Lea Köster – LITERASEA

Fruitful

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

abortion, violence

a sequel to BBQ by Lea Köster

The cool autumn air was refreshing on her delicate skin, the breeze surrounding her and every passerby in a way that one might think the autumn had missed the people and was glad to be back. The smell in the air was that of life and new beginnings. Her elegant grey coat, that looked as though one might find it in a museum for almost forgotten fashion, was not yet closed.

A smile appeared on the woman’s lips as her gaze fell on the flowers that were arranged outside a florist. She stopped and let her fingers brush over the soft, delicate petals. Those precious beings always remind her of home. Their smell and beauty and feel had eventually pulled the woman onto their side and had turned her parents’ garden into a sanctuary.

Smiling at the memories of a happy childhood, she continued down the street, the warmth of the sun surrounding her. She could feel her head and hair becoming warmer and the sun beams tickling her nose. It was too late in the year to wear sunglasses, but it would have been nice to be allowed to make an exception, the same way others were. Everyone seemed to be outside and enjoying the last rays of sun – so warm, and soft, and full of life.

Passing a small park, the woman’s eyes fell onto a mother with her young child, laughing and sitting next to each other. On a bench they were enjoying a scoop of ice cream. She could see the love the mother had for her child in her eyes and the trust the child had in return, not paying any attention to its surroundings, too focused on its ice cream and its happiness. That is a perfect little family right there, the woman thought, smiling. A protective mother and a perfect little girl.

Walking into the doctor’s office she was a bit sad to have to go inside and leave the warmth and beauty and love outside, but also excited, as she was soon to start her own little family. At the reception, she was greeted by friendly voices and bright smiles. The receptionist asked her to take a seat in the waiting area, where a nurse would pick her up. The woman waited patiently – some might have said stiffly- for her turn. She made sure a smile was on her face as she was shown to the examination room and, with it, the doctor.

‘Good morning, Carol, how are we doing today?’ she was greeted by her gynaecologist.

‘All good, I hope.’ She responded with a small, almost nervous laugh.

‘Let’s see then, shall we?’ the doctor said, gesturing towards the chair that Carol always found scary with its attachments for legs and feet, like a torture device.

The doctor pulled up her shirt and made sure, by using paper towels, that the gel for the ultrasound wouldn’t get on the waistband of her trousers. The gel was cold on her exposed skin, but she didn’t let it show.

‘Everything looks great,’ the doctor said finally.

‘Could you let me know if it is a boy or a girl?’ Carol asked and could immediately see something change in the doctor’s face.

‘It’s a bit too early to tell for certain.’ The doctor said apologetically.

‘Please,’ Carol said, ‘we are well into week eleven, and you have been able to make accurate predictions so far.’

The doctor thought for a moment.

‘Okay but let me check again.’ And so she did, wondering if it was the right decision.

Carol waited patiently while the doctor moved the small device gently over her belly, again and again to find the right angle. As the doctor removed the device from her belly and finally looked at her again, with a smile on her face, Carol held her breath.

‘It’s a boy, congratulations.’

And let the breath out again. Jonathan.

‘Thank you.’ Carol said, her smile this time forced.

The doctor said something else, but Carol didn’t hear, her hands and mind occupied with the task of wiping the gel off of her exposed skin. Throwing the paper towels into the bin, zipping up her trousers, and pulling down her shirt, she thanked the doctor again before saying goodbye. She booked her next appointment at the front desk, knowing she wouldn’t go, before making her way out of the practice, feeling worse than she had upon entering.

The ladies at the reception had been arrogant, treading her like she was beneath them, giving her fake smiles and judging everything that was visible above the surface from the moment she had walked in. Their mothers should have raised them better.

She passed the park again, only turning her head to see where the screaming was coming from. It was the child again. It was throwing a tantrum on the dirty park ground, demanding another ice cream. She should have seen this coming; the child had been too loud and too happy earlier. It was too imperfect. What a disappointment: the child was rather beautiful.

Stone-faced, the woman continued down the street, not taking another glance back, even as the screams increased. They weren’t worth it.

Squinting against the sun, she almost walked into a bucket of flowers. Such ugly things, what are they even good for, she thought. All they do is look and smell pretty, to hide the things that people want to stay unseen. Wrinkling her nose, she suddenly had the scent of her mother’s garden in her nose, and her eyes and nose began to itch. With blurred vision, she looked up into the sky, to let the sun shine onto her face and let it hide her weaknesses and fears. She hoped no one else could see. Flowers are such breakable things, watching them decay is just not worth growing them, she thought, and a sudden feeling of failure overcame her. She let it go.

A breeze wrapped itself around the woman and she shivered. How had she not realized how cold it had been earlier? She closed her coat forcefully. She would have to visit her mother soon. It was time she added to the garden.

At home she took off her shoes and hung up her coat before ascending the stairs to get to her bedroom. There she went to the wall-length wardrobe and took out a box from the top shelf, hidden behind other boxes.

Opening the box, she glanced over a few pictures that were facing upside down, only showing a name on the back; two small glass vials, that had something red in them and some writing on the outside; a tiny leather pouch, filled with a single tooth; and a metal coat hanger, which her hand briefly hovered above.

