He grew up to look like Johnny Depp while I shed my little girl cuteness to become an acne-ridden witch

October is the heads-up, the trailer for the colossal and communal mood disorder that will come along with the darkness of the never-ending winter.

But something really strange and amazing and totally un-Juha related happened. I actually left the house on a Friday night to go to The Factory, an illegal and underground rock club in town. That's where the cool kids hung out, the kids I never saw in the streets or at the mall or on the bus. The first time I had gone I had been mesmerized, and couldn't believe that this place was located in Skellefteå, the god-forsaken town my parents had chosen to raise me in. It seemed so Stockholm, so London, so New York. Not that I would really know.
The darkened venue was populated with girls who looked like Robert Smith from The Cure – only cuter – and long-haired boys, mohawked boys, redskin boys, indie boys with messy hair and Dr. Martens boots. That time I had gone with a nerdy pen pal boy. It was our first date, except we didn't call it a date. There had been no romantic undertones in our correspondence – our letters had purely dealt with music, bands we liked and rock'n'roll gossip – but my head was filled with them. I had imagined him skinny and pale with eyes like black lakes with dangerous undercurrents below the mirror-like surface. And big plush lips of course. I had daydreamed us walking towards each other and thunder in the skies, an impossible magnetic pull, a yearning; an ache in the crotch area.


Because I am just as obsessed with romance as everyone else.

He was a total dork, of course. He wore shoes that made me embarrassed walking next to him. He smelled like After Shave that smelled like inspect repellent. His jeans were ill-fitting and of an unacceptable wash. It was easy to tell that he'd go prematurely bald. I didn't care because I wouldn't stick around to watch the hair grow thinner. I could barely be next to him in the club, because I was terrified that his uncool would rub off on me.
But somehow I did lend him a limited edition Sisters of Mercy record I never got back. I still haven't forgotten that Joel.

But this Friday night I went with Jimmy, a boy I had called my boyfriend when I was twelve and he eleven. He was my neighbor. He had been my boyfriend who I never got to kiss or dry-hump because he was terrified of germs. We broke up before I turned thirteen. Then I started playing dirty games with another boy who also happened to be a neighbor and a family friend. He grew up to look like Johnny Depp while I shed my little girl cuteness to become an acne-ridden witch. Jimmy grew up to grow a really badass mowhak and become a binge-drinker and I took him to the show at the Factory. We hadn't been in touch lately so I hadn't had a chance to bore him with my Juha-talk.
West European Politics played that night. I had heard about them. They were a local band with a lead singer who kind of looked like Juha. That night at the factory he had painted an up-side-down cross on his forehead. He was the coolest boy I had seen in Skellefteå. After the gig I saw him with his arms wrapped around a pixie girl with a pale face so perfect I could have rest my gaze there forever.
Jimmy and I milled about and drank beer and wished we had some friends, knew some of the people there. Because they were so clearly our kind of people. But we left without haven spoke to anyone.

But the next day we were at the bus station smoking cigarettes and drinking coca-cola and waiting when a dark blue car pulled up next to us. The driver was the singer of West European Politics and he pulled the window down. His beautiful girlfriend was sitting next to him and the bass player or the band was in the backseat. He said; Hey guys! I saw you at the show last night.
Yes, it was really cool, I said, stunned. Why was he talking to us?
And then he proceeded to invite us to come along to a gig in Umeå the following weekend. He gave me his phone number and said to call on Thursday and then they drove off.
Jimmy and I looked at each other and smirked.
I was on to bigger and better things, I thought. And wondered about my pact. And then about what Juha could be doing in his cell. But it wasn't a thought that could hold my interest for very long. Not now.

She just cries and says she's thirsty for black current lemonade

And infatuation rushes through my veins, to my head, and it's really a poison, making me see red, then making me see black. (An unexplored part of the grayscale) I peel labels off generic soda bottles and roll the paper scraps between thumb and index finger until they become sprinklings of nothing. I pick at scabs until they scar me forever. I fight with my parents. Because they are parents. And they don't understand. Have they ever? Their dull lives, their dull marriage makes me reel with vertigo and retch with existential anxiety. If life holds nothing else, nothing more than what's contained in the nest they've created ...

I long for a fantasy union I know nothing about. Even less than what I do know about unicorns and the Loch Ness monster.

I have no idea what triggered this venom, what made it flow. But I am on a rollecoaster ride that leaves me mangled and quesy. And with a whiplash injury that makes me feel so old. Too old.

