Chapter Text
“I don't fear death. For someone else, perhaps. A beloved. That stray cat (Frauke!) who brushes against me on the way to university . The bakery Oma who makes yummy Leberkäse sandwiches. Not myself. What could death do except inflict an unfeeling void of unconsciousness? Death can only steal the minutes I could’ve shared with Elsa. The ring of her laughter and the soft curve of her smile. But she’s gone. And there’s nothing left but memories. Those I can leave behind.”
Insomnia’s a bitch. One I’ve loved to fuck often. A sleepless fuckbuddy, if you will. The curtain of night resembles a frayed veil I can nearly peek my eyes through just to see the light on the other side. Daytime, on the other hand, feels like darkness. Schoolwork. Friends bearing smiles with nothing behind them. A supposed life and responsibilities beyond university that I dread without even knowing what awaits me. I just hate the daytime and all its accompanying shiny, lacquered fakeness.
Which is why it’s midnight and I’m staring at that death monologue I’ve typed into the computer’s notepad. Soft green font on a dark screen illuminating the mess of jailbroken iPhones, soldering kits and Computer Science notes on my desk. I look at the words. The blocky lines of each letter only remind me of the curve of Elsa’s smile. My eyes float to that photoframe of us in happier times. Oberstdorf. Bunched in woolly overcoats and sitting in that pile of snow which never bothered her. Ski poles in hand; a huge grin on her face and mine. I remember that day. And every second I spent with her. Until she left for the hospital and my life became a blurry mess of days and weeks and months.
“C’mon, Anna,” my voice resembles a plea. It alarms me. So does the repeated mention of death in what I’ve just typed. Do I want to kill myself? My mind shrieks back “No!” , like a scream of self-preservation. I take another drag on a cigarette and try Alt-F4-ing my way out of the ominous monologue.
Do you want to save your changes?
No, I’d like to save myself.
I don’t know why I do it. Peering between the tendrils of smoke rising from the ashtray, I create a throwaway instagram account. Set it to private and post it there. White text on a black square. I hit post and slump on my bed and in that instant, my eyes venture past the night’s veil. I taste the sunshine on my tongue. I feel its warmth on my cheeks. But before my sodden fingers can poke through its frayed fabric, I fall asleep.
“What do you think of the sky?”
Elsa’s question comes from nowhere. But I’m used to it. Always looking for a reason how things work. Why they work. Everything between that curtain of reality separating our eyes and the world around us. I finish chewing the rest of my Schnitzel and crumple the greasy paper sleeve.
“It’s blue,” I mumble back, “like your eyes.”
Elsa smiles. Our feet dangle over the river Isar. Sitting on a bridge we cycle to when the sun’s out and lifts our souls. When the wind leaves wisps of red and blonde behind our backs and the world couldn’t get any more perfect.
She raises a thumb and forefinger into the air, “Sometimes I feel I can pinch the sky. Snag a huge sheet of blue fabric and peel it away. Like an orange.”
As far-fetched a fantasy it is, the way she speaks makes perfect sense.
“What do you think you’ll find under the fabric?”
Elsa shrugs, “No idea. A huge patchwork of machinery, I guess. Gears and wheels chugging about, making the world work the way it does.”
The cogs in my head churn. Like a big engine. Talking with a curious genius makes it feel this way all the time.
“There’d be a huge machine that tells the sun when to rise and set-”
She points at a rose bush, white and yellow petals radiant in the noon light, “And one that tells the flowers when to bloom.”
Her thumb grazes mustard from my dimple. Heat spreads from that very spot. I notice her gaze sink to my lips, before quickly shifting away. A tiny, nearly insignificant motion which clenches at my chest. But it’s enough to spread a butterfly’s wings in the pit of my stomach. I chase after its fluttering little body, trying to cram it back into the cocoon where it belongs. Screaming at it: “she’s your sister, mein Gott!”
Elsa’s voice dips, “There must be a very complex machine that makes you smile the way you do.”
My heart blossoms. Like roses in the sun. The butterfly lands on their petals and flutters a tornado within me. All at once I give up chasing it down and start chasing this feeling instead. I walk my fingers across the short length of stone bridge separating us, and curl them into hers. She trembles. It’s too easy spotting the pink on her pale cheeks.
“Is there-” I shift closer, and lean my head on her shoulder, “Is there a machine which makes me feel like this?”
She presses her nose to my hair. I hear her inhale sharply like she’s trying to fill her lungs with me.
