It was when I took that cigarette out of its packet that the realization came that I no longer knew who or where I was. Sure enough, I was sitting on my balcony, and sure enough I remembered my name. But the moment I lit the cigarette, I asked myself how many I had taken that day. There was no longer a limit to anything. The only thing I could really understand, and I mean really understand, was the nicotine rush that never quite reached the level I wanted. The days started to blend together and I couldn’t remember when it started to feel that way. The only thing I found in myself was a silent obscurity of impersonal thoughts and feelings. A terribly contentless emptiness, whatever that even means. Outside there was a puppet show. People walked, screamed, drove, all in a flow as if an ancient god was trying to pump blood and breathe in his delirium. I wore clothes most of the time, fascinated by grunge: a style I wore to show how little I cared about the world “out there” and its standards of fashion. It became a brand, my very own, unique brand, mass-produced by H&M.
I no longer remembered whether I was on sick leave or whether I received the money from social security because it said: “fit for work” in the stamp printed on my forehead. Regardless, I started going to the Employment Service. A vague memory told me that it was necessary to go there to get money, but somewhere along the way it became like a habit, a routine; a way to repeat the weeks, just like the cigarettes. But in this limbo of a seemingly endless chain of repetitions, where I could no longer discern any beginning or end, I received a letter from, was it the employment agency? Or the welfare agency? I couldn’t remember. The only thing I remember was that it was like any other day.
When I walked through the doors, I was a little confused by the absolute emptiness that presented itself to me. White walls, glass window with a receptionist who probably had a coffee in the staff room behind the curtain. The plants stood still in the corners among the green armchairs as if they were plastic plants. They might as well have been. Maybe it was too expensive to hire a gardener. New Public Management or whatever they called it. The thought struck me that nothing looked different. Yet everything was placed like a doll’s house; as if it were a copy of something that was once real.
I knocked on the window to the reception. No response. I rang the bell. A small light began to shine, which then went out. A young woman came forward.
– Hello, I said. I have an appointment now at eleven o’clock.
– Okay, yes. Wait on the third floor among the others.
She closed the small glass window and disappeared again. “Okay,” I thought. Took the stairs up. Just as she said, there were more people there waiting. Emptiness again, despite the line of people along a wall that looked like it was from a hospital. The fan sounded like a constant human scream. We were waiting to move forward in some kind of process that neither of us seemed to understand. What were we even doing here? While I waited, I looked at the people among me. Women, foreign-born and elderly stood there with frightened eyes. I realized that I, too, was afraid. As if their faces reflected something that I found difficult to feel on my own.
An official dressed in blue, white skin and blond hair in a tassel sticking out of the cap hole. She walked by with a blank name tag on her chest. I noted that there was a gun sitting on hes hip. The fans screamed over the sound of the clock ticking. The queue moved slowly. Somewhere in the sound of screaming I began to realize that it wasn’t the fans making the noise. A quick flash went through my brain showing me images of World War II mass executions and my whole body froze in response. I asked the man next to me:
– What the hell are we doing here?
He looked at me. Dressed in a red t-shirt with dark skin, curly black hair under a red cap. Then he too froze as the guard passed by again. I did the same. I stood as if on guard with Death stretching my spine. The door to the stairs on the other side of the room, right in front of me, two or three meters away. The guard passed by again and when she was no longer visible I crept slowly over to the other side. No one seemed to see me. With a sweaty hand I pushed down the door handle, opened the door slowly and just as I was about to close I saw the man in red give me a hopeful look and then:
– Stop!
An authoritarian scream like a knife in the neck made me run down the first flight of stairs. In a second that felt like a minute, I turned around. I had already realized that running wasn’t an option anymore. The woman in blue opened the door with the gun drawn and without hesitation I tackled her and bit off her ear which made her drop the gun. I picked it up and shot her in the face. I was a little confused that there was no bang from the shooting. It was a viscous liquid that shot out of the barrel of the gun. Like sperm, it flew out of it, as white and shiny as seminal fluid. The woman screamed like I’ve never heard anyone scream and I saw that the skin was bubbling on her face. It was no longer possible to tell what was melted skin and what was the gun’s fluid. I ran. Almost fell down the stairs and flung myself throughout the building and rushed on without knowing where I was going. I looked at the gun. Tossed it out on the road. The empty road. Not a single car. No buses. No pedestrians, mothers with prams or cyclists. Where was I? The streets looked faded but familiar. I couldn’t tell which way was home. A white mist separated the houses, it spread over roads and squares. Who was I? Where was I?