But not old enough to grab my sister by the hair. I don't care that she squeals like a piglet. I drag her to the bathroom, the one upstairs where the devil likes to hang out. I open the door and shove her inside. I hear a thud and a whimper. I close the door and sit down on the floor, leaning my whole body onto it. In preparation I've unscrewed the light bulb. So I know how dark it will be. And I know how much she fears the dark, how she sleeps with the light on. And if the monsters underneath her bed are too restless and too hungry, which they are on certain nights, she'll run down the hallway to mommy and daddy's bedroom and she'll lie down at their feet like a dog.

She's begging me from the other side of the door to please let her out. She'll buy me candy. She won't spy on my friends when they come over (but they never do anymore). She'll be the best little sister in the whole world. She'll let me cut her hair to practice becoming a hairdresser. She doesn't know I no longer plan to be a hairdresser. I no longer have any plans to become anything except a person with a life less ordinary.
She says it's really to dark in the bathroom and that it smells of poop from the drain and that the linoleum feels sticky underneath her thighs.

I tell her that the devil is in there, maybe behind the shower curtain.

She begs me; No. Please no.

I tell her that he's been looking for souls like hers; soiled souls. I ask if she's peed herself, if she's pooed herself.

She just cries and says she's thirsty for black current lemonade.

I don't hear the footsteps coming up those stairs, and then there's daddy, nearly ripping my arm out of its socket.

What the hell are you doing?

He opens the door and my sister leaps into his arms. Her cheeks are wet with tears and snot.

Maybe Juha really is the one for you, he says as he descends the stairs with my sobbing sister.

I'm gonna call the cops and report child abuse, you asshole, I screech. Then I go outside, onto the balcony, to smoke a cigarette.

Another letter, another warm feeling

19/9-1988 Luleå


Victoria!!


Hello again ... thanks for the letter and the photo ... I was right ... you are the same girl I thought I saw on TV and in the papers haha, and several times in the courtroom ... and you are absolutely not 'ugly as hell' as you describe yourself!! And you are just as skinny as me ... Together we would weigh about 80 kg ... haha ... but I think you are taller than me. I am 171 cm ...
Hey you, BTW I'm not in Umeå anymore, I was moved to the jail in Luleå on 13/9-88 ... soooo ... a change at least ... We drove through Skellefteå but I didn't see you ... haha.  GOOD that you'd like to cock the hammers in appeal court (you can easily do it) ... I think Tina will come as well ... Then you don't have to wait in line at least ... haha ... you get to cut in front every day as far as I know ...
But it's not for sure that they will accept you as witnesses in the appeal court ... but they should and probably will ... Pelle Svensson will be in touch when it's time ... are you left or right-handed ... by the way it's not important, your age is important ... you are five years younger than Marita ... Marita is 22 years and you are 'only' 17 years ... and it's not difficult to cock those fucking hammers ... the court knows this too but those fuckers just wants to speculate ... but they can't do that after you guys have cocked the hammers right in front of their eyes! So you've started to work at Prästbordet's Kindergarten ... do you like it? Do you like children?
WHAT ...?? You would like to travel to the Soviet Union and Albania ...?? They are two of the worst Communist countries in the whole world ... personally I have never had any interest in commie countries ... on the contrary ... maybe it's just out of tradition that I don't because almost all Finns hate the Russians ... and personally I don't think communism is a very good way of thinking ... but I'm not really interested in politics at all ... I have never voted and am never going to either ... all the political parties are equally jerks, it doesn't matter if they are Moderate. social democrats or communists, they all want the same thing ... POWER!
What does 'röj' mean by the way? Is it some kind of word from Skellefteå? Don't laugh ... I really don't know what 'röjig/röj' means ... it's a completely new word to me ... could you 'translate' it next time you write ... please ...
You like The Leather Nun??
There are actually some Swedish rock bands that are OK. Mostly I like Imperiet, Nationalteatern, Eva Dahlgren ... here in Sweden ... at least they have pretty good lyrics.
You aren't the only one who's dyed on their hair a lot ... I guess I've dyed my hair for almost ten years and that ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(wrote the same thing twice)
But now I have almost my natural hair color, dark brown, during the summer, or the spring rather, I had pitch black hair ... I have tried bleaching my hair a couple of times, but blond hair doesn't suit me, I look like a girl then ... haha.
You've told Lisa and Kris I can't write them because I get so many letters, right? But the flood of letters is starting to dry up a bit, now I only get about 10-15 letters a day ... haha.
I hope you weren't disappointed if you tried to visit me at the jail in Umeå and found out I had been transferred to Luleå ... and here NOBODY can visit me ... SATAN!! But we'll meet anyway, at the latest at the trial, if you come?? OK, be well Stella.