She made her way into the bathroom. She placed what she needed onto a shelf in the shower before starting to undress. First her trousers and underwear, then shirt and bra, exposing her sensitive skin piece by piece. The socks followed last. She placed everything, neatly folded, onto a chest of drawers, next to the washbasin, before stepping into the shower. The metal felt cold and rough on her hands and thighs. She crouched down and let the pleasure and pain begin, hoping for quick relief.

***

He found her in the adjacent bathroom to their bedroom. He had no idea how long she had been home, but there was dried and fresh blood alike. She was sexy like that. Pale and weak, and still the strongest person he had ever known. Her breathing was shallow as she made to stand up.

He knew how it had all started, but it was unimportant now. He looked at his beautiful strong wife and the now bloody devices he had shown her how to use. He had taken them from the practice, on a day he feared for her life, despite his better judgement – but she wouldn’t let him do it and he couldn’t lose her.

‘Another boy?’ he asked in a monotonous, tired voice.

She gave a nod, and he walked over to a dresser in the bedroom, returning with a small glass vial in hand. He handed it to her, and she knelt down, next to the fig-sized clot. Now she would have two additions for her mother’s garden.

Burning

a poem by Lea Köster

It’s the future we cannot escape that we dread.
It’s the past we cannot change that we fear to repeat.
It’s the present we cannot enjoy that we wish to be something else.
It’s life we forget to live because we think we have time.
It is us, us, that we lose in in the process of trying to fit in.
It is myself that I am trying to find in this world that is burning to ash.
It is a fight, I fear, will never end.
A fight we cannot escape.
An end
An inevitable end
Of burning ash.

Escape

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

child murder

a prequel to BBQ by Lea Köster

Everything is glowing bright in the setting afternoon sun, the light covering the world in a million shades of red. Smoke is hanging thick in the air, making the heat of the disappearing day even more unbearable.

The neighbours all around are bidding the summer farewell with a last barbecue. I can hear the children laugh, and play, and cry. I can hear the grownups laugh, and talk, and shout. I can hear dogs and cats and cars. I can hear sounds all around. I can hear sounds everywhere, except in our house.

Our house is empty and quiet. No one has said a word, acknowledged the other one’s presence or tried to make oneself heard. I have tried. I have tried a hundred times. The other times I pleased my mother and stayed quiet, showed everyone the perfect daughter. She tells me then that she is proud of me, that she loves me, that I am all she ever wished for.

I love her. She made me the person I am today. She gave me the strength to leave and never come back. I love her. And that’s why I haven’t told her yet, that’s why I haven’t told anyone. It will destroy her. Losing both her children exactly one year apart.

My bag is packed, stored under my bed. I will get it out when everyone is asleep. I am not sure I should have packed it, not last night. But it’s too late for these kinds of thoughts now – I made up my mind.

The grandmother clock in the foyer chimes six. The sound moves through the whole house, through every part of my body and I close my eyes for a moment.

‘I hate that fucking thing!’ I hear her voice as if it were yesterday, but it wasn’t yesterday, it’s been exactly one year. My sister was the smarter one, she was braver and prettier too, she was… is… everything my mum loves about me. Will I find her on my travels in my new life?

The sound fades and shortly after, like clockwork, I can hear my mother working in the kitchen. I can’t hear her, just the pots, and pans, and bowls clanging together. My father will be in the living room, in the big worn armchair facing the garden, reading the newspaper.

At seven we dine. Not a word is exchanged. No need for those. I said my goodbyes – with pen and paper, to be delivered two days from now. My mother never speaks if it isn’t absolutely necessary, and my father is a naturally quiet person. Everything is as it always was. And nothing will change when I am gone.

It’s seven twenty-three as I glance at the clock, and seven thirty-five as we finished dinner and I make my way up the stairs. Just a few hours left until I am finally free.

In my room I finish up a homework and then fold some paper birds out of colourful paper to pass the time. As I am hanging them up by the window and watch how they dance in the breeze it knocks at my door. My mum is standing in the doorframe, wearing her apron.

‘Your dad and I decided to have a barbeque tomorrow. Could you help me get the meat out of the freezer?’

‘Sure,’ I respond and jump down from the window seat I had been standing on to pin the paper birds to the ceiling.

I follow my mum, down the hallway and down the stairs, contemplating if she is aware that we had a barbeque last year, too, after my sister left.

We continue along the hallway of the ground floor towards the door to the basement. She opens it and lets me descend the steep steps first. I let my fingers brush past the rough stone walls. I always loved the feeling: cold, somewhat sandy, close to painful but never hurting me. Today they prick my finger and a drop of blood appears. To not get any stains on my clothes I put the finger in my mouth. I hope my mum doesn’t see.

‘I hope you didn’t get any of that blood anywhere near your clothes. Let me see!’

Shit. I turn around at the bottom of the stairs, holding out my finger for my mum to see.

The next thing I know, I am crouching on the ground, the white tiles splattered with red dots. My head is hurting terribly and something is dripping down the side of my face.

‘Look at me!’ Her voice doesn’t leave any room for protest, so I do. She is looking down on me from three steps up. Her hair is perfectly arranged in a neat bun at the back of her head, her dress showing wrinkles under the apron, her make-up smeared at her eye. Did she cry? She isn’t looking her usual self. Did something happen?

‘Mum, are you okay? Were you crying?’ I ask in a weak voice. My eyes are heavy, my head hurts and my body tells me to stay down – getting up would be a bad idea. It is then that I see the hammer in my mother’s hand, dangling on her side, her knuckles white, drops of blood falling to the concrete steps.

‘Mum, what is going on?’ My voice quivers now and I try to get up, try to create more distance between us, but my legs give out under me, and I fall, once again, to the floor.

‘You slipped and fell. But that’s okay, we all make mistakes. Let me help you,’ she says, her voice sweet now. But she doesn’t move.

‘Mum?’ I plead as the edges of my vision become darker. I raise a hand to my head and realise that it is blood that’s running down my face and shoulder, onto my clothes and the floor. Is that bone I feel? How am I still awake, conscious?

‘Mum?’ I whimper again. Why is she just standing there?

‘You glanced at the clock, twice.’

‘What?’ I voice my confusion, not knowing if she heard it, my strength declining by the second.

‘You really thought you could outwit me and just run away?’ She leaves a short pause. ‘You are just like your sister.’

She just stands there watching me as I slowly sink further to the ground, soaking my clothes with the blood that has been oozing onto the floor. My eyes are so heavy and all I want to do is sleep. In the daze that is trying to pull me under, I hear the basement door open.

‘Dad?’ I whisper, knowing that he can’t hear me. There are no shouts, no pushing, no steps, no words from him or anything that would indicate that he is going to help me. What I hear instead is my mum speaking calmly and quietly to him, using her everyday voice as though nothing is wrong.

‘She was like her sister.’

My father’s response is tired, heavy, almost bored, as if he has been through all of this before and knows that he can’t change a thing, and still he asks, wants to know. ‘Carol, honey, was that really necessary? She was our daughter.’

‘She was a disappointment, a disgrace, weak, like her sister before her. She is no daughter of mine. Now go upstairs and send the invitations!’

I can feel my eyes closing, there is no use fighting it anymore and still, I feel sorry. I am… What am I? Sorry, free, happy, dying, surviving, fighting, loved? A few tears roll down my cheeks and I am suddenly certain that I will see my sister sooner than I had planned and hoped and with a smile on my lips everything goes dark.

BBQ

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

Cannibalism

a short story by Lea Köster

Bowls of salad, fruit, bread and other delicious looking and smelling things are passed along the tables, losing something with every hand that touches them. The sound of meat sizzling on the grill mixes with laughter and light conversation. Everyone is enjoying themselves. On the second floor of the house, behind a window, paper birds seem to fly effortlessly through the air.

‘Hey Carol, where’s Mallory?’ In the wind, her ocean blue dress, moves like waves, as she approaches her childhood friend who is dressed in black.

‘Hi dear, you look lovely.’ Carol’s voice is smooth and calm, as always. Her eyes take in every little detail, even those that shouldn’t be seen, like the necklace that is hanging around her friend’s neck which Carol had seen being bought by one of her friend’s students. ‘How is the party? I feel like I’m just running around. I haven’t even said hello to everyone yet.’ A smile covers Carol’s lips, amusement and exhaustion her eyes. She holds out a plate of burgers, stuffed with meat from the grill, that she was about to take over to a table in the shade of the house. The woman in blue gratefully takes one and praises the cook, Carol’s husband, for his excellent work at the barbecue.

‘Everyone is wondering what kind of meat this is, it’s so good.’ But before she can get an answer, the woman in the black dress is called by her husband and she turns, swiftly, leaving her friend standing there.

The moment Carol places the plate of burgers on a nearby table, two of the neighbourhood boys take one, thanking her. As she walks up to her husband, she watches the people – her neighbours and friends – who seem to not have a care in the world.

‘Could you get more meat? I ran out.’ Her husband whispers in her ear. His breath is cold in the heat of the day. With knife and plate in hand she goes through the kitchen, into the living room, down the hallway and opens the door to the basement. The air goes cold and damp, the laughter inaudible, as she descends the cold concrete steps, with the sharp stone walls, into the cellar. The door behind her, now closed, doesn’t let in any light. Her nose involuntarily twitches in disgust as the light bulb on the ceiling stops flickering.

Kneeling down on the floor she takes the knife and cuts parts of the meat into smaller pieces. With caution she places a few slices onto the plate. The meat is still fresh. The bones white. She is about to leave the room, but before she does, she takes a last look, but there is nothing the person in black hasn’t seen before. The floor is covered in dried blood. The flesh is cold. Chopped off parts lay around. Letters written with the last breath and blood read I’m sorry… followed by something illegible on the white tiled floor. Eyes, still filled with fear, seem to look at her, asking for help they will never receive.

Her daughter was a disappointment, a disgrace, like her sister before her. Weak.

Maybe the next one will be better, Carol thinks and places a hand on her not-yet-showing belly, before ascending the stairs without another look back.