The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

ZOMBIELAND (extracts from the novel) SØRINE STEENHOLDT

IT IS UNCOMFORTABLE to stand so close. They must live simple lives, these people, who are here to send my mother off on her final journey. I start to feel angry. I can see that the man standing next to me has not bothered to shower. He still has bed-head. I can see that he has sleep in his eyes, yellowish gunk stuck in the corners because he hasn’t washed his face yet. The woman on the other side of me has at least tried to do something with herself. Her hair has been washed and tied up tightly into a ponytail. She coughs, and I see her teeth, which haven’t been brushed for many years. She smells of smoke, and her fingernails are brownish-yellow. Standing next to her is a man, who I’m sure is wearing his best jacket. It’s too nice to wear just any day. It’s too big for him, though, and it makes him look comical in a sad way in contrast to his threadbare, washed-out jeans with holes in the knees. He pulls a small bottle of schnapps out of his inside pocket and takes a drink.

I’m being choked by my Greenlandic national costume as well by my thoughts. The heavy beaded collar is making my brow sweat, the dark thoughts are making me claustrophobic. I can’t bear the beads any longer.

When I unpacked them this morning, I admired their colours and felt the immense love I have for my country. My country. The clear colours, distinct colours. These colours are not transparent, not half colours. My country is painted with the colours of love, painted with warm colours.

Since I put them on, the heavy weight has made me feel that all my country does is weigh down on me, that my people weigh down on me. I feel like taking a gulp from the man’s bottle. I want to live like them. To fall. To give up. To live without the weight of the world, just existing and being there. I want to seem as if I’m OK. I want to rely on people to take over. I want to be able to count on other people to deal with all of it. I am fascinated by the people who have given up, but continue to live. I could let myself fall down with them. Leave here with them, go drink with them, forget about the future and live by the bottle. Stop working, stop having an opinion about myself, stop paying the rent, stop having a place to live. I could just spend the nights wherever. I could just drink and be happy. How easy life would be: to be the living dead.

There isn’t a single man in a white anorak here. I get angry. Not one single man wearing an anorak! If just one man had an anorak on, I would feel better about the future. But now the men’s anoraks swill around instead inside of them, so they need to wear jackets that are far too big for them with inside pockets filled with more floating anoraks. They are no longer men; they are empty containers with floating insides.

It is one of those days again. I am a little girl, and I go to bed. My mother stays up. She sits alone in the kitchen and drinks. I can hear her getting ready to go out around eleven, as I expect her to, despite it being a weekday. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but I can’t because I keep listening to her, even though I don’t want to. I hear every single movement she makes. I can hear by her walk how drunk she is. How many bottles she has drunk. And I hear by the way she fumbles putting her glass down how hard she is trying to keep her head clear. I can hear by the way she talks to herself that she is in a good mood. I can even work out how the night will go. Many years, many nights of practising, have made me capable of predicting whether I will be able to sleep peacefully through the night or if I need to spend it constantly sleeping with one eye open. She needs to hurry now if she is going to make it to the bar, even if she does, perhaps, have a couple of bottles left still.

I hear them come in on Saturday night, and there are a lot of them. Sounds of laughter, of jokes and of people trying too hard to laugh at them, reach me through the wall. I feel calmer knowing they are happy, even though I won’t get any sleep as long as they are here. They move into the living room and start drinking, and I can hear that they have kept their shoes on. It will be me who will have to clean up after them in the morning. The music is turned on and turned up high, and they talk, and yell and laugh. I cover my ears with my pillow, but it doesn’t help. My mother is talking louder and louder as she gets more and more drunk. She gets this hoarse voice that doesn’t sound like her own. I hate that voice more than anything else in the world. It’s a voice that changes when it has taken a swig of what it likes. A voice that becomes friendly. A voice that sounds like the voice of fearlessness. A voice wearing a mask. Even her greeting has changed. Hi. I have listened to that voice all too often.