Hugs, Juha


P.S I COULD be transferred to Stockholm or Gothenburg within a week,

It would reflect light beautifully like a cool pond after the storm has passed

And everyone tells me that I'm crazy. Even my friend who was the first one to say it out loud, that Juha was beautiful (or did she perhaps use the word hot?) thinks I've crossed a certain line and am now wading through a swamp that may turn to quicksand. My friends say they can't stand hearing me talk about Juha and the trial and the attorneys and my new Juha-friends anymore. They say it's too much and that they wish I would talk about the normal, fun things I talked about before. Some suggest I should start jogging or something. Because maybe something is really wrong with me.

My sister is scared that Juha may come and knock on my window one night. I barely dare to fantasize about that dream coming true. 

Just go to a party, get drunk and make out with someone. But the world isn't exactly overrun by boys who'd like to make out with girls like me. 


I already know a lot of things are wrong with me.
First and foremost; my skin is ravaged and Clearasil don't do shit for it. Sometimes I imagine I could peel off the outer layer with a knife, and then, beneath, a perfectly smooth and rosy complexion would reveal itself. It would reflect light beautifully like a cool pond after the storm has passed. And I would be beautiful. And being beautiful is important when you're a girl. Much better than being smart or kind. For now I just hide underneath a lot of foundation and powder and my long hair falling across the cheeks like curtains in houses where dark secrets stay inside the walls.
I also know that there's something raging inside me. Once I cut the whiskers off a cat. Another time I burnt the wing off a Daddy Longlegs. And sometimes I think I wouldn't feel a thing if my mother died. Or my sister. Or my friend.

My straitjacket life

The days blur together. I come home from work the same time, on the same bus. The only difference is that each day the sky is a shade darker. Winter is around the corner, I can feel it in my bones. Soon the snow will fall like little mittens from the sky.
My ritual for coming home is as follows. I turn into the driveway, locate the mailbox and fling it open. Usually there's nothing in it because dad comes home for lunch and collects it then. I jump up on the porch, side-stepping the three little steps, and fling the door open and roar: I am home. Usually I then hear the sound of newspaper pages being turned or something fizzling in hot oil on the stove. Or a toilet flushing. I get my boots off as quickly as I can, thing is it's never that fast with Dr. Martens. I race to the counter in the kitchen to see if there's a letter from my dark rebel waiting for me. If there is I smile from within. If there's not, like today, I may throw something, like an apple or the phone book. Or I'll slam a door or start yelling at my parents for not having bought my favorite bread.
And then I hurry down the hallway to my room. Our house feels like a dollhouse; flimsy and with no sound-proofing or privacy.
I lock the door and throw myself on my bed. My bedspread is fuzzy and there's a giant horse on it. I cry. And cry. Until there's time to eat. Then I do that. And then return to my room, my bed and my straitjacket sheets. My straitjacket life.

The Letter

 11/9-1988

Hello Again,


Thank you for your letter. Aha ... so you've read my "interviews" in Expressen ... haha ... Three newspapers called me about a week ago. They were so fucking excited but it was Expressen that "got" the first interview. I guess they sell 30% more when I am on the first page ... They should pay me some sort of percentage, the fucking vultures!
Aftonbladet, Expressen and Kvällsposten have promised to send me everything they have written about me ... I guess it's quite a lot.
I don't think Marita will do any interviews, she may worry that she would make a fool out of herself, that she would say something really stupid! I also think her lawyer has told her not to do any.
You wondered when I will be examined by the National Board of Forensic Medicin?? I really don't know actually. Marita is going to Uppsala tomorrow morning ... she got priority ... as always! I am totally discriminated against the whole time ... but that's old news ... I guess I'll get used to that.  I have always said that girls have an easier time in this world, especially within the prison system ... haha.
Would you like to help at the Appeal court, to come there and "cock the hammer"?? If the answer is yes, let me know and I will give your name and address to me lawyer Pelle Svensson. But there's no hurry with that. The Appeal Court trial won't be until early 1989 sometime. This trial will be redone sometime in December. But it really doesn't matter what those fucking homos decide there, it's going to appeal court anyway!
You were wondering if I'd gotten any hate mail recently ... haha ... Until now I have received about 200 letters and of those ten are hate/threat mail!
There was a friend of yours again, Lisa L, who wrote me. You'll have to tell her that I unfortunately can't answer all the letters, even if I'd like to. I really don't write to that many, most of the people I write I knew from before ...
Hey, I just got an "incredible" idea ... Why don't you send a photo of yourself to me?? It would be fun if you could, but you don't have to if you don't want to. I was just thinking that you must have seen a lot of pictures of me. Yes, I know Åsa ... she's a good friend of mine. Did you meet in court or ...?? 
So you are planning to move to London ... or? I haven't even been there yet. I have only been everywhere in Scandinavia, and also in West Germany, Holland, Belgium around. I really love to travel! But you may already now that ...?? 
What?? You would like to try to spend a few days in jail?? I can guarantee you that it isn't the nicest experience really ...
Locked up 23 hours per day every day ... Fucking hell! Of course I have a TV and a radio in the cell but it's not that "comforting" ... But time passes anyway ... somehow ... and then when it's time for that forensic investigation I'll get a change. At least I get to leave Umeå ... but within a few months I'm back again ... C'est la vie ... 
Haha ... Did you not want to work at a burger joint ... I know a girl from Gothenburg who has worked at McDonalds there and from what she has told me what it's like working in a place like that I understand you very well, that you don't want to begin working there. 
Don't you want to live in Skellefteå or??
Do you have a nickname by the way?? I really think Stella is so nice sounding ... I was "enamoured" with your name right away ... hehe ... Okay ... BE WELL! ... and write me ...


