really means it - he closes his eyes. And for a fraction of a moment, he is just a boy longing to be close to his mother.

In the afternoon, when the rain subsides, they actually go outside. Their walk takes them to the park by the lake. The trees are bare, the air is cold and there is no festive atmosphere. It is a quiet, almost lonely walk. Madeleine takes a drag on her cigarette, the smoke swirling in the air, while Erik simply listens to the sound of her footsteps in the leaves.

When they get back home, Erik sinks down on the old, worn sofa. The CD is playing, and the familiar melodies fill the room. Madeleine goes into the kitchen, lights a cigarette and looks out of the window. The smoke slowly drifts into the still air. It is a birthday that is characterized more by the absence of things than by their presence. But it is a day they are spending together, and perhaps that is all they really have.
Later, as dusk bathes the room in warm light, Erik calls for Madeleine.

She comes and sits down next to him on the couch, looks at him for a moment before leaning back. The music plays on a continuous loop in the background - the same music he used to listen to with her, calm and heavy, as if it had never really disappeared.
“ Do you like the music?” she asks. Erik nods, but his eyes stay on the CD case he's still holding in his hands.
“ It's... lovely,” he says quietly.
Madeleine nods.

---

 

Chapter 22: Top of the Sky - Alive

It is the middle of the night and the room is silent, apart from the quiet murmur of the street outside. Erik slowly turns to the side, clutching his cuddly toy Sally close to him. The light from outside falls diagonally through the window with the broken shutter and casts long shadows on the floor. His left eye is swollen shut and the bruises on his knees hurt. The fresh imprint of a cigarette adorns his upper arm. One mark of many. The skin still burns slightly, and he rubs his hand over it while silently observing the wound. It will discolor and scab over in the coming days. But the future has no meaning on this night, only the pulsing of the wound is important.

He turns onto his back, stares at the ceiling, and then closes his eyes. Minutes pass before he finally sits up. Slowly he puts Sally aside, pushes the blanket away and stands up. His feet touch the cold floor. He almost trips over his tape recorder as he takes his first step, then staggers across the room towards the door. He opens it a crack and looks into the dark hallway. A faint light flickers from the living room and as he listens, he hears a cat running through the apartment.

He sneaks along the hallway with careful, quiet steps. When he reaches the door to the living room, he peers through the gap. Madeleine is sitting alone on the sofa. Her eyes are red and puffy, and she looks exhausted, almost fragile. Behind her, on the back of the sofa, the two cats are resting like guardians. The man, who is not his father, is nowhere to be seen. The room smells of cold cigarette smoke and cold coffee.
“ M... Ma...” Erik whispers timidly, rubbing his hands together in a nervous manner.
Madeleine flinches and looks over at him. Her gaze is blank; she didn't expect him to still be awake. Her neck is reddened, and Erik wonders if the man has grabbed her there and squeezed. “Why are you still awake?” she asks quietly, but then she beckons him towards her. He slowly comes closer, but stops, unsure of how to behave. “Sit down,” she says, her voice soft as she takes hold of his wrist and pulls him towards her on the sofa.
Erik agrees and lets himself be drawn onto the sofa, but the distance between them still seems great. He watches her silently. Being so close feels strange, although he knows that his mother sometimes seeks physical contact. She needs it.

“Do you want ice cream?” she suddenly asks. “Come on, let's eat ice cream and watch this movie.” She stands up, adjusts her leggings and wanders through the messy living room with a faint smile. Erik watches her go. He doesn't understand how anyone can be so sad and still smile.
Madeleine disappears into the kitchen for a moment. Erik remains sitting on the sofa and stares at the television. A man with a chainsaw is running after a woman. The movie looks familiar to him, but he says nothing. He doesn't care. He just wants to be with her, even though he knows that the movie and the ice cream won't solve anything.
Madeleine comes back, sits down and hands him the smaller of the two spoons. She opens the pot of ice cream and starts to tap against the frozen ice with the spoon. It cracks and splinters until she is able to pry something out. The cat jumps onto the table and purrs loudly.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, although it's not really a question, more a faint hope that he'll join in. Erik scrapes some vanilla ice cream out of the pot and lets it melt slowly on his tongue. It tastes cheap, but he takes another spoonful. Not because he likes it, but because he knows it will make his mother happy, even if only for a moment.