I start to nod off, because I am so sleepy, and when, a little while later, I wake up again, I can hear that there are fewer people in the living room, and that they are calmer now. I can’t hear my mother; perhaps she has passed out somewhere. I can hear two Danish men. One of them is about to leave, and the other one will follow. Once the first one has gone, the second man goes over to my mother and tries to wake her. He calls to her softly. I know very well what he wants. When he can’t wake her, he goes over to the door. I prick up my ears and listen to every step he takes. He continues moving towards the door, but just as I allow myself to relax, I hear him creeping even more quietly back towards the living room. I lie down in my bed and pretend to be sleeping heavily. I can hear him approaching my room. A thousand thoughts seem to whirl around me. I know very well what could happen. Somehow, I have to prevent it. He moves into my room, and I can hear him quietly placing his jacket and his large rubber boots on the floor so as not to wake me. But it is not until he walks slowly over to me and starts taking off his damn belt that it truly dawns on me what he wants. I open my eyes, lift up my head and stare directly into his eyes. “Shhh… calm down,” he says quietly, as he puts his hand out and moves closer. I sit halfway up and shake my head. I am angry, terrified. But I know it won’t help to act like that. It is not enough. It takes all my courage to say something: “I’ll scream.” He steps closer, and I repeat: “I’ll scream!”

When, many years later, I look back on that night—and so many others like it—I wonder over the scale of the courage and the strength of the will I possessed. Thin and fragile; an easy prey for the horny, drunken men in my mother’s life. But no. I could not accept a fate of being a rape victim. I knew that my womanhood, my life, my future would be ruined completely by such an act. I would not let that happen to me. If it happened, I would never be able to forgive myself. When I grew up, I would give up and become an alcoholic. My life would be over in a split second. I could scream, I could fight against it, I could bite, I could kick, and I would do anything to protect myself. No one was ever going to break me.

I can see that the Danish man understands what I mean, what I’m saying. I can see that he understands that I’m ready to do whatever it takes to fight back. He starts moving backwards as he repeats, “OK… OK…” He picks up his jacket and his rubber boots and walks out of my room. Shortly after, I hear him going out of the front door. As soon as he has gone, I hurry over to the front door to lock it, checking in all the rooms on my way back to see that there is no one in them. I want to know if I can sleep safe and sound for the rest of the night.

Sometimes, when my mother was drunk, she would call for me, so she could tell me things. She would cry, sometimes, while she was telling me them, and you could see in her eyes that she had slipped back into her memories. Her father had worshipped his four sons. They were destined to be fishermen like himself. His only daughter was a thorn in his side. She was good for nothing. He took to hunting her around the house with a knife, but fortunately many years of fishing had worn out his body and made him slow. He would yell at her. Tell her that she shouldn’t go to school, because it was her brothers that would earn the money, so she ought to be making food for them, washing their clothes and making sure they came home to a clean house. My mother stopped going to school.

Several times I have been woken in the middle of the night because I was being choked by smoke. The smoke would be large and greyish and would have gathered into a bank of fog that grew larger and heavier, until it sank from the ceiling to the floor. I would wake with a shock, without knowing what awaited me out there, how it would look, how much damage there would be, and the adrenalin would start pumping around my body. Luckily what had usually happened was that my mother had passed out cold while she was making food, and I would awake just before the food burned to a charred, black crisp.

One night I awake at dawn to the smell of fire. My throat stings. I get up and walk out of my room, but I can barely see anything for the smoke. When I come into the living room, I get a glimpse through the smoke of my mother’s legs on the floor. She has passed out again. I go directly into the kitchen, over to the oven. As I get closer, I can see that she has put some food in the oven and then fallen asleep, and that the legs of meat have burnt away to nothing. I go to set the oven door ajar and turn off the oven, when a thought hits me… I could leave the oven on. I could leave the oven on and walk away. But where would I go? I could go to my grandmother’s, but then she would ask why I was over there in the middle of the night. When she discovered that there had been a fire over at our house, wouldn’t she then ask me what had been going on when I left, and how would I answer?

As I stand and think about whether I should leave the oven on, a mass of memories pop up. I decide to turn it off. If I let her die, I would end her suffering, and I have no wish to help her. Let her suffer. Let her battle her own shitty life. When she can no longer handle it, when she finally gives up, then she can end her life herself. I will not help her.

As I stand here and say my last goodbyes to you, it is hard to keep my thoughts in the present. I think about everything you have done to me and everything you never did for me. Mother is just a word.

Without a sound, she takes out her gear and tries to open the driver’s door. Her face clenched, she looks around her, ever on guard. She gets the door open, gets in and closes it quietly. She tries to start the engine. Successful, she immediately turns the heater on high and lets the warmth hit her hands which cover her mouth. Quietly and carefully she lets the car roll. When the house has disappeared from sight, she hits the accelerator. The heat begins to spread slowly throughout her body and a tense smile appears on her otherwise expressionless face. She laughs forcefully, but it is false and hollow. She turns on the radio and, screaming to the blasting music, she drives way too fast out towards the airport.

