Hell could be a TV, just showing you what you can’t see. Consider yourself not in the picture, forced to watch.

I hated her and didn’t understand why I wanted that cunt at all. Why again did I want her exactly? She showed me off. Of all of them, it was the one sociopath around whom the flies buzzed about, that I had the feeling of being understood with. I knew she was a beast of drive, untameable, but I could only think of how we would throw plates and other utensils after the other in our shared kitchen and then fuck on the tiles until we could hold each other hands again. It would have had something comforting to impregnate her because it would force us to decide. Not that I need to justify myself to anyone else for my choice But I could have better justified to myself, whatever it is was I had to do to keep her. She was a woman I could accidentally getting pregnant and without remorse keep in my life. Is there a bigger compliment? Even if it turns out afterward that the attraction was only dizziness, deception, illusion or self-deception, I imagined myself picking up our child and my heart melting when I saw these dry steppes of eyes. I was so far into my mind, ahead of reality, sometimes I forgot that I had never taken a step. I never had the feeling she wanted me to.
I also hated her because the other flies knew that they could eat honey with her. And I was probably the biggest insect, and I only got her shit. I must be a born-again masochist. I must have been one in a previous life, a nobleman who let himself be whipped by his servants until all the places that could easily be hidden had been bruised.
“I just got a message” she giggled, “I didn’t actually write for three days and now he’s apologizing to me. Look what he sent me”, it was a bad meme,” and an invitation to dinner as an apology”
“Is it him who you told me about?”
She hesitated, nothing came.
“Maybe the guy with the nice apartment or a painting assignment? Your missing bastard son from the mall, or very unlikely, your new boyfriend?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I’m just saying, I thought the point of a serious, romantic relationship was to hear each other at least briefly every day. So you have someone to talk to.”
She cut her head off and didn’t look at me.
“I know it would get on your nerves somewhere.”
“That’s not what I meant. I think it’s ridiculous for you to interfere.”
“You told me, I didn’t draw the line”
The borderline. This interpersonal barrier, which people crossed for the sole purpose of becoming more personal in order to understand each other, a barrier tailored according to the circumstances. Yes, she shifted the line in the sand every day. One time we talked about her sexual preferences, then a question about her opinion on the subject of love was too much to take, then she told me about her rebellious phase and the stupid things she had committed to in detail and after felt ashamed of questions about her art.
“When I spend the evenings with my colleague, it’s actually quite nice here.”
“Is he nice?”
“He’s really funny, I’m surprised you never met him when you come here so often.”
“Oh, you mean the one with the Nordic symbol on the upper arm and the shorn hair?”
“So you do know him after all”
“Yeah, it’s always been nice to me, actually.”
“Yeah, he’s nice too. He went to the zoo with me once.”
“At the zoo? That sounds boring.”
“No, it was really nice. We laughed a lot. His monkey imitation had me in tears.”
“Did you go out with him often?”
“That wasn’t a date, we met there by accident.”
“What’s a man of about 25 doing in a zoo?”
“Don’t talk so smart, what do you think I was doing there?”
“Painting, I guess.”
“Oh, you’re a smartass.”
“Don’t get your head in a twist, that was just a question.”
“What’s Mr.Top-notch doing in a bar at 10 pm?”
“Talking to mademoiselle snatched up because he obviously has no other friends.”
“You’re not jealous?”
“Yeah, I am and I know I shouldn’t be. He’s not even your boyfriend.”
“Then why are you jealous?”
“I wouldn’t be jealous if I thought we couldn’t fit together.”
“And now you’re waiting for me to realize that, too?”
“So yeah, but even if you don’t see it, I’d still be there somehow.”
“I don’t have many abilities, but when I can do something, it’s pain.”
“Whoa,  a really great ability you have there, Superman.”
Right now, all you’re letting me do is ask: Why not us? This feels like shit. Because I know why not me. Whether she knew it too, that’s what I was wondering about. She could have had anyone. Everybody loved her, she was funny, so she has never got to be alone at night.
“Hey, sweetheart, all right?”; “Hey, honey. Same as always”; “Hey, darling, long time no see. I missed you.”
Why are you doing this in front of me?
I followed their every move and I saw in all of them, that the men’s hands would slide even deeper if they could. Do you want me to stare at them, in a race with their intentions, to make me look at him as if he had insulted my mother and killing him with my eyes when he finally realizes with whom of the rats you are spending your time with? Should I make a snide remark, or wait until he’s gone? You know I can’t help it. It’s an instinct. But I didn’t speak my mind. I was hurt,
Each of them got a kiss on the cheek, some, less often, even a platonic kiss on the lips. I only ever got a light lift of her head, maybe a smile if she was in a good mood, and a glass of whiskey no matter when she saw me.
“Do you have someone to flirt with every night?” I asked her. I couldn’t hold off the undertone.
“You’re just jealous because I’m not doing it with you” and I kept my mouth shut because she was right.
There was this guy Roland, a handsome guy who was usually out with a girl on his arm. He kissed her on the cheek when they met. This time he had come alone in his tight shirt, which was already bursting from the big muscles, he tried to define in his spare time for the ladies. She smiled at him as they exchanged trifles. He got another kiss on the cheek. I stared them down. Roland noticed my dark look, he turned to me:
“Do you have a problem, friend?”
