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never.
    Desperate for solitude, I push past the two, knees weak, arms shivering.
    I roll up in my blanket, cocooning myself in, compressing myself as much as possible, trying to squeeze out the confusion and leave only clarity behind. It doesn’t work, of course. Hope sneaks in uninvited.

I sit on my windowsill, my nightgown wrapped around my knees, gaze unfocussed. Outside it looks as if the black bowl of the night is tipping aside, slowly making space for the milky morning. Might as well be a bowl and not the universe.  
    Most of the night I’ve been arguing with myself about what could be real and what couldn’t. My ceiling, which I stared at throughout, didn’t respond to my questions. Neither did the walls, window, or the black bowl with its silver pinpricks. For lack of answers, I chewed my cheeks until the blood made me gag. Around midnight, I noticed that I’d forgotten both knife and suicide. For about an hour or two, I sat with the blade tapping against my wrists, because there it was again — this painful, useless fizz of hope that forbade me to put an end to everything. Now, I feel so stupid and naïve, I’m too ashamed to get up. But waiting doesn’t get me anywhere. My mouth hurts and tastes of metal.
    Bleary-eyed, I make it to the bathroom just in time. How do women get used to this bloody menstruation business? So far, it feels like some form of massacre-related incontinence. Clamping my legs together doesn’t seem to help in the least.
    In the kitchen, I drink a cup of water, slip my small knife into my back pocket, and the remaining two quarters of my shirt into the pockets of my rain jacket. I wonder if I should take a woollen pullover with me, but decide against it. It’s summer. The little rain that falls is warm enough. Besides, I might be thrown into a hastily dug hole before I can grow too cold. Ha! The play of words. I chew them and swallow the wash of contradicting aromas.
    Rustling behind me and a ‘Mickaela,’ spoken softly. My mother, who looks like she didn’t sleep either, reaches out to me— a rare gesture. I take a step back.  
    ‘We are proud of you,’ she whispers and engulfs me in her arms. I don’t know what to say. My throat clenches. Everyone enjoys hugging, but I don’t. All I feel is being trapped in a cage of rigid arms, with Mother’s need for a moment of harmony suffocating me like a wet blanket. I’ve been held previously, three or four times maybe, and I always wanted to bolt. A simple handshake would be enough if it wouldn’t feel so ridiculous. Why can’t people just look into each other’s eyes? Doesn’t that speak loud enough?
    ‘I need…wool,’ I stutter.
    ‘I keep it in the bedroom. I’ll get it for you.’ She lets go of me, and I get the feeling she’s relieved to have a task other than saying goodbye to me. But I don’t have a particularly good sense for Mother’s feelings if they’re not related to anger or disappointment. She has a way of breathing hard that tells me I’ve screwed up before she lashes out. She has a way of walking that tells me to stay out of her way — it looks and sounds as if her knees are locked and her heels are made of expensive china.
    She returns with the wads and holds them out to me and then gets busy cleaning the kitchen, although she just polished it last night.
    ‘See you later,’ I lie and slip out the door.
    Father stands in his workshop — his expression close enough to friendly — and waves through the open window. My chest does a funny contraction thing when so many of my childhood memories seem like a bad fantasy. My mind envisions two scenarios. One: The apprenticeship is real, and some of the respect paid to the Sequencer miraculously rubs off on me. Everyone will say “We always liked her.” I might even hear my parents say it after they forget how my brother died. Two: Everyone is in on the man’s plan. Everyone is eager to get rid of me.
    But neither of these two theories makes much