John Lindqvist - Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

Jonny turned his head, pretended like he hadn't heard.

"What did you say, Piggy?" Let me go.

Jonny turned toward Micke.

"He thinks we should let him go."

Micke shook his head.

"But we've made such nice-looking…" He waved his whip in the air.

"What do you think, Tomas?"

Tomas looked at Oskar as if he were a rat, still alive, writhing in his trap.

"I think Piggy needs a whipping."

There were three of them. They had whips. It was a maximally unfair situation. He could throw the rock in Tomas' face. Or hit him with it if he came close. There would be a talk with the principal and so on. But they would understand. There had been three of them, armed.

I was… desperate.

He wasn't desperate at all. In fact he felt a streak of calm through the fear, now that he had made up his mind. They could whip him as long as it gave him the opportunity to smash the rock in Tomas' disgusting face.

Jonny and Micke stepped up. Jonny whipped Oskar across one thigh so he doubled over in pain. Micke went up behind him and locked his arms by his side.

No.

Now he couldn't throw it. Jonny whipped his legs, spun around once like Robin Hood in that movie, hit again.

Oskar's legs burned from the lashes. He writhed in Micke's hold but couldn't get free. Tears welled up in his eyes. He screamed. Jonny gave Oskar one last hard lash that grazed Micke's legs so that he yelled "watch it, will you" but without releasing his hold.

A tear ran down Oskar's cheek. It wasn't fair. He had picked up all the rocks, he had bent over backwards, so why did they have to hurt him?

The rock that he had been holding onto so hard fell out of his hand and he started to cry for real.

Jonny said with a pitying voice, "Piggy's crying."

Jonny seemed satisfied. His work was done. He gestured to Micke to let him go. Oskar's whole body was shaking, wracked with sobs, and from the pain in his legs. His eyes were filled with tears when he lifted his face to them and heard Tomas' voice.

"What about me?"

Micke grabbed Oskar's arms again and through the fog of tears over his eyes he saw Tomas walk closer. He snivelled,

"Please don't."

Tomas raised his whip and struck. One single blow. Oskar's face exploded and he jerked to the side so violently that Micke either lost or let go of his grip and said,

"What the hell, Tomas. That was…"

Jonny sounded angry.

"Now you can talk to his mom."

Oskar didn't hear what Tomas answered, if he said anything.

Their voices disappeared into the distance; they left him with his face in the sand. His left cheek burned. The sand was cold, soothed the heat in his legs. He wanted to put his cheek in the sand as well, but realized it wasn't a good idea.

He lay there so long he started to get cold. Then he sat up and carefully felt his cheek. Blood came off onto his fingers.

He walked over to the outside toilets and looked in the mirror. The cheek was swollen and covered in half-congealed blood. Tomas must have struck him as hard as he could. Oskar washed his cheek and looked in the mirror again. The wound had stopped bleeding and it wasn't deep. But it ran right across almost his entire cheek.

Mom. What do I tell her?

The truth. He needed comforting. In an hour mom would be home and then he would tell her what they had done to him and she would be completely distraught and hug him and hug him and he would sink into her arms, into her tears, and they would cry together.

Then she would call Tomas' mom.

Then she would call Tomas' mom and they would argue and then Mom would cry about how mean Tomas' mom was and then…

Woodshop.

He had had an accident in woodshop. No, then maybe she would call the teacher.

Oskar studied his wound in the mirror. How did you get something like this? He had fallen off the play structure. It didn't really work but Mom would want to believe it. She would still feel sorry for him and comfort him, but without all that other stuff. The play structure.

His pants felt cold. Oskar unbuttoned them and checked. His underpants were soaked. He took out the Pissball and rinsed it out. He was about to put it back but stopped and looked in the mirror.

Oskar. That's… Oskar.

He took the rinsed Pissball and put it on his nose. Like a clown nose. The yellow ball and the red wound on his cheek. Oskar. He opened his eyes wide and tried to look crazy. Yes. Creepy. He talked to the clown in the mirror.

"It's over now, it's enough. Understand? This is it."

The clown didn't answer.

"I'm not standing for this. Not even one more time, understand?"

Oskar's voice echoed in the empty bathroom.

"What should I do? What should I do, do you think?"

He twisted his face into a grimace until it hurt, distorted his voice by making it as raspy and low as he could. The clown spoke.

"… kill them… kill them… kill them."

Oskar shivered. This was a little creepy for real. It really sounded like someone else's voice, and the face in the mirror wasn't his own. He took the Pissball from his nose, put it back in his pants.

The tree.

Not because he really believed in this and all… but he would go stab the tree. Maybe, just maybe. If he really concentrated, then…

Maybe.

Oskar picked up his bag and hurried home, filling his head with lovely images.

Tomas is sitting at his computer when he feels the first stab. Doesn't understand where it is coming from. Staggers out into the kitchen with the blood gushing from his stomach. "Mom, Mom, someone is stabbing me."

Tomas' mom would just stand there. Tomas' mom who always took his side no matter what he had done. She would just stand there. Terror stricken. While the stabs continued to puncture Tomas' body.

He falls to the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, "Mom… Mom while the invisible knife cuts open his stomach so his intestines spill out onto the linoleum.

Not that it really worked that way.

But still.

The apartment reeked of cat piss.

Giselle lay on his lap, purring. Bibi and Beatrice were wrestling on the floor. Manfred sat in the window like usual, his nose pushed up against the windowpane, and Gustaf was trying to get Manfred's attention by buffeting his side with his head.

Mans and Tufs and Cleopatra were relaxing in the armchair, Tufs pawing at a few loose threads. Karl-Oskar tried to jump up onto the windowsill but missed and fell backwards onto the floor. He was blind in one eye.

Lurvis was out in the hall keeping an eye on the mail slot, ready to jump if any advertising was pushed in. Vendela was resting on the hat shelf keeping an eye on Lurvis. Her deformed right front paw hung down between the wooden slats and flinched from time to time.

A couple more cats were out in the kitchen, eating or lazing around on tables and chairs. Five were sleeping on the bed in the bedroom. A few more had their favorite hideaways in closets or cupboards they had learned how to get into on their own.

After Gosta had stopped letting them out-relenting to pressure from his neighbors-no more fresh genetic material had come in. Most of the kittens born were either dead or so deformed they died a few days after birth. About half of the twenty-eight cats that lived in Gosta's apartment had some kind of congenital defect. They were blind or deaf or were missing teeth or had motor damage.

He loved them all.

Gosta scratched Giselle behind the ear.

"Yes… my little darling… what are we going to do? You don't know? No, neither do I. But we have to do something, don't we? You can't get away with something like this. It was Jocke. I knew him. And now he's