To my surprise I slept through the whole night; Koschei had taken the rope from me and, because I couldn't find it in my own room, I assumed that he'd taken the effort to step into his own room and hide it in there.

I never would have dared to enter Koschei's room just to get it back.

I'd rather sleep with my legs untied.

No one ever dared to set foot into his room. You never knew what lingered there...

In the worst case it would have been Koschei, I guess.

But Koschei made it easy for me.

He'd snuggled up to me, his arms wrapping around my chest and his legs entwining around mine.

It felt as if I had been tied up, not only my legs but my whole body.

Koschei needed a lot of body contact, I assumed.

I didn't mind it.

Well, it was a bit uncomfortable, lying on one side the whole night, being unable to move because someone slept beside you and refused to let go off you, no matter how hard you pushed him in his sleep. Koschei held on to me firmly; and I was amazed at his strength.

But it could have been worse than waking up with a backache.

I could have woken up with a headache after someone had tried to suffocate me in my sleep...
Or I wouldn't have woken up ever again...

"If you love someone you've got to hurt him. Or otherwise you'll get hurt yourself."

"Life is about hurting others."

I thought a lot about Koschei's remark.

And somehow I couldn't get rid of the idea that my father had wanted to kill him.

That he still wanted to kill him...

I sighed as I entered my room.

No Koschei around. Until now.

I collapsed onto my bed. He'd turn up, sooner or later.

As soon as he'd realize that I was in my room...

Love hurts.
That's what I'd always thought.
Well, that's what I'd always heard.

But it wasn't right. No.

It should be rephrased, definitely.

Life hurts.

And Koschei wasn't quite right.

Life wasn't about hurting others. It was about hurt itself.

Either getting hurt by others. Or hurting others. Or hurting yourself...

I adjusted my cushion and tried to fluff it up by poking it a bit. It sure had been deformed because two heads had been resting on it now for a while...

I guess it's a phase we all have to pass. Well, I've never discussed this matter in any way. I just assumed that it was normal.

At a certain age you're interested in hurt.

You want to know what it feels like when others are suffering. Therefore you make them suffer. Somehow.
Not that you achieve anything by doing this.
But it's what children do. Children are cruel. They're crueller than adults, I suppose. Only they're lacking the language, they're lacking the ability to express their cruelty by words. But it hurts nonetheless. Either way, it hurts.

And then comes a time when you're interested in pain itself. And you learn that the only way to probe it is by hurting yourself.

Well, that sure was a nice way of putting it.

Of course it's a lot more complicated.

You don't hurt yourself because you want to investigate. It's more like...

You're unable to express what you're feeling. You're experiencing pain. You're feeling hurt. But you don't have anyone you can turn to. No anybody you can talk to. So you try to release the pain by inflicting pain on yourself.

I'd always thought that you actually release the pain, in a way. At first you feel it inside; you feel your heart aching; or you're just feeling hollow, with nothing left inside;

And then you feel it on the outside.

I didn't inflict injury on myself; not on purpose.

I must have been twelve, or possibly thirteen.

Back then I felt hollow; I used to sit in my room for hours. My ankles had been bruised and excoriated; my father had chafed my skin with the ropes he used to tie my legs together at night.

And I would pick on the scab, scratch over the abrasions and scrape my skin gorily.

And it hurt. It really hurt.

And it got worse at night, when the rope got tied around the oozing wounds again; those scratches wouldn't stop my father from tying me up.

And in the morning I'd pick again on the scabs.

I let myself bleed. I watched myself bleeding.

It wasn't much blood. But I could feel the pain running out of my body; that's how it appeared to me. Blood had been concentrated fear, concentrated pain and insecurity.

And I could release it.

It could all go away, I thought. Simply float out of my body, until nothing was left.
And then I'd be really hollow.

My father kept me from reopening old sores. He bandaged my ankles night for night. And night for night I tore the bandage of. If he was to tie me up, I had thought back then, then it should hurt. He wanted me to learn my lesson.

And I wanted to learn the hard way.

Gosh, I was stupid!

I can hardly believe that this child, this scared, little and irritated child had really been me.

But I guess that's just the way it is.

And maybe I was wrong.

Maybe not everybody passes through that phase.

I can't imagine Koschei hurting himself. No, that won't work. He'd always, always hurt others.

But if I come to think about it...

I had wandered around my room restlessly.

I was thinking. And somehow I didn't like remembering the past. That past.
This special part of my past.

I had tried to forget it and I had tried to deny it.

It had been stupid to pick on the wounds; and the fact that it had been years ago didn't alter it in any way. I had never intended to hurt myself.

I guess I had just been scared. And scarred.

I smiled at my own stupidity. What a terrible pun.

I bet Koschei wouldn't laugh about it. On the other hand he didn't laugh about wordplays.

Though he had a good and extensive vocabulary he didn't get them. At least most of them.

It had something to do with his madness, I assumed.

"scared" and "scarred" would sound similar to most of the people. To Koschei they probably wouldn't.

His mind worked in a different way.

It worked in mysterious ways.

You never knew what he thought.

And it took me years to learn that I didn't want to know how his mind works.

I've always looked forward to meeting Koschei with mixed feelings. Although I'd thought that in this occasion "mixed up" or "screwed up" feelings would have been more appropriate.

When we got to know each other I found him likeable.

That changed. That changed very quickly.

Then I had pity with him.
I don't know why, and seriously, I don't even understand it myself.

But that changed as well.

Then I was scared of him. And that didn't last long, either.

Finally I remained with a combination of mistrust, reliance and a bit of disinterested.

And that seemed to work till now.

I was in dire need for mistrust because you never knew what he thought.

I could rely on him because I knew he'd always want to protect me.

And I mustn't show interest in his life; otherwise he'd get the idea that I'd want him to spend more time with me.

All in all it was a wonderful combination.

And it didn't change.

Not even after he'd gotten between my legs...

I backed away from the window as if I'd seen something unbelievably horrible; like a giant sun breaking into pieces and shattering its burning parts all over the universe, incinerating everything within its reach.

But I hadn't. It was the mere thought of...
No.

I pressed a hand against my chest.
I didn't want to think about it. I couldn't think about it!

I felt... weird.

I didn't even know what it was.

It.

The feeling. The constant movement. The touch of Koschei, feeling him skin on skin between...

I closed my eyes and spun around.

No.

There was nothing to think about.

There was nothing.

Nothing had happened.

I had done nothing.

I hadn't...

My heart rates accelerated and I felt my blood pressure increasing. The blood rushed down into my pelvic area. I sat down on my bed.

It felt disgusting.

It felt wrong.

I sighed and rested my head in my palms, my arms resting on my knees.

Somehow I felt as if I'd betrayed my father. As if I'd let him down...

...Somehow...

But I didn't even know what I'd done wrong. I didn't even know it...