“There probably is,” Elsa whispers, “And I’d like to find out how it works.”
“Why?”
“So I can make you feel the way you’re making me feel right now.”
School’s also a bitch. But one I keep at arm’s length rather than welcome into the warmth of my bed. The late nights don’t help. But instead of putting weight on my eyelids, I find myself zoning out at Professor Schrenke’s droning lesson about encryption algorithms.
“Auf Systemen mit 32-Bit- oder längeren Wörtern ist es möglich, die Ausführung dieser Chiffre zu beschleunigen, indem man-”
What language is he even speaking? I roll my eyes and stare at the private instagram page on my laptop. Solitary black-squared plea into the darkness still sitting alone in a void. I sense a curious student looking over my shoulder and immediately log back into my main account.
“...and the assignment for today is on the blackboard, encrypted output of six characters from the second dial. You have thirty minutes in class remaining to complete this-”
My skin frazzles with irritation. I raise my hand.
“-or what?”
“ Ja, Anna?”
“What happens if we don’t complete-”
“-you will lose credit for this module.”
Muttered swearing resounds around the room. Keyboards start clattering and conversations drop to a hushed whisper. Fuck. I stare at the question until the chalk lines blur into one another. Fucking encryption algorithms. Who on earth knows how to do this stuff? Elsa probably would. My mind unravels. In a fit of resurgent grief and anxiety about failing the module I imagine reaching a thumb and forefinger towards the blackboard and peeling away layers of the question. Before launching a VMware session on my terminal and scanning the building’s wifi. Professor Schrenke’s username is still logged on, I saw it when he booted his computer. Breaking into the box proves easier than searching through folders for the tutorial answers. But he’s conveniently left it marked under the module name.
I copy the answers into a Word file and submit it to the Class Dropbox right as the clock strikes three. Shutting off the remote access session before Herr Schrenke can sit his ass back down and notice someone’s hacked his computer.
Perspiration studs my forehead. Everyone’s packing their bags and my heart’s beating fast . A sudden plonk in the next chair makes me flinch. It’s Friedrich. With his spiky blonde hair and ear rings and a silent beaming grin which suggests he knows my transgressions.
“Working real hard on the question?” he sneers, “You didn’t even look at it-”
“Shut up,” I scowl, shoving him, “if you snitch I won’t help you with assignments anymore.”
“If you’re so good at hacking - why bother going to classes? Just do whatever you want. Under the radar, y’know?”
Heat surges through my flesh, “Um - hello. I need a job? Who’s going to hire an engineer without a degree-”
Self-directed annoyance rises at those words spewing out my own fucking mouth. Job. Degree. Engineer. It’s all fake. Fake made-up words to describe a life I never wanted and couldn’t exist beyond the construct of this fake-ass society. I’d be better off living in a jungle.
He ruffles a hand through his hair, “You should hang with us tonight, teach the guys a thing or two.”
“No thanks,” I shoot back. I know what else I’d rather be doing on a Friday night. Staring into the computer screen and feeling the grip of my sister’s memory squish my puny heart into pieces.
“ Frau Krüger !” Schrenke yells across the room. He beckons me to his desk with an upturned finger. My heart lurches and those legs nearly give way when I trot down the stairs.
He swivels the screen towards me. With my supposed assignment answer on it. I couldn’t explain a fragment of it if he asks. But he doesn’t. Merely placing his fingers on his moustache and mimicking a chef’s kiss.
“Perfection, Anna,” Schrenke comments, “exactly the answer I was looking for.”
“Um, danke, Professor,” My shoulders relax. Only by a bit.
“You are very promising,” he drops his glasses, “A Big Tech company will be glad to employ you in a year’s time.”
Suddenly he’s a barrel of nuclear waste. Toxic and destructive. Poisoning me with each word. My voice breaks into a croak, “Uh - that’s great but-”
“If you ever need a referral, please don’t hesitate to ask. I set this problem to challenge but did not expect you would get it all right.”
The residual irritation from those three words resurges with a vengeance. Job. Degree. Engineer. Like strings on a marionette. I want to break free. I need to get out. I see Friedrich leaving the classroom and in a surge of panic I catch up to him.
“Friedrich?” My body shakes, like it wants to crawl out of my own skin, “Where’re you guys hanging out tonight?”
“Oh?” he raises both eyebrows, “What made you change your mind? Did he say-”
I roll my eyes, “I didn’t say yes, I just asked where- ”
“ Bühne nightclub.”
The name sends me a step back, “A gay club?”