They eat in silence and the TV continues to play. Screams and the sound of the chainsaw fill the room. Sometimes you can hear the scraping of the spoon on the ice cream. “You're just as hard-boiled as your father,” she says suddenly. “He didn't flinch during this movie either.”
Erik remains silent. What does he know about his father? Only the stories his mother told him. His father was quiet. Always tired. He was never really there. A loser who just left them. Who was simply gone.
The chainsaw roars on the screen again, and the screams tear him from his thoughts.
“ M... Ma...” he finally says without looking at her.
“ Huh?” she replies without really looking up.
“ Whe... whe...” Erik stutters. The spoon turns nervously in his hand. “When... when... is... is he... finally... gone?”
Madeleine stops chewing. A fleeting, sad smile appears on her lips, but it remains only a shadow. The ice cream pot slips from her hand and falls to the floor. Without another word, she stands up, turns around slowly and walks towards the bedroom. Her movements seem heavy.
The door slams shut behind her. A soft click echoes through the room.
Erik remains silent.

He shouldn't have asked.

Every time he asks, he makes her cry. He always does something wrong. Once again, he is the reason for her sadness, even though he never wanted to be.

The silence between them is suddenly too loud.

 

---

 

 

---

 

Notes:

i don't know if it's just a german thing, but there's really cheap ice cream here. fürst pückler ice cream.
in a 2 liter pot (yes, that's a lot by german standards) there's chocolate, strawberry and vanilla. it tastes cheap, crystallized and was the epitome of my childhood. we couldn't afford anything else. and i hated vanilla for years until i was allowed to try some good real vanilla. there's a world of difference.

Chapter 23: Top of the Sky

The boy, who does not speak, strokes the worn artificial turf with his thin, bitten fingers. His hands are moving mechanically over the blue-green plastic. The balcony is small and narrow, cluttered with garbage and junk. The heat of the day still seems to hang in the air. Erik hums quietly to himself and finally looks up into the clear blue sky.
He watches the clouds. He can see them dancing, moving in gentle shapes, like little angels gently pushing the clouds back and forth. He hears their music, can almost feel them floating through the room, even if it is only for a brief moment.
The balcony door opens with a soft click . “Phew, it's just as hot out here as it is inside,” says the woman's voice, which he knows but doesn't always know how to interpret.
He hears the rustling of her clothes, the cracking of the door. However, the noise in his ears masks everything else. Erik pulls up his knees and lets his mother walk past. She sits down on the small bench, lights a cigarette in silence and then looks at him.
“ You're right,” she says.
Erik slowly rocks to the left and right. His finger touches his incisors, pulling at the dry skin, which tears from his thumb with a soft crack. He spits out. An attempt to get rid of the burden. A bad habit.

“We have to get out of here,” mumbles his mother after a while, her voice rough from all the talking, from too much silence. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette. “I'll call my mother tonight... Fuck... I'm sure she'll have lots to say to me... I haven't spoken to her in almost ten years...” she wipes her hand briefly over her eyes, “Yeah, it's been since I got pregnant with you...”

The boy raises his eyes, looks up a moment, then away again. She's hurt, he knows that. Her eye is swollen shut, her face marked by the constant beatings. The man, who is not his father, has hit her again.
Erik nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. “Y...yes...” he whispers tonelessly, ”W...w...w... we'll go away..."
He squeezes his hands together until his fingers ache. He has so much he wants to say. He always knew the man was evil. That he was afraid of this man. That he really loved his mom, despite everything. And that he was sorry for being a bad son so often.

