(I found this text in one of my notebooks, it was written in 2011 and I translated it just now.
It’s about my stepmother)
We can hear the sound of steps coming down the stairs.
Patrick looks at me and rolls his eyes, I understand exactly what he means.
She opens the door, almost yanks it open.
We tell her that the film is almost over, no more than 40 minutes left.
It’s not the words she’s using, it’s the way she’s saying it.
Haughty, like we’re nothing more than vermin to her.
She turns around and leave the room, and we turn off the TV while muttering profanities.
We silently say good night to each other and head to each of our rooms.
My head is pounding from suppressed feelings.
I walk back and forth in the room, my fingers drumming against my legs the whole time.
I take out my lighter.
I tare small pieces of paper and write words on them.
Watch them as they burn.
I lay down on the bed at full length.
A small cloud of smoke whirls around my nightlamp.
But the feeling doesn’t attenuate.