Hugs, Juha

Bleeding their green and blue dragons and Geishas

Juha and I are on a train. In one of those sleeper cars with two three-tiered bunk-beds on a few square meters of space chugging towards a given destination. He pulls me underneath the sheets with him. They are crisp white sheets with a high thread count. Designer sheets. In real life they don't give you sheets like that on trains. You have to make do with sheets, the dullest shade of blue, that have been spanked in the washer a thousand times, and a burled blanket.
His thin arms are covered in blurry tattoos, bleeding green and blue dragons and Geishas all the way down to his hands that are reaching for me. His hair is almost black on the pillow. My body is throbbing with what I think is desire. It's a new feeling; a sweet ache mixed with a sense of alarm. Somewhere on the periphery of this dream.
But we are going away. Together. Far away. We have the potential to disappear. Like Houdini. Into thin air.
Then there's a knock on the compartment door. It must be the conductor. This is bad, we both know this. Juha slides further down underneath those silky sheets. As if he'd find a rabbit hole to enter into.

But it's dad. He's always somehow been under the impression that it's legit to knock once and then fling the door open, without waiting for an OK or a: Come on in.
You're running late, he says. And points to his wrist watch. Then he closes the door and I hear his foot steps disappearing down the hallway, towards the kitchen, from where a faint smell of coffee comes drifting.
Juha is of course gone. And what I am late for is my job at kindergarten. And that's not something I am bouncing out of bed for.

The trees are almost all bare. The sky has shifted from pale blue to steel gray. Everyone has busted out their autumn coats and heavier shoes – all in colors to match the dead leaves blowing around in the north pole wind. I believe people spin slightly out of control when they never get properly warmed by the sun. When the shortest summers just rain away in a haze of grim light filtered through jagged steel-wool clouds.

The Kindergarten

Everyone else that works there thinks I'm a freak and a potential danger to the little humans that we are suppose to care for and offer guidance to. These creatures whip up a terrible, tinnitus-inducing racket every day. In the staff room the adults sit as far away from me as possible, but when they talk to me they paste polite smiles on their plain faces. I am insulted that they think I am that stupid, that I can't see the contempt brimming over and pouring out of their eyes, peeping over strong prescription glasses – no doubt the result of reading too many books on child-rearing.
And still they favor the cute kids, while the ugly, fat, pasty ones are left fending for themselves. Feed them to the sharks, I say.
One of them is Karin. She has thick glasses with heavy unfashionable frames. And she wears shit-colored corduroy pants and puke-tinted polyester shirts. Her parents, both doctors, have outfitted her in 70's pimps clothes. But she has no idea of course. She's only four. Her face is also unfortunate, with a big birthmark smudged across her cheek. And she just doesn't have that great of a personality, you can already tell; she's sullen and body and I don't know which came first.
Then there's Susanne. She looks like she stepped out of a Pampers advertisement. She's outfitted in soft pastel colors, and has blond curls that frame her adorable face perfectly. And her eyes are blue blue blue. She always brings new toys and over-sized stuffed animals to Kindergarten even though she's not supposed to.
One day Karin comes to me crying. She says the other kids won't let her join in. I stomp over to Susanne in my combat boots to see what's up.
Why can't Karin play with you? I ask.
Susanne turns her gaze to the floor and says: Because she's ugly.
I take Karin outside to the swings and let her swing high, and then higher.
You should also make a deal with Satan too, I mumble. She can't hear of course. The wind is dragging a beer can around on the pavement.