But his voice remains mute, caught in the eternal noise of the world.
He looks up at the sky where the clouds are slowly drifting, and for a moment he feels very small, almost invisible. A soft cracking sound, then the dry spitting as he spits out another piece of skin.
“ We'll get a grip on this, Erik. I promise you. Everything will be fine.” Her words come out tired, exhausted. She doesn't really believe it herself, but she says it because it's all she has left to give him.
Erik looks at his hands. A hint of hope, weak and fragile, germinates in him. He carefully wipes the bleeding thumb on his trousers.

 

---

 

 

---

 

Notes:

With this Part One - Top of the Sky - is coming to an end. :-)

See you later in Part Two - Spectrum

Chapter 24: Spectrum - No Harm

Notes:

Welcome back to your personal depression fic.

Arc 02 starts here.

Welcome to "Spectrum"

At first there is only the noise.
A dull, constant noise.
The blue light flickers, bathing the room in irregular light. The shadows expand, then contract and shrink again in time with the sounds of movement. The boy hears them, feels them, but they are far away. The others. The strangers. They are too far away to comprehend and yet too close.
A man is led through the corridor. The boy can hear him, the scuffle, the loud footsteps of the policemen, the man's voice beating against the dams of his own perception. The man fights back again and again. But Erik's eyes only follow the blue light flashing back and forth on the wall.
Everything has changed.
The stairwell is filled with the smell of smoke. The floor beneath the boy is damp, water is dripping down the walls. It runs down the steps, wet and cold. Everything smells of damp and burnt wood and plastic. The light in the stairwell flickers, goes out, flickers on again. Everything is constantly flickering, slicing up the constant noise.

The front door is kicked in. Erik knows everything has changed. But he can't remember what exactly has happened. The darkness swallows the apartment, swallows the people around him and then him too. Men in blue are taking notes, police officers, in a room that seems strange to him. In a room that he no longer understands. Men in orange and blue are doing something that looks like a repetition of movements, but he can't grasp it. It seems so strange, the way they are kneeling there, bent over. Over something.
Something...
It stinks.
Everything stinks.
The stench enters his head, his lungs. Newspapers, garbage, something is wrong, something is always wrong. But Erik sits there. He just sits there. The wall in front of him gets bigger and smaller, depending on how the blue light turns. It changes, but always stays the same.

Like the world around him. Everything has changed. But he doesn't know what the change is.

A cat jumps off the shelf, hisses, runs, a policeman jumps out of the way. It is a sound that passes through his ears, which he absorbs and then forgets. Time stands still. The footsteps, the voices, the smoke, all that remains, but none of it belongs to him.
He is motionless. A man, dressed in orange, leans forward. A flashlight shines into his eyes, into the one eye that is not covered by melted skin. The pupil contracts. The question, “Can you get up?”, echoes into the void. The boy does not react.
He only hears the noise, which gets louder and overlays everything. Only the flickering of the light gets stronger and softer at the same time. The question is far away, like a call from another room, from another world. “He's still not responding. He's in shock... I'm surprised he's still conscious, he should be in pain...” says one of the men. It sounds like an echo, a tremor that passes Erik by.
A nod. A murmur. Quick mechanical movements and then a rattle.
A sound, the zipper of a bag. The boy doesn't move. Only his gaze wanders, very slightly, to the place where the woman was still lying. She is no longer there. The place is empty now. Something is wrong. But he doesn't know what it is.

A policeman steps forward, stands in his field of vision, asks the same question. “Can you get up?” It sounds empty. Erik raises his eyes. Slowly, very slowly. His face is black and red. His hair is stuck to his face, fused to his skin. He looks at the policeman. The blue light continues to flicker. He looks away again.
Everything feels so far away.
As if he is only watching himself through a window.
As if he had never really been here.

 

---

 

Chapter 25: Spectrum - Left behind

Notes:

interrupted reading flow, we love it :-D a bit of gore for the eyes

The boy wakes up.
The walls are no longer blue, no longer white, no longer black. They are ochre. The surrounding room is sterile, as empty and cold as the gaze he casts at the wall in front of him. There are childish drawings on the windows, but they seem far away.