I drank my whiskey quietly. Even she seemed surprised at my restraint. He turned her back to me. I didn’t break eye contact with him. He bared his teeth and in my stupidest hour, I fell victim to the simplicity of envy. He grabbed her bottom, boasted with her back to me turned with what I could not simply take. I walked past him, pulled the glass over his head and kicked him in the back of the knee. It hit him unexpectedly. I didn’t hit with the bottom of the pint glass. I didn’t mean to kill him, just maybe, put him in a half-hour coma…a deep slumber. Where he wakes up from his dream. The glass shattered. He went to the ground and when I saw that he was still twitching, I sat down, drank as much as I could in one go, served myself another one from the bottles in reach of my hands and knocked the transparent liquid back.
The masochist in me was already looking forward to the blows and my consciousness numbed me to be beaten to a pulp, to spare itself from parts of the upcoming pain. I didn’t respond to the shock on her face. She looked pretty even in shock. She bent down to Roland, shook him, he made a noise and she asked him if he needed an ambulance. He said no and lifted himself up. As he stood on his feet, she combed with her fingers his hair for splinters. Constrained, air shot out of his nostrils. He was turned to me. I could see the bull brain working behind his eyes, the imagined run-up taken to push me from the stool and to impale my heart with his horns. Before I had never broken glass over someone’s skull, especially have I never planned to make them angry with such a gesture, I thought more of self-defense, because my words were usually enough, but in my defense, I lacked the time and the patience.  
When his hair was glass splinters free, Roland dragged me outside. I didn’t really seem  In a side alley, he let me go. Our fight had no spectators. There wasn’t much to see either. He hit me. I didn’t stand a chance. When I laid on the floor and started laughing while he was pushing his legs into me, he stopped for a brief moment and continued. It flashed before my eyes every time he kicked me. I struggled with fainting but still got to grab his leg. Roland released his left foot with ease from my grip. He followed my defense up twice, then spat on me and left me in a puddle of blood, tears, drool and misery.
The laughter was gone, the jealousy was gone. I was lying on the ground, giggling. My nose was bleeding. My mouth tasted of blood and my lungs felt like they were filled with nails. I was proud for a moment, of what I couldn’t say anymore. But that was the problem of foundationless pride, he didn’t stay long to whom, who had time to think.
Only two minutes later, I regretted my impulsive decision and another five minutes passed and I laid there, ashamed of myself, picked myself up after some time and went straight home. I think getting planted on right in the kisser was my compensation for the constant verbally handing out. I just couldn’t let it go and proved nothing except that if you wanted it enough, maybe you could get God to come out of heaven and grace you with some left and right fists in your face. That the old fart rose from his magical floating throne in heaven was all I wanted to see. You should have experienced my misery, old heavenly gatekeeper.
When I left, I said nothing to her. I didn’t go back to the bar. Roland had won. I wish it were different, but I didn’t do it for her, I did this for me.
“Roland said he really beat the shit out of you,” she said the next time.
At first, I didn’t want to go, but Ätz was on the road with a woman and I wasn’t so keen on tricycles, so a week later I sat here again and let myself in for the ridicule and the embarrassment.
“Yes, not hard when I fight with only one hand”
“To be classified as an idiot, I need some IQ points more. I’d rather see myself as a highly functional vegetable. Like a potato with glasses on.”
The annoyed expression didn’t leave her face completely. The cards stood better when I saw the corners of their mouths going up for a moment.
“I hope it hurt.”
“Believe me, now more than ever. You could pour me another drink to ease the pain.”
“Have you ever thought about just leaving the whiskey away?”
“Rehab? The AAs? The 12 Steps Program?”
“For instance.”
“Baby, the only 12 steps I take are from the entrance to the counter here.”
“Talking to you is like talking to a stone”
“No, a rock can’t give you such stupid answers.”
She sighed.
“Okay. . . I can’t take it anymore”
She turned her cold shoulder towards me and didn’t serve me all evening. I drank my glass and tried to attract her again with my words. I didn’t have any success. To bring them back with the words that drove them away was like catching fish with a fishing knife. Or shooting yourself in the leg and wonder why you have to limb to the hospital.
“Please come back.”
“No, you’re a pain in the ass. I’m already annoyed without your harassment.”
“Okay, what’s bugging you then but me?”
“Don’t” and I didn’t. I grabbed my lighter and cigarettes and left. The streets were empty. Not even a lot of alcoholics went around the houses on this Sunday night. I kicked a can along the way until I kicked too hard, on the street it tumbled and then was lost. A car drove over it, smashed the can. I laughed loudly until I turned into the next narrow alley. There in the middle I stopped and shouted into the night sky: “WHAT DID I DO?!? DIDN’T YOUR FUCKIN SON ALREADY DIE FOR OUR SINS?”
A dog barked, then another, a whole orchestra of mutts showed themselves in the alley. I howled:
And the dogs howled and whimpered along. Windows opened, old men and women appeared, who I robbed of one of their last night sleeps. Cats and parrots agreed, even the rats crawled out of their pizza boxes and garbage cans and roared with me in chorus into the sky:
“SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I CALL THE POLICE” heaven shouted back. I took my legs in my hands and pulled myself out of the alley.  


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