And when I go home there's a letter from Juha waiting for me on the kitchen counter along with some bills and mail order catalogs.

But the girlfriend was relentless.

We are in the car driving to Umeå. I don't think I've been there since the trial. But this time I am not going to the city, only to the airport. The road is lined with walls of snow. They make me think of prison, the prisons inside our heads, the ones where we confine ourselves. There's a bite in the crisp February air. But not in the car of course, where the cranked heater is assaulting me with enough hot air so that I can remove a layer of Eskimo clothing. My dad is at the wheel. My nice dad who's always been rail-thin and exercise-prone. And his good set of genes allowed him to keep a full head of dark brown hairs. Until recently that is. Because almost over night turned silver (still with no signs of thinning). And his body started giving in to gravity and a small, but undeniable paunch settled on his mid-section.

On the radio they are airing a documentary about another highly publicized Swedish criminal case. The so-called Stureby-killing. Stureby was the well-to-do suburb in Stockholm where I had lived in a sublet before packing up my things and fleeing the suffocating self-righteousness of Sweden for Berlin.

In June 2009 15-year old Therese Johansson Rojo was found dead on the ground beneath a cluster of trees in a park. Later a boy and a girl, both 16, were arrested for murder and instigation of murder. As the story unraveled in media and on internet discussion boards it seemed that the girl and the boy had been a couple and that their relationship was a stormy and symbiotic one, and that the girlfriend for weeks had urged the boy to kill Therese. Because at one beer-fueled party a month earlier the two had shared a quick teenage kiss. Something that, when she found out, had blinded the girlfriend with fury. First she had head-butted her boyfriend so hard that he had lost a couple of teeth. And then she had sent him hundreds of text messages saying that it would be over, and that she would hate him with all her might forever and ever if he didn't kill the cute dark-haired Therese Johansson Rojo dead. He didn't want to. For the longest he tried to come up with excuses and to slither his way out of it. But the girlfriend was relentless. And in the end he complied. He searched out Therese who was partying with some friends in this park in this nice suburb with manicured lawns and shiny new cars in the driveways. He lured her into the woods and beat her and then suffocated her until life was drained from her body.
Then he sent a text message to his girlfriend: Mission completed. 

My dad and I were listening to this radio documentary and somehow my thoughts gravitated towards Juha. So I decided to ask my dad: How did you feel when I received that first letter from Juha?
And he said: I was chocked but also very curious. I wanted to know what was in those letters.
Didn't you worry about me?
Not really. I was convinced it was just a phase and that you would turn out OK anyway.

p.s picture of Therese. R.I.P

I was that crazy witch who was in love with a killer.

From here on days blurred together to form an unsightly gray and sticky porridge with far too few raisins to sweeten the mess.
I had the job at the kindergarten to go to every day. And coming back in the evenings I would have a fit of fury if no letter from Juha was awaiting me.
My friends thought I was crazy and I could feel them slipping away. They didn't want to hear me go on about the case.
I had also let myself be interviewed and photographed by two different papers; one national and one local. So everyone knew that I was that crazy witch who was in love with a killer.

Before going to bed I would inspect my face in the mirror in the windowless bathroom. It would seem to me that my pact with Satan had given some result. My face seemed a little less covered in pimples. There were for example tiny clear patches on my cheeks and no zits on my nose. Just never-ending streams of blackheads that endlessly needed to be drained. Something I not only didn't mind doing: I loved squeezing and watching the black top pop out followed by a tiny maggot of white pus. This was an indescribable pleasure that only made me feel a little dirty afterwards.

And I blushed when I read his description of my eyes.

Stella!


Thanks for the letter. There's really a lot to write ... but I think this has to be a short letter anyway ...
We saw each other at the trial ... if you are who I think you are ... dark hair, "Bambi-eyes," and punk rock clothes ...


So begun the letter that landed in our generic green mailbox a few days later, after I had returned from Umeå and the trial. I had been dark and agitated. Staying in my room, in my bed, wanting only to kill time and then trembling when thinking about the implications. I have a short life and I am terrified of it ending, but still I spend lots of my very limited time killing time, killing life.
I had hit my sister with a clog in the face drawing blood. My dad had given my time-out in the sauna. So I sat there eating graham crackers and crying very non-Hollywood tears.
And then this letter came. From my wrongly accused misunderstood rebel. And I blushed when I read his description of my eyes.
He had noticed me. It wasn't just my imagination. He had really seen me, for real.