Too far.

He tries to sit up, but his body refuses. It feels heavy, like lead, as if it is sinking into the mattresses. He blinks in fatigue, touching the comforter, but everything remains blurred, distant. The air around him feels thick, heavy. He can barely breathe. His left hand slowly strokes his face. It feels strange. Rough fabric rubbing against his skin. Far too much fabric. Reflexively, he raises both arms, lifts them into his field of vision.

Bandages.

Everywhere.

 

The noise that drowned out the silence before becomes quieter, fades into the background, but it remains there, a steady,

h e a v y hummmmmmm.

 

He turns his head, looks to the side. A drip hangs on a stand next to his bed, drops sinking with each passing moment. Next to him is a monitor. The screen flickers, showing a green line that twitches at regular intervals. Small and large spikes that radiate through the room.
The noise becomes a little quieter, almost a flicker lurking in the background. The green on the screen becomes more and more present, larger.

 

It stares at him.

 

It casts a spell over him.

 

The door swings open. A doctor comes to the bedside and speaks, but his words are nothing but bubbles in the air. He talks, explains with a pen, draws on a piece of paper what has been done. But the boy doesn't listen, he just stares at him. Nothing gets through to him. The doctor continues to talk about what still needs to be done, what will follow. But the boy is far away, doesn't hear, can't hear.

Beep. Beep.

The sound of the monitor. The calm, regular intervals. Horizontal, spikes up, spikes down, then horizontal again.

Beep. Beep.

The tones sound like an echo that fades over time, decays into nothing.

Beep. Beep.

 

…

Men in dark blue uniforms visit. They sit down by the bed, their voices like a thunderstorm that mixes with the loud pulse in his head. They talk to him, explain his rights, what will happen to him. What will happen to the bad man.

What has happened to the woman.

 

The noise gets louder again, overwhelming him until no more words can get thro-

The boy stares at the monitor, the green line dances up and down.

The drip.

The wind outside the window.

 

All these things are close...

 

But not the men,

the voices,

 

 

they are far away.

 

More men in white are appearing. They talk, but the boy can't hear them. It's as if they're all in another room. A room so far away that he doesn't even know if he has ever entered it.

…

The first thing he feels is the pull. A heavy pressure, an unpleasant pull on his face that causes his senses to disintegrate into small fragments.
The boy blinks. A soft buzzing in his head, slowly accompanied by a faint beeping on the monitor. He is awake. But he is not really there. His eyes open very slowly, and he has to force them to recognize the world around him.
Everything is blurred, the sounds return slowly, through the layers of deafness. The room is glaring, too glaring, and the boy blinks again, trying to orient himself. A moment passes, in which he doesn't know where he is.

 

“Erik?” he hears a familiar voice. It's a doctor's voice, but it sounds so far away. “You're awake, very good.”
He just blinks. The room begins to sharpen. The doctor stands in front of him, his face a blur of something. The words the doctor speaks reach him as if through a thick fog.
“I'm sorry, Erik,” he hears him say, ”your nose couldn't be saved. It had to be removed. It was too late to save it. The necrosis is-”

The boy stares into the air as the words bounce off him. Something inside him doesn't understand them. They are empty, intangible. The term “necrosis” remains a foreign word. It strikes him, frightens him.

He raises his hand. A slight pull in his face, a pain that is not quite painful, but he feels it. It feels different. He touches the place where his nose used to be. An empty space, wrapped in bandages. He opens his mouth again and again, forcing himself to breathe.

 

“You've done well,” says the doctor, his voice reassuring, ”You're strong, Erik. You will recover.”
But the boy doesn't listen. His hand remains where his nose used to be. An empty feeling spreads through him. He can't believe what has happened to him.

 

Something that belonged to him is gone.

 

A part of him that is

 

lost forever.

 

And the noise in his head gets louder again. A new noise. A roar that merges with the doctor's quiet words. Everything he knows is overlaid by this noise.