She drives as if intoxicated. She owns the asphalt. With yet another forced laugh, she aims directly at the street light, before straightening up the car right at the last moment. Over and over she plays “chicken” with the street light. Her eyes grow moist, but she dries them as if it doesn’t matter. On a long straight stretch, she floors it. With a firm grip on the steering wheel, she lifts her body up towards the windscreen and screams, then slumps back into her seat. The tears run freely down her cheeks, and she lets go of the steering wheel to dry them away.

You would see Louisa out walking in town with her mother. Like a wounded animal, following its owner, always with its head bowed, always compliant. She walked with small, hurried steps, shifting her weight between each foot. Stopping when her mother stopped; walking when she went onwards. Pulling on the sleeves of her coat, she scanned the ground intensely, but without really looking. There was no longer any Louisa left in Louisa. When people greeted her, she would laugh like a small child. But the laughter was toneless, not a child’s. A cold, empty laughter. The laugh of a crazy woman.

I remember clearly one day, when my mother picked me up from school. I wasn’t very old. When we went outside, I couldn’t zip up my coat. The zip on my coat began to taunt me: it wouldn’t work as it should do. Scared of making my mother mad, I tried frantically to zip up my coat. The more I tried, the harder it got. She had already gone a few feet when she turned around and saw that I had not followed her. When she got back to me, she grabbed hold of my coat by the chest, lifted me up and began to shake me. Stupid, useless, kid. It was during a break-time in front of a load of kids who were out playing. She shook me so hard that my coat was ripped to shreds along the zipper, and the down began to fall out over the playground like fake snowflakes. I cried: not because of the pain, but out of shame.

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.

The days pass. I don’t know exactly how many. I am quite sure that I am the talk of the town. I haven’t spoken to anyone I know since I came in here, no one at all. And that’s fine with me, I have no wish to see or to speak to anyone. I will, however, have to speak to the doctor some day soon. I find it hard to fall asleep with my constant stream of thoughts, and when I finally do, I always awaken with the feeling of having slept for eternity. It doesn’t help much that the days are long and full of light. Unlike my soul.

I am admitted onto the hospital’s psychiatric ward—the secure one—and referred to a shrink. I miss my children. A lot. To escape my constant stream of thoughts, I have started walking. Up and down the hallways like a stray mutt looking for an owner. I count my steps. A doctor walks past. His smell, the smell of men, hits my nostrils, and I think immediately of Fari. If he could see me now, he would think it would be best to put me down like the dog I am. That I deserved it. Even though all of this is his fault! Stop using scent! What the hell do you get out of it?! You are a bastard, an abuser of women! You shit! I am immediately surrounded by hospital personnel. They take me back to my room and strap me to the bed. I’m still screaming. Louisa, calm down. Bastard! Never come here again! You mean nothing to me! My broken voice carries itself down the hall. Like the whine of a wounded animal.

After having been on the ward for days, examined closely under the psychiatrist’s magnifying glass, I receive my diagnosis: nervous breakdown. The psychiatrist suspects that this is a result of inherited patterns of behaviour… As soon as I hear this, it feels as if my muscles finally relax. Resignation. When I look at myself in the mirror, a stranger looks back at me. I no longer see myself.

I resume my walks up and down the halls, but these are led now by the conversations I have with the voices, which have taken up residence in my head. Without having consulted with me first, my body has started to walk differently. The steps are shorter, and when I stop and stand still, my feet fight restlessly to carry the weight of my body. I am no longer in control of my body. I am convinced that I share my body with someone else. Another me. The voices in my head never agree: one voice says that I am here because I killed my daughter, while another says that it is the doctors who are out to kill me. That I have been filled with lies and manipulated into believing that I have killed. I don’t know what I should believe.

I am placed before the District Court. It decides that, due to my psychological state, I should neither serve time nor be punished in any other way. Can this really be true? Can I really come home? My reactions are slow. My mother… My mother… My mother… The sentence sits waiting in my throat without wanting to come out. It is my mother’s fault. She is to blame. But my mouth will not obey.