Ironically, now when he no longer looked like a rock star, he had gotten himself a rock star name

In year 2002 I was living in New York and battling existential anxiety. I had just turned thirty so of course it was bound to happen. I had also just gone through a break-up that coincided with 9/11. As I found out that the dark-haired troubled angel-boy with half-melted wings wilted on his back, had betrayed me the twin towers crumbled and covered lower Manhattan with dust and rubble.
I couldn't even be bothered to react to that because I was too preoccupied with my own heartache.
In 2002 I was trying to figure out if I was staying or going. If I was good or bad. If I would amount to anything or turn out to be too much.
My dad was on a crystal clear long-distance line from another time zone. I just thought I'd tell you that your old fiance has escaped from prison and returned to his old stomping ground. It took me a second to understand who he was talking about.
Yup, he said. There's a huge manhunt up here. Everyone's freaking out. After we hung up I went online to read some Swedish newspapers to find out what was really going on. I had stashed Juha far far away, among other youth crimes and assorted vicious thoughts that would made both you and me shudder if I spelled them out.
The pictures of him that greeted me made it clear, once again, that time certainly isn't kind. His skinny frame that back then had awoken so many latent Florence Nightingale feelings, had now been fleshed out with too many pasty kilos and an unflattering pelican's chin. His nose appeared to have grown in every direction and his head was shaved save a Taxi Driver Mohawk. He no longer resembled a rock star or a potential boyfriend or even the kind of lover you could imagine one reckless fuck with, not caring if it would leave you bruised and with broken ribs. Just once to try it.
And his name was no longer Juha Valjakkala. Ironically, now when he no longer looked like a rock star, he had gotten himself a rock star name: Nikita Fouganthine.

I never told them I was Satan's bride

We got up at four, got dressed and hurried out. A small group of people were already waiting in front of the courthouse. They had brought candles and blankets and set up a camp in the midst of the morning frost. We joined the group because they smiled at us. The dungaree-girl I had noticed the day before was there. Her eyes were watchful but she remained aloof. There was also a bubbly blond girl called Tina. She looked like a prom queen which made me instantly suspicious of her. But when I found out she'd come all the way from Stockholm I was impressed. There was also a girl with brown eyes and long dark hair and a half-moon shaped scar slashed across her cheek. This defect couldn't take away from her prettiness. Her name was Susanne. And then there was an older man, Roland. He had also traveled from far. And he told us that he'd sent some porno magazines to Juha in jail. He was a strange character.
The dungaree-girl's name was Åsa. I asked her if she knew Juha.
At that she cracked a Mona-Lisa smile and said: No comments. 
Inside there was more of the same. Juha wore the same red sweater and boots. He looked above it all, playing with his hair and rocking on his chair. At one point Tina whispered to me: I hope he falls. And I said: Yes, and we should force-shave Gunnar Falk. And then we became overcome with giggles. Gunnar Falk was Marita's attorney and he had a giant dark mustache that looked like an insect crawling on his upper lip.
The members of the press kept approaching members of our group. They wanted to know everything about us, it seemed. And that was flattering to me. And it was fun to speak to grown-ups and have them hang onto every word I said. We played hard to get at first, but eventually caved in a bit.
I had to return home, because I had a job at a kindergarten waiting for me. It was arranged by the city to save a drop-out like me.
I never told them I was Satan's bride (or wished to be).

You must excuse the mess

Had something rubbed off on me?

In the audience I noticed a homely girl. She had long mousy brown hair, and looked like she was in her mid-twenties or so. She wore dungarees and kept to herself. Even during breaks. And during the proceedings she scribbled notes in a little blue book. I also noticed that she traded a couple of nods with Juha. And they shared a smile. I had to know who she was. I had planned to get to her when the day was over, but I lost sight of her and she was gone like a ghost.

My new friend Lisa offered me to stay over at her place. That was good because if I had taken the bus back I probably wouldn't have been able to come back the next day.
We have so much to talk about anyway, she said.
Her apartment building was located in a complex of gray slabs with vertical and horizontal rows of tiny windows. It looked like a prison despite the absence of window bars. The pavement was dotted with concrete playgrounds were jungle gyms sagged and where sad-eyed kids with diaper rashes and runny noses roamed.
The streets were named after the sciences. She lived on Kemigatan, Chemistry Street.
You must excuse the mess, she said as we entered her building. I assumed she was referring to a potential disarray of shoes in the hallway, or some unwashed dishes in the sink, or piles of clothing strewn about in her teenage girl room.

