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

"Do you sleep in a coffin?"

Eli laughed, shook his head.

"No, no, I…"

Oskar couldn't keep it in any longer. He didn't mean to, but it came out like an accusation when he said: "But you kill people!"

Eli looked back at him with an expression that looked like surprise, as if Oskar had forcefully pointed out that he had five fingers on each hand or some such equally self-evident fact.

"Yes. I kill people. Unfortunately."

"So why do you?"

A flash of anger from Eli's eyes.

"If you have a better idea I'd like to hear it."

"Yes, what… blood… there must be some way of… some way to… that you…"

"There isn't."

"Why not?"

Eli snorted, his eyes narrowed.

"Because I am like you."

"What do you mean like me? I…"

Eli thrust his hand through the air as if he was holding a knife, said:

"What are you looking at, idiot? Want to die, or something?"

Stabbed the air with his empty hand. "That's what happens if you look at me."

Oskar rubbed his lips together, dampening them.

"What are you saying?"

"It's not me that's saying it. It's you. That was the first thing I heard you say. Down on the playground."

Oskar remembered. The tree. The knife. How he had held up the blade of the knife like a mirror, seen Eli for the first time.

Do you have a reflection? The first time I saw you was in a mirror.

"I… don't kill people."

"No, but you would like to. If you could. And you would really do it if you had to."

"Because I hate someone. That's a very big…"

"Difference. Is it?"

"Yes?…"

"If you got away with it. If it just happened. If you could wish someone dead and they died. Wouldn't you do it then?" … sure.

"Sure you would. And that would be simply for your own enjoyment. Your revenge. I do it because I have to. There is no other way."

"But it's only because… they hurt me, because they tease me, because I…"

"Because you want to live. lust like me."

Eli held out his arms, laid them against Oskar's cheeks, brought his face closer.

"Be me a little."

And kissed him.

The man's fingers are curled around some dice and Oskar sees that the nails are painted black.

Silence blankets the room like thick fog. The thin hand tips… slowly… and the dice fall out, onto the table… pa-bang. Hit against each other, spin around, stop.

A two. And a four.

Oskar feels a sense of relief… he doesn't know where it comes from… when the man walks around the table, stopping in front of the row of boys like a general in front of his army. The man's voice is tonelessly flat, neither low nor high, as he stretches out his long index finger and starts to count down the row.

"One… two… three… four …"

Oskar looks to the left, in the direction the man has started to count. The boys stand, relaxed, freed. A sob. The boy next to Oskar bends over, his lower lip trembling. Oh. He's the one who is… number six. Oskar now understands his own relief.

"Five… six… and… seven."

The finger points straight at Oskar. The man looks into his eyes. And smiles.

No!

That wasn't… Oskar tears his gaze away from the man, looks at the

dice. They now show a three and a four. The boy next to Oskar looks around wildly, as if he has just woken up from a nightmare. For a second their eyes meet. Empty. Without comprehension.

Then a scream from next to the wall.

… mother…

The woman with the brown shawl runs toward him, but two men intervene, gripping her arms and… throwing her back against the stone wall. Oskar's arms fly out a little as if to catch when she falls and his lips form the word:

"… Mama!"

But hands as strong as knots are laid over his shoulders and he is taken out of the line, led to a little door. The man in the wig is still holding out his finger, following him with it while he is pushed, pulled out of the room into a dark chamber that smells

… alcohol…

… then flickering, fuzzy images; light, dark, stone, bare skin…

until the picture stabilizes and Oskar feels a strong pressure against his chest. He cannot move his arms. His right ear feels as if it is going to burst, lies pressed against a… wooden plank.

Something is in his mouth. A piece of rope. He sucks on the rope, opens his eyes.

He is lying face down on a table. Arms bound to the legs of the table. He is naked. In front of his eyes are two figures: the man with the wig and another one. A little fat man who looks… funny. No. Who looks like someone who thinks he is funny. Always tells stories that no one laughs at. The funny man who has a knife in one hand, a bowl in the other.

Something is wrong.

The pressure against his chest, his ear. Against his knees. There should be pressure against his… willie as well. But it is as if there is a… hole in the table right there. Oskar tries to wriggle a little to check it out but his body is bound too hard.

The man in the wig says something to the funny man and the funny man laughs, nods. Then both of them crouch down. The wig man fastens his gaze on Oskar. His eyes are clear blue, like the sky on a cold autumn day. Looks as if he is taking a friendly interest. The man looks into Oskar's eyes as if he is searching for something wonderful in there, something he loves.

The funny man crawls in under the table with the knife and the bowl in his hands. And Oskar understands.

He also knows that if he can just… get this piece of rope out of his mouth he doesn't have to be here. Then he disappears.

Oskar tries to pull his head back, leave the kiss. But Eli, who was prepared for this reaction, cups one hand around the back of his head, pushing his lips against his, forcing him to stay in Eli's memories, continues.

The piece of rope is pressed into his mouth and there is a hissing, wet sound when Oskar farts with fear. The man in the wig scrunches up his nose and smacks his lips, disapprovingly. His eyes don't change. Still the same expression, as on a child opening a cardboard box he knows contains a puppy.

Cold fingers grasp Oskar's penis, pulling on it. He opens his mouth to scream "nooo!" but the rope prevents him from forming the word and all that comes out is "aaaaaaah!"

The man under the table asks something and the wig man nods without shifting his gaze from Oskar. Then the pain. A red hot iron forced into his groin, gliding up through his stomach, his chest corroded by a cylinder of fire that passes right through his body and he screams, screams so his eyes are filled with tears and his body burns.

His heart beats against the table like a fist against a door and he shuts his eyes tight, he bites the rope while at a distance he hears splashing, he sees…

… his mother on her knees at the stream rinsing the clothes. Mama. Mama. She drops something, a piece of cloth, and Oskar gets up, he has been lying on his stomach and his body is burning, he gets up, he runs toward the stream, toward the rapidly disappearing piece of cloth, he throws himself into the stream to put out his torched body, to save the piece of cloth, and he manages to get it. His sister's shirt. He holds it up to the light, to his mother, who is silhouetted on the shore, and drops fall from the cloth, glittering in the sun, falling splashing into the stream, in his eyes, and he cannot see clearly because of the water running into his eyes, over his cheeks as he…

… opens his eyes and sees the blond hair unclearly, the blue eyes like distant forest pools. Sees the bowl the man is holding in his hands, the bowl he brings to his mouth and how he drinks. How the man shuts his eyes, finally shuts them and drinks…