There are conditions for my verdict. Conditions for the freedom I have been sentenced with. My children are taken from me, and complete custody given to Fari. I am classified as incapable of taking care of myself, as someone you have to be careful with, someone who could be a danger to her surroundings. It is further concluded that the best option for me would be to be placed in the care of my mother. To my horror, she has offered to be my guardian. My mother… I stutter. The judge looks at me calmly, smiling faintly. Yes, yes… you can go home to your mother…

I hide away in my thoughts. It would be best if I just ended it all here. I can’t get over the urge to take my own life. I begin looking in the cupboard, I want to be free from the pain of the mind. Now. I can’t, the pain, my body simply cannot handle it. I open the cupboard, where we keep all the little things, and find a cord that would work. I take it out without hesitating.

In my restless state I can no longer control my thoughts. My pain, my grief is too consuming, it has swallowed me whole. I go into my room and tie the cord securely to the door handle. With my back against the door, I lower myself slowly down into a squatting position. I carefully wind the cord around my neck. I try to work out how long it should be. Deliberately, I make it a little shorter and then, finally, I tie it firmly around my neck.

I am calm when I let go. I cannot think clearly. The only thing left is the pain. It will be gone soon. In a little while there will be nothing left. The cord is tight around my neck, and my arse is almost touching the ground. I hang there, noticing how the pain and the grief are gradually leaving my body. Sounds become muted. They are coming from far away now. My heart is pumping blood rapidly around my body in a vain attempt to save something which cannot be saved. My pulse increases as too much blood gathers in my brain. My vision starts to flicker and fill with white noise. It is too late to regret this. My whole body aches with doubt now, but everything goes black. It is too late.

They say that she need not do anything, because she is an only child. From morning until night her parents wait on her every need. They cut up her dinner for her. Zip up her jacket when she is getting dressed. Tie her shoelaces when she puts on her shoes. She is the beloved only child, the favourite child, Arsugaq. She is picked up in a car when school is out. She must not walk, no, because she risks being run over or being kidnapped by some drunkard. As soon as she comes home, it’s “…don’t run around like that, you might hurt yourself. Sit down and relax and play with your iPad…” Between the piles of dusty toys she sits all day with her iPad, sneezing.

Mum is always saying how Arsugaq is the second tallest in her class. She acts like she is concerned about her height, although really she’s proud. But when she talks about her daughter, she omits to mention how Arsugaq cries when she doesn’t win in a competition. Because Mum knows that she has not raised her right. She dismisses it with comments like “…she’s just so stubborn!”, but Arsugaq, the little doll, finds it hard to understand what Mum tells her. She only knows that she mustn’t make her angry.

One day Mum and Dad come home in a particularly good mood. “We’ve got something for you,” they say with smiles of anticipation. Arsugaq looks at the package on the table. It’s a large package. “Go on, you can open it,” they say. She opens her gift; it’s a puppy. Dad places it down on the floor and turns it, so that it starts to move around on the floor. Mum claps her hands together and laughs. But Arsugaq doesn’t find it funny. The hard puppy with the fake fur stops moving. She picks it up, examines it carefully and then tosses it in with all the other toys covered in dust. She has always wanted a dog. A dog to walk her to school. A dog that would wait outside for her all day. A dog that would be overjoyed when she came home. A dog that she could sleep with in her room filled with toys. A dog that could keep her company in her loneliness in the midst of all the dust.

Her classmates are on their way to the after-school club, while Arsugaq is getting picked up in the car, as always. She runs over to the car; today she has something to be pleased about. She gets in the back and takes a gift out of her school backpack, which she hands to her mum.

“I’ll open it at home,” says Mum, smiling into the rearview mirror. When they get home, Arsugaq reminds Mum about opening her gift. “Oh, yes!” she says. It’s a trivet, which Arsugaq has made in school from a cork plate covered with orange fabric, on which coloured needles have been glued to each other to form circles. Mum is pleased and thanks her, kisses her on the cheek and places the present in the cupboard. Arsugaq is sad because she used so many of her needlework classes on making this for Mum, simply for her to shut it away like that. She knows that the cupboard is used for storing all of the junk that never gets used. Arsugaq had hoped that Mum would like it because it was so colourful. At home, everything is white.