In the kitchen nicotine-stained walls appeared to be caving in on Lisa's mother, rocking an Aerosmith t-shirt and drinking beer straight out of the can, and Lisa's baby brother who was in the midst of an asthma-sounding cough attack.
Hey girls, Lisa's mother drawled. The words came out all lop-sided. How was the trial?
Fine, Lisa said. Have you made dinner? Can Stella eat here?
Sure she can. She opened another can of beer with a pop and that hissing afterglow of carbonation. But you guys will have to boil some macaroni or something. I have to watch my girly figure so I'm only having liquid dinner tonight. 

After a bowl each of pasta with ketchup we retreated to Lisa's room. She had tacked a picture of Juha, cut out from a newspaper, above her bed. He fit in there among all the other long-haired, dangerous looking men that watched over us as we sat cross-legged on the floor and talked about the day.

I'll be willing to sell my soul to you.

It was the first time I had ever been inside a court of law. It didn't look like the courtrooms I had seen in American movies. All the jury members were middle-aged and a few appeared to be sleepy, struggling to keep from falling into sugar comas no matter how many cups of coffee they drank.
I don't really remember what was said that day. I just remember a room filled with gray men and women with sagging faces and unfashionable glasses. Discreet ties and little pins on navy-colored lapels. Glasses of water. And that horrible taste of wood on my bony ass. Number 2 pencils scribbling notes. Coughs and one lone snore.
Marita looked down the whole time. She was dressed in an ill-fitting lady suit. Her hair looked as if it had been permed. Would they do that in jail? She answered via her translator who converted her inaudible Finnish mumble to Swedish. The answers varied from: I don't know to I don't remember and I'm not sure.
Juha, on the other hand, spoke loud and clear, in Swedish with a cute Finnish accent. He elaborated and gave detailed answers, and rocked on his chair, sometimes taking such risks with it that I feared he would fall. At one point when he was being lead out for recession, he passed our row and our eyes met. I saw stars. And became giddy with fluttering moth wings.

Some days before, in the windowless bathroom, I had stood in front of the mirror, and stared at myself. I didn't like what I saw, so I switched off the light. And within a split second I was cloaked in an unexplored part of the gray scale. I had disappeared and it wasn't entirely unpleasant. That's when I said the words out loud. Previously they had only been thoughts, in bold letters, rising to the foreground. I'll be willing to sell my soul to you. In exchange for what? I didn't have time to state my terms before a reflex made me unlock my door and throw myself on the handle and fall onto the hallway floor.

Ass needles in church pews

The courtroom looked more like a church than a club, but the ambiance was definitely arena rock. The front row seats were reserved for special guests. Like relatives of the victims and relatives of the perpetrators. Why they would want to sit next to each other I didn't really understand. And perhaps they didn't, because many of those seats gaped empty, save the little white reserved-signs that were scotch-taped to the backs. The rest of the room filled up with members of the press. They were noisy and restless; stirring and making notes and scanning the room suspiciously.
The back rows where were for people like us. There were other teenage girls that sat together in little clusters, much like the one I had formed with my new soul mates. It's funny how a taste for cigarettes and goth rock can truly bring people together.
The seats were hard like church pews and definitely not made for slumping. Not that I wasn't planning on doing that anyway, but my ass was hurting before anything had begun. But I forgot all about that as the back doors swung open and the buzz of voices came to an abrupt halt. Before we could see we heard something akin to the sound of clattering hooves. The room collectively held its breath. The clattering turned into an echoing thunder and everyone had turned around in their seats.
But somehow we already knew. And there he was, Juha, pint-sized and straight-backed, with wild hair. Hand-cuffed in a bright red sweater, jeans and cowboy boots. He took his seat next to his lawyer, Pelle Svensson, who happened to be an ex-boxer and a celebrity attorney of sorts. A lady just in front of me mumbled: Oh good lord, and clasped her hands in prayer. I don't know if she found Juha as beautiful as I did. Lisa poked her elbow in my ribs. I yearned for Juha to see me. I straightened my back as much as I could and craned my neck. But he wasn't looking. He was whispering with his lawyer. I tried to will his attention. Right then I wanted nothing more than to sink down into the bottomless wells that were his eyes. I had decided, it was better to sink than to swim. There had to be euphoria in knowing the lungs would eventually give in.
We should always know that.

The same goth cuties I had seen the day before. Now we would have to be friends.

