Хьелль Аскильдсен - The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

I have always known my mother’s rage. Her recurring breakdowns. The number of pills she took rose and fell like the tide. There were periods when she would be drained of energy and strength. Her mother had apparently suffered from this too. I didn’t know what this immense exhaustion was. I couldn’t understand it, but I bore witness to it every single day. I was just a child.

It was me alone who took care of the household chores. My mother never cooked, she never did the washing up, she didn’t do laundry, she never took care of anything, including me. She could spend an entire day on the sofa. She must have been really tired. In the beginning I would refuse when she asked me to do something. I thought I could say no, thought I had a choice. I quickly learnt that I was wrong. Her wish became my command.

I met a man. He was quite a lot older than I was, but that didn’t matter, because I loved him. Fari was a nice man, he had an education, a steady job at a fish-processing plant, and that made me feel safe and secure. I really felt like I had met the man who I would spend the rest of my life with. When we moved into our own home, we started a new family. We had three children, one after another, and I was going to be a good mother. My children would not have to go through what I had endured.

At times—and I am so grateful for being able to see this—I find myself being too hard on the children. When this happens, I always make sure to apologize to them, to look them deep in the eyes and promise them that I will pay more attention to my behaviour in the future and be better at controlling my temper. I don’t know why I sometimes act like this towards my own children. I can never really put my finger on what it is that makes me do this.

I hurry home as soon as I get off work. It’s become a habit for me to hurry, even if there is nothing in particular I have to do. I have a husband now, we have our own home, but still I can’t seem to shake off old habits. Perhaps I ought to do some cleaning before I go and pick up the kids.

When I step in through the door, I am surprised to see my husband’s work overalls and large rubber boots in the hallway, but also glad to know that he is home already. I dash into the kitchen. It’s empty. Then I hear a sound from the bedroom. As I get closer, I’m met by voices and other sounds. I open the door and my “Hello” is replaced by a scream. Like a punch in the face I see my husband… with my mother. Her nakedness has infiltrated his. They are like a patchwork quilt; legs locked around each other, his hands all over her back, even on her flabby, wrinkled buttocks. Pearls of sweat dot her bare neck. Despite her long hair covering his face completely, I still know that it’s him. The scar over his knee glows white and mocking up at me.

I scream and try to get my mother out. Point towards the door. I am no longer the master of my own body or my conscious thoughts. Both of them are busy getting dressed. I become immersed in the nightmare, I feel only disgust. Neither of them attempts to apologize. They just want to get out. Fari takes a long time to put on his sweater, but my mother has disappeared. With an imploring look on his face, a “Let me explain”, he reaches out for my arms. With my entire body I ask him to go to hell.

As soon as the front door has slammed shut, my body starts to shake wildly and feel weak, and I fall down to the floor and break down in painful tears. I sob so fiercely that I can barely catch my breath. In the hope of waking from this nightmare, I scream my lungs out—I don’t give a shit if the neighbours can hear me. I could somehow have expected this from my mother, but from my husband? Never. I would never have imagined that he could do this to me. I hit myself and imagine that it is Fari, that shit, who I’m hitting. I want to beat him until I’m not angry any more. Right in the gut. Or the head. I can almost feel his nose as it crunches under my fist, and the warmth from the blood as it streams down his face. I reach for a cushion, press my face into it and scream as hard as I can as the tears keep running.

Some days have passed, but I am still exhausted from the rage I’m feeling. I take care of the kids alone, I will not fail them. I’m not that kind of mother. I am not ready yet to see Fari. Fuck Fari. When I get off work, I pick up my two eldest from preschool and the youngest from daycare and head home. They are whining and impatient. I decide to make their tea early so I can get them into bed as soon as I can. They are fighting in the living room. I hear a little bump, someone’s fallen, two of them are shrieking. I ask them to say sorry to each other, to come to an agreement. I am patient. Gentle. A good mother. They turn on the TV.

As I stand there making the dinner, I start to miss Fari. God, this is gross! The bastard! Why in hell should I have to take care of our children—I could just as well drink myself to pieces! Making me miss him. Failing me. Making me lonely. Shitty, shitty love! Why me?! Everything is shattered. I know that she did it on purpose, out of jealousy. She’s jealous, because I am happy and have built myself a good life. So she tries to destroy it. That’s why. The injustice of it all hits me hard in the gut. The sound from the TV becomes a faint hum, which merges with the yells of the kids. Constant squabbles. Strife, violence and jealousy. Why do you have to decide… Ow, let go, that hurts… Mummyyyy… Stop… Crying, my youngest child walks in and nags me to be picked up, as she pulls persistently at my trouser leg. I grab hold of her neck and knock her head into the table. Everything is quiet.

I’m sitting on the floor when I regain consciousness. Everything around me has been painted red. My two eldest children are crying and calling for me, bringing me back to life. Once I have come around, I start searching manically for my mobile phone. I find it and dial 999. I need an ambulance right away, my daughter is not breathing.

I look at her through eyes that are not my own. Her lifeless body, swaddled in a blanket of blood. Feelings race through me. Restlessness. Shock. Repulsion. I feel only one thing and everything at the same time, as a dream. My whole body is shaking. My legs feel drained, so I remain on the floor next to her bloody body. I don’t know whether I am crying. The sounds around me return, and the crying of the two eldest children finally reaches me. I get up, take them into the living room, try to calm them, to soothe them. I hold them tight, and while I sit with them in my arms, our cries become one.

The paramedics get here. I can see on their faces that it is already too late. We drive to the hospital in the ambulance. With a child under each arm, I try to keep calm. Tears run down my cheeks. Don’t take them from me. They are mine. Don’t take them from me. Calm down, Louisa. You’re still in shock. Don’t take my children away from me …

The police show up in the waiting room. They have come for me. Fari has apparently been contacted, because he shows up too. He takes the children and goes into another room, and I am left alone with the police. They start on their rain of questions, questions which I answer as best I can. I tell them everything I can remember.

The doctor also asks me questions. How much anger do I feel towards Fari? How great is my hatred towards my mother? Am I capable of harm? Do I want to harm other people? My children? I don’t want to hurt anyone. I could never dream of hurting anyone. Louisa, it is the 19th of May, the time is 5.55 p.m., and you are under arrest for the crime of murder. You have the right … I cry.

With a firm grip around both my arms, they lead me out of the room, and as we walk down the hall, I see my mother in the waiting room. I am suddenly filled with anger, consumed with the thought of why in the hell she should be here. I lose control, I scream. You shit mother! You are a shitty mother! It’s you that is the shitty mother! I yell it over and over again as the police lead me out of the hospital. They toss me into the car and we drive to the holding cell.