The sounds become blurred.

The world becomes distant again.

And the boy remains in this emptiness,

in this deafening silence

in which he can no longer grasp anything.

 

---

 

Chapter 26: Spectrum - Sunny

The boy is still in the same hospital room. The monitor disappears, as does the drip. The days, which blend into a thick, viscous mush, lose all meaning.

 

Every morning, at the same time, a nurse appears. Her steps echo in the room as she places a wash bowl on the small side table.
“Good morning, Erik!” Her voice is loud, almost cheerful, as she pulls open the curtains and the bright light spills over the room. “How are you today?” The boy's yellow eye follow her, his gaze dull and empty behind the thick bandages.

He recognizes her.
He has seen her many times before. It's the same nurse every second day. Her movements are routine, and yet every moment feels foreign to Erik. She unpacks fresh gauze bandages, puts a bottle of Octenisept on the table, and has tweezers and scissors ready. Then she sits down on the edge of the bed.
“So, look,” she says and glances over her shoulder, making sure no one can hear her. She pulls a lollipop out of her lab coat pocket. The plastic glistens in the sun, allowing the red inside to shine through.

 

“I'll make you a deal,” she continues, her eyes fixed intently on the boy. “If I can change your bandages today without you screaming or biting, I'll give you this lollipop.”
He stares at the lollipop. Red, shiny. The thought of it calms him, holds him in place. The world becomes a little clearer when he just looks at the lollipop.
“Is that a good deal?” she asks gently. Slowly, almost mechanically, the boy nods. He must have this lollipop.

 

The red reminds him of something, something...

lost.

 

“Deal,” she says and puts the lollipop on the side table. “Where should we start? You decide.” She smiles lovingly at him, and he shrugs, holding up his right arm.
“Okay, you're the boss,” she says and nods. Carefully and deliberately, she begins to cut the gauze bandages from his arm. The boy looks at the lollipop again. The sun shines through the window and makes the red color in the plastic sparkle magically.
He can feel his arm slowly getting cold. A tremor runs through his fingers. He looks briefly at the nurse who is examining his arm.
“Very good. It's healing very well,” she says, but the boy barely hears her. The lollipop, the red, the glow, fills his gaze.

 

He doesn't notice that she is working on his other arm, that she is also removing the bandages there and making the same reassuring statement. Hands obscure his vision. He blinks and looks up at her. Her hair shines in a coppery red, and her freckles stand out on her face. Her eyes are green-blue and somehow warm.

 

He likes her.

 

“There you go, little darling. Please sit up a little,” she says. Carefully, almost gently, she helps him up. The boy looks at her, feels the room spinning around him, feels distant and close at the same time. A few red strands hang in her face, shimmering like fairy hair in the sunlight.
“Good, now you know what's coming. The scissors are cold. But I won't hurt you. I promise,” she says, and the boy nods. He stares at the shimmering hair. She carefully removes the bandage, and then her smile breaks. Not much of the warm, friendly expression remains on her face. She whispers, “Oh no,” gets up and walks out of the room.

 

The boy stares after her, then at the lollipop, which is still shiny on the table. He leans forward, stretches out his hand and tries to grab the lollipop. His fingers are shaky and uncoordinated. But he manages it after several attempts.

 

Now the lollipop is his.

 

The doctor storms into the room. Following behind him is the nurse, now pale, now without the warm smile. The doctor bends down to the boy, takes the lollipop from his hand in a casual movement. Then he holds Erik's head firmly. The boy stares after the lollipop, which is now out of reach. Then he looks at the doctor without understanding what is happening.

 

“Good morning, Erik,” says the doctor, but the boy doesn't really hear the words. Everything around him blurs, time becomes heavier and the noise returns, penetrating his ears, making everything else seem far away.
“The skin is shedding,” growls the doctor sullenly. “We'll have to operate again, today.”

The noise gets louder.

 

And, as always, the boy can't escape.

