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

More time… Endless time. Imprisoned. The man bites. And drinks. Bites. And drinks.

Then the glowing rod moves up into his head and everything turns pink as he jerks his head up from the rope and falls…

Eli caught him when he fell backward from Eli's lips. Held him in his arms. Oskar fumbled for whatever there was to grasp, the body in front of him, and squeezed it hard, looked unseeing around the room.

Stay still.

After a while a pattern started to emerge before Oskar's eyes. Wallpaper. Beige with white, almost invisible roses. He recognized it. It was the wallpaper in his living room. He was in the living room in his and his mom's apartment.

And the person in his arms was… Eli.

A boy. My friend. Yes.

Oskar felt sick to his stomach, dizzy. He freed himself from Eli's arms and sat down in the couch, looked around as if to reassure himself again that he was back and not… there. He swallowed, noticing that he could recall every detail of the place he had just been. It was like a real memory. Something that had happened to him, recently. The funny man, the bowl, the pain…

Eli kneeled on the floor in front of him, hands pressed against his stomach.

"Sorry."

Just like…

"What happened to Mama?"

Eli looked uncertain, asked:

"Do you mean… my mother?"

"No…" Oskar grew silent, saw the image of Mama down by the stream rinsing the clothes. But it wasn't his mother. They didn't look anything alike. He rubbed his eyes and said,

"Yes. Right. Your mother."

"I don't know."

"They weren't the ones who-"

"I don't know!"

Eli's hands squeezed so hard in front of his stomach that the knuckles whitened, his shoulders pulled up. Then he relaxed, said more gently:

"I don't know. Excuse me. Excuse the whole… thing. I wanted you to… I don't know. Please excuse me. It was… stupid."

Eli was a copy of his mother. Thinner, smoother, younger but… a copy. In twenty years Eli would probably look just like the woman by the stream.

Except that he won't. He's going to look exactly like he looks now.

Oskar sighed, exhausted, leaned back in the couch. Too much. An incipient headache groped along his temples, found foothold, pressed in. Too much. Eli stood up.

"I'll go now."

Oskar leaned his head in his hand, nodded. Didn't have the energy to protest, think about what he should do. Eli took off the bathrobe and Oskar got another glimpse of his groin. Now he saw that in the midst of that pale skin there was a faint pink spot, a scar.

What does he do when he… pees? Or maybe he doesn't…

Couldn't muster the energy to ask. Eli crouched down next to the plastic bag, untied it, and started to pull out his clothes. Oskar said: "You can… take something of mine."

"It's OK."

Eli took out the checkered shirt. Dark squares against the blue. Oskar sat up. The headache whirled against his temples.

"Don't be silly, you can-"

"It's OK."

Eli started to put on the bloodstained shirt and Oskar said: "You're gross, don't you get it? You're gross."

Eli turned to him with the shirt in his hands. "Do you think so?"

"Yes."

Eli put the shirt back in the bag.

"What should I take then?"

"Something from the closet. Whatever you like."

Eli nodded, went into Oskar's room where the closets were while Oskar let himself slide sideways into the couch and pressed his hands against his temples to prevent them from cracking.

Mom, Eli's mom, my mom. Eli, me. Two hundred years. Eli's dad. Eli's dad? That old man who… the old man.

Eli came back into the living room. Oskar got ready to say what he was planning to say but stopped himself when he saw that Eli was wearing a dress. A faded yellow summer dress with small white dots. One of his mother's dresses. Eli stroked his hand over it.

"Is this alright? I took the one that looked the most worn."

"But it's…"

"I'll bring it back later." Yes, yes, yes.

Eli went up to him, crouched down, and took his hand.

"Oskar? I'm sorry that… I don't know what I should…"

Oskar waved with his other hand to get him to stop, said: "You know that that old guy, that he's escaped, don't you?"

"What old guy?"

"The old guy who… the one you said was your dad. The one who lived with you."

"What about him?"

Oskar shut his eyes. Blue lightning flashed inside his eyelids. The chain of events he had reconstructed from the papers flashed past and he got angry, loosening his hand from Eli's and making it into a fist, hitting against his own throbbing head. He said with his eyes still shut: "Cut it out. Just cut it out. I know all of it, OK. Quit pretending. Quit lying, I'm so damn tired of that."

Eli didn't say anything. Oskar pinched his eyes shut, breathed in and out.

"The old man has escaped. They've been looking for him the whole day without finding him. Now you know."

A pause. Then Eli's voice, above Oskar's head:

"Where?"

"Here. In Judarn. The forest. By Akeshov."

Oskar opened his eyes. Eli had stood up, stood there with his hand over his mouth and large, frightened eyes above his hand. The dress was too big, hung like a sack over his thin shoulders, and he looked like a kid who had borrowed his mom's clothes without permission and was now awaiting his punishment.

"Oskar," said Eli. "Don't go out. After it gets dark. Promise me that." The dress. The words. Oskar snorted, couldn't help saying it. "You sound like my mom."

The squirrel darts down the trunk of the oak tree, stops, listens. A siren, in the distance.

On Bergslagsvagen an ambulance is going by with flashing blue lights, the sirens on.

Inside the ambulance there are three people. Lacke Sorensson is sitting on a folding seat and is holding a bloodless, lacerated hand belonging to Virginia Lind. An ambulance technician is adjusting the tube that administers saline solution to Virginia's body in order to give her heart something to pump around, now that she has lost so much blood.

The squirrel judges the sound to be not dangerous, irrelevant. It continues down the tree trunk. All day there have been people in the forest, dogs. Not a moment of calm and only now, when it is dark, does the squirrel dare come down out of the oak tree it has been forced to hole up in all day.

Now the dogs' barking and the voices have died down, gone away. The thundering bird that has been hovering over the tree tops also appears to have returned to its nest.

The squirrel reaches the foot of the tree, runs along a thick root. It does not like to make its way over the ground in the dark, but hunger forces it on. It makes its way with alertness, stopping to listen, looking around every ten meters. Makes sure to steer clear of a badger den that has been inhabited as recently as this summer. He hasn't seen the family for a long time but you can never be too careful.

Finally the squirrel reaches its goal: the nearest of the many winter stores it has laid up in the fall. The temperature this evening has sunk below freezing and on top of the snow that has been melting all day there is now a thin, hard crust. The squirrel scratches with its claws through the crust, gets through, and moves down. Stops, listens, and digs again. Through snow, leaves, dirt.

Just as it picks up a nut between its paws it hears a sound.

Danger.

It takes the nut in its teeth and runs straight up into a pine tree without having time to cover over the store. Once in the safety of a branch it takes the nut into its paws again, tries to locate the sound. Its hunger is great and the food only some centimeters from its mouth but the danger must first be located, identified, before it is time to eat.