“What’s the matter?” he sneers.
“What do you take me for? A dyke?”
“Yes,” he sniggers, before he bursts out laughing and I smack him on the head.
“Fine,” I huff, crossing my arms, “But if they start playing Rob Zombie I’m leaving-”
“Oh yea yea, I’ll put in a request specially for you!”
I walk away. Knowing it’s nothing special. I’m not trying to be someone I’m not. I just want to peer through the curtain one more time and hopefully touch something that wasn’t there the first time round.
“Harder!” Elsa gasps into my ears. I comply. She rakes her nails so hard into my shoulder that I could bleed. I want it to bleed. I want to scar and not heal so I can remember this moment for a lifetime. Teeth nip at my earlobe and I feel her clench around me. The thought of her coming apart under my fingers tilts my neck back in ecstasy. She smothers me with kisses. Hard, rough kisses that’ll take days to colour back. A crest of pleasure builds. Her thumb grazes my clit. I buck hard into her touch and she withdraws, skidding me inches away from the cliff’s edge. So agonisingly close I see pebbles fall from its precipice.
“Not yet,” she seethes, “together.”
My open-mouthed whimper is cut off by her mouth. I thrust my entire body into her, hand and hips and all the weight in my bones. Teeth scratch against lips. She comes apart at the exact moment I do. Shuddering as we ride out wave after wave of this surreal, intimate bliss bathing two lithe bodies tangled in her bedroom sheets.
The tidal wave spits us out onto the shore. I feel strands of her climax still clinging to my fingers. She traces a nail against my jaw, and I playfully chomp down on it.
“Ow.”
A ray of sunrise illuminates the sparse freckles on her cheek. My heart’s still throbbing with the simmering surf. But it tightens when those eyelashes blink. It aches so much but I have to tell her.
“Um, Elsa - I meant to tell you something before we got carried away,” I mutter, trying to keep the regret from showing too much in my voice, “but we should probably stop doing stuff like this, yea?”
Elsa frowns. The ache in my heart fissures into a crack.
“No, no,” I whisper in a panic, pressing my mouth to her motionless lips, “I love you. We’re still sisters. I’d do anything for you.”
A tear trickles down her cheek. I wipe it away in a flurry, trying to prevent another from coming again until she clutches my hand.
“I’m sorry, Anna - but I can’t,” the words sound like they’re killing her, “I can’t anymore.”
“Why-”
She sucks in a huge breath, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look into mine, “I got back from the doctor’s yesterday.”
My heart drops like a stone.
“I have lung cancer.”
“What?” I cover my mouth, “You don’t even smoke.”
“Three months, tops. I’m going to the hospital tomorrow.”
“No,” I gasp, clutching at her waist, “No - no - no-”
“Sorry-”
The wedge of light falling across her face now looks like a crack. A fracture exposing the fragility of her human flesh, “It’s so sudden, this has to be early stage - you’ll get better won’t you? Chemo? Radiotherapy?”
Her eyes bleed calmness. They tell me the answer before I hear it. She shakes her head and my heart crumbles.
“My time in this world is over,” she answers with certainty, “I will go but-”
“No!” a warmth trickles from my eyelids. She doesn’t wipe it away.
“I won’t leave you.”
“You can’t!”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me,” I seethe, shoving her in the chest, right before yanking her back, regretfully savouring each inch of space between us.
“I promise.”
She holds out a pinkie. I hesitate before hooking mine around hers. As though it’d reduce her to ashes. But I do. And she seals it with a kiss. The last kiss we ever share.
Elsa breaks her promise.
One day to pack her things.
Three months in Paracelsus Hospital. Tubes and wires and a frail body wasting away in a bed I can’t approach.
One day for a funeral. Tear-soaked red and yellow roses tossed into the earth.
A week to receive a package from beyond the grave. Yes, German DHL takes longer to deliver a parcel than for a person to die.
The Phantom Tollbooth. The packing receipt shows Elsa ordered the book off Amazon days before she died. A children’s adventure story about a magical tollbooth who takes a boy on journeys to weird places. The story’s opening letter reads: "For Milo, who has plenty of time."
I come close to hurling the book across the room. Tears prick my eyes. Biting back that wave of trembling angst threatening to wrack my insides, I force myself to finish the story, cover to cover. Desperately poring over each sentence, each word - to see if she left a message for me. Nothing.
I hurl the book across the room anyway. Slumping to my knees and crying my eyes out in a sobbing fit.