I took a jittery little walk around the block before I cut across a little park area were a cluster of young trees stood and mourned their loss of leaves. As I strode through the courthouse gates I knew I would make it. I wasn't the first one to arrive, but there were only two girls in between the crush fences that already were raised in preparation for the onslaught.
The same goth cuties I had seen the day before. Now we would have to be friends.
This morning foreshadowed the long winter that too soon would descend upon us and smother us with never-ending nights and snow mittens.
Hi, one of the girls said. She wore glasses. Round ones, like the ones John Lennon always had sported after he got together with Yoko. She was giving me a careful once over, and I pulled my hair curtains tighter, self-conscious as always about the state of my skin.
What's up, I said.
We saw you yesterday, the other girl said. Her heart-shaped face immediately cracked open into a little snaggletooth smile. And I liked her right away.
They were wearing the same Free Juha t-shirts, but they were partially hidden under layers of cardigans, scarves and thrift store jackets. It was my uniform too.
Where are you from? I asked them. It's always necessary to have a few questions like that to take you up the hill. And if you make it all the way with the little introductory phrases and pleasantries, it will be down-hill from then on.
From here, the bespectacled one said and then asked if I had a lighter.
Aren't you supposed to be in school? I asked.
Yes, but we're cuttin'. I'd rather miss a couple of hours of math and fucking history than this. And what about you, aren't you supposed to be in class?
I dropped out. 
To come here? The heart-shaped girl's eyebrows lifted towards the murky skies.
No. I just couldn't take it anymore. Too many idiots.
Yeah, but you'll never get away from those, the John Lennon-girl said and sucked hard on her menthol cigarette. I had recently graduated from those to Marlboro reds.

We sat and smoked and talked. About school and idiots. About The Cure and Sisters of Mercy. And about Juha of course. They believed, like I did, that it was Juha's petite (ex-)girlfriend who had done the gruesome deeds at that cemetery. But we didn't think about that, about the bodies that had since been put in the ground. The heart-shaped girl was Lisa and the John Lennon-girl was Kris. After about an hour we were friends. And by then a line had started to form behind us.

I liked this man. He had suffered, I was certain.

At about 3 am the following morning, a silver-colored taxi cab pulled up outside our house and winked its headlights in the pre-dawn suburbia stillness. I was already wide-awake and fully dressed. I had even laced up my Dr. Martens boots and stood in the hallway with a bag slung over my shoulders. My heart and mind was already racing. I had raided my mom's wallet for some smaller bills that she surely wouldn't miss. That I, her oldest daughter, surely needed more than her.
At one point I had told my parents that they should pay me a salary for allowing me to lend their pointless lives meaning. My mother's bottom lip had quivered for a split second and then she had told me: But we already do. We give you a monthly allowance. 
A generous one, Dad had added. And at that I had sneered.

Because before I was punk rock or goth rock or whatever you wanna call it, I had been a blond girl eager to fit in and to be sweet and popular. That, in my mind, required the right attire, and the right brand names. Which my parents never supplied. When I wanted Levi's Jeans, they had bought me Rocky Jeans, H&M's cheap and highly uncool denim trousers. And when I had been yearning for Adidas or Nike sneakers, they had come home with Lejon tennis shoes. That was beyond humiliation. And maybe that was the reason I had turned punk rock. Because I had known with rock-hard certainty, that I'd never fit in anyway. At least that's what I had sputtered at them when dad was upset that I had pierced my nose just before going to visit grandma. And then she never even noticed the little silver stud.

                                                                         ***

The cab driver's name was Börje. He was a gray man with skin that had begun the sad surrender to gravity. His eyes were pale. He looked at me over the rim of his glasses. I sat in the passenger seat and felt a bit uncomfortable about the fact that I didn't have any money to pay for the 150 kilometer cab ride. It would surely cost at least 400 SEK, which at the time was a small fortune, more than a pair of Levi's jeans cost. As I conversed with Börje, I was also, in the back of my brain, trying to decide how I would deal with the situation.
I liked this man. He had suffered, I was certain. But he hadn't come out of it bitter, but kind. And as tired as if he hadn't slept for a thousand years. His shoulders were hunched and his hands, clutching the wheel, dry and big.
I have a daughter your age, he said. You seem a bit like her. Then he looked on the road that stretched its black pavement and white lines into the morning that had started to break ahead of us.
But I don't know if it's because all teenage girls are more or less the same. Or maybe I don't know my daughter as well as I should. This Börje mumbled more to himself. So I didn't answer. I had been honest with Börje about where I was going. He didn't frown or turn to me with disgust on his face. He just stated: It will probably be interesting.

When we arrived in Umeå and he pulled up to the curb a block away from the courthouse, I hadn't resolved to one plan of action. So I just told him that I had no money to pay for the ride. I would have to owe him 437 kronor. Börje sighed and the sigh seemed to rise from an abyss. I noticed that his stubble has streaks of white in it.
Why do you take a taxi when you don't have any money?
I didn't have a good answer to that