 

---

 

Chapter 27: Spectrum - Dandelion

Notes:

Sometimes writing is like art. It hurts. It takes time. And the visual aspect is not equally accessible to everyone.
Nevertheless, I wish you a wonderful day.

The boy hears it again — the beeping.

 

A quiet, incessant noise in the background like a constant flicker.

 

The beeping, the flickering triggers an unbearable itch in his brain.

 

He wants to open his eyes, but he can't.

 

Beep.

 

His eyelids remain heavy. Invisible hands are holding them shut. The itching in his brain fades and it gets dark.
Another hint of consciousness,

 

a beep,

 

then emptiness again.

He hears wild mumbling, voices buzzing through the fog in his head.

 

Beep.

 

Words that make no sense.

 

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

 

Then there is a flash.

A bright, flickering light that blinds him for a moment before disappearing again.

 

Beep.

 

And that unbearable noise. It fills him, envelops him, makes everything else fade into the background.

 

No escape.

 

Beep.

 

…

 

Weeks go by. The days are nothing more than an indefinable mush that keeps repeating itself, without a beginning and without an end.
Doctor's rounds.
Breakfast.
Not hungry.
Lunch.
Some soup.
Dinner.
Not hungry.
Injections.
Changing bandages.
Being washed from time to time.
Being forced out of bed.
Wandering through the corridors with heavy legs.

Loneliness.

Hopelessness.

 

A terrible state of alarm and at the same time boredom expand in the delicate body.
Each day drags on like the last. The boy is trapped in this unreal space, a space in which time has no place.

 

Only the pain.
Only the noise.
Only the pulling and tugging at his skin.

 

And the voices that are always there, but sound more and more distant.

 

Beep.

Beep.

 

Beep.

 

---

 

 

Chapter 28: Spectrum - Sitting in Limbo

His bag is being packed.
He sits on the bed, looking away into the distance.
The surgical mask covers half of his face, but the wounds are still visible under the mask and the thick plasters. They flash out at the edges.

 

Dark.
Red.
Scaly.

 

The yellow eyes that once looked out at the world with childlike innocence are now dull, almost lifeless. His right eye is almost completely covered by melted skin, a distorted memory of what once was. And yet his eyes follow, without any emotional reaction, the movements of a stranger who throws his few belongings into a sports bag.
“Come on. We have to go.” The plump woman, with a messy braid hanging over the side of her shoulder, holds her hand out to him.

He shakes his head slowly, his neck thin and fragile. “I don't have time for this, come on now,” she hisses, grabbing his hand and pulling him off the bed with a jerk.
A whimper escapes him, a wordless sound that he doesn't really notice under all the noise inside his head. He goes with her, without resistance, because his body no longer has any will.

The boy has no choice.

He never had one.

 

…

 

The new room is small.
A bunk bed, a wardrobe with a double door, a desk, and a chair in front of it. A few pictures hang crookedly on the wall.
Erik stands in the doorway, unable to enter the room.

Everything is gray, blurry, not like...

 

like what?

 

He no longer knows.

His tired eyes wander, looking for something to hold on to, and finally they stop at a boy.
“That's Mikha. He's going to be your new roommate. Mikha, be nice to him.” The woman puts the bag down and leaves. Her steps disappear and the bubble around Erik becomes quieter.

Mikha approaches, picks up Erik's bag and carries it into the room. “Dude, you look like a mess. Where did you come from?” Mikha asks as his fingers open the bag and tip out the contents onto the floor.
Erik only looks at him briefly, then lowers his head.
The silence inside him is like a heavy cloak. He stands there frozen to the spot, his tongue transformed into a lump in his mouth long ago.

“What's wrong with you? Are you deaf or something?” Mikha gets louder, the questions come faster. “What's your name? Where do you come from? I asked you a question!” he demands as he searches through Erik's few belongings for valuables.

He finds nothing.

Sighing, he stands up.

Erik wants to answer. He wants so badly to. But his jaw remains immobile, rigid, as if it were made of stone. The words don't come. Instead, he just stares at the strange boy.

 

---