As Arsugaq’s birthday approaches, Mum gives her enough invitations for two classes. Arsugaq would prefer to celebrate it with just Mum and Dad, not together with a load of other children. But what can Arsugaq do when Mum has already made up her mind? “Mum decides!” is what Mum would say. As she stands by the school’s entrance and waits to be picked up, two girls walk past. Wrapped around each other, they walk arm in arm, the one girl’s hips moving in time with the other’s. Arsugaq studies them. How do they do that, she wonders. Perhaps I’ll get to try this with someone on my birthday.

Once they have sung the birthday song, they eat the cake. “You must sit very still while you eat the cake. Try not to spill anything!” says Arsugaq’s mum in a strict voice. After they have eaten their cake, they wash their hands carefully before they start playing games. “Me, me…!” There are children everywhere, fighting over who gets to go first. They all want to win. They are arranged in a line for the competition to start. The miniature winners run around all over the house being smug. Arsugaq can’t stand it any longer. They are so obsessed with the competition that they have forgotten the birthday child. Arsugaq begins to cry, “…it’s mine!” She doesn’t understand. Why isn’t she the one who gets to decide what games they should play? She runs up to her room and throws herself down on her pile of toys, noting the dust that falls slowly around her. No one wants to be friends with me. They think I’m weird. They hate me. In the evening, Mum comes up and comforts her. She reads aloud to her from the Bible, before they pray together to God.

Arsugaq sits alone in school. “That’s her, the one who had a birthday party and it was her mum who yelled when someone dropped some cake on the floor…” some of the girls whisper, as they walk past, giving Arsugaq a contemptuous look.

Arsugaq is slim and slender. She gets called the abandoned child. When she answers a teacher’s question, she looks as if she is ashamed. When you see her walking from a distance, she looks like someone who is afraid of taking a wrong step. She appears very cautious. Her huge school backpack makes her tiny body appear even smaller. A child you have to walk around in big circles, because she is so fragile. And she knows how much it irritates Mum when she tries to make herself smaller, to hunch herself up, to go unnoticed. “For God’s sake, don’t stand like that, straighten your back!” Mum tells her off, only to enquire tenderly moments after: “…what kind of sweeties would you like tonight? Because you must feel like something sweet, right?”

Mum and Dad disagree about the bills. Which bill is most important? What should we buy first? What do we need the most? Arsugaq can’t understand why they would fight about things like that. When they eat dinner, Mum doesn’t really feel like answering when she asks her about something. Why does Mum get like this sometimes? And when she asks Dad, he doesn’t say anything. The next day, Mum comes home buzzing with energy. She has lots of bags. She has bought a thick warm coat for Arsugaq because it will soon be autumn. “I don’t want one in black!” says Arsugaq. “Everyone has one like this. It was very expensive, you should be pleased. We’ll have to starve ourselves for the rest of the month!” answers Mum. “Yes, but,” says Arsugaq sulkily, “I just wanted one suitable for a princess.”

One day Arsugaq is upset when she comes home from school. “Arsugaq, what is it? Tell me instead of behaving like that!” says Mum. At teatime Arsugaq is still upset, and Mum says to Dad, “…go on, pick her up and get her to cry, she just wants to have a good cry!” Arsugaq’s dad holds her firmly as he sits watching television. Arsugaq struggles, she wants to get away. She cries louder and louder and gets all sweaty from being held by Dad. Finally she screams, fighting against him. “Let go of me!” she shouts. “Do you feel better?” asks Arsugaq’s mum every now and then as she cooks the tea. Once tea is done, Arsugaq doesn’t want to eat, so Mum orders her up to her room. “Go up and play with your dolls. You’ll be a mum, when you’re older! Why don’t you play with your dolls when you have so many?” As Arsugaq throws herself down onto the floor between all the toys, she notices the dust that falls slowly around her.

In the morning Arsugaq doesn’t answer when Mum calls for her. Mum goes into Arsugaq’s room and gets a shock. Arsugaq has cut the hair off her dolls, removed their legs, arms and heads. Her bed is filled with dolls’ hair. Their legs, arms and heads are spread out everywhere. She has taken Mum’s make-up and painted the dolls’ faces. Mum is stunned with fear. Arsugaq, who is sitting in the middle of the floor, turns now to face Mum. She has cut off her own hair and made up her face just like the dolls’. Big red lips run across her face, and the excessive eyeshadow makes her eyes look like cold, dark stones. She looks up unaffected at Mum, whose scream now fills the room and filters out through the windows into the pale pink morning.

The dust falls slowly around them.