The cell was dark and damp and stank of shit and piss and the woman sat huddled in the corner and her hair was matted to her skull and his father was too close, talking in his ear, Sie ist verdorben. The knife pressed into his palm, sweaty and shaking, not his hand, someone else’s hand and his head ached from the booze and not enough sleep, and oh, God, his father was talking again, talking, talking, talking, words sparking dark. Dieses Übel muss bereinigt werden. The woman was crying now and begging, snot dripping down her face and he hated her. Wir sind das Licht. Wir sind die Hand Gottes auf Erden. And now he was running, running in the dark, running so far and fast that the wind burned against his skin and tore into him and still his father’s voice followed him, a bright arrow, Töte sie und seien Sie einer von uns, and he could never run far enough, never, never, never, never, the words sought him out in the dark and it was all dark, always dark, Mein Sohn, mein Sohn … .
Everyone needs an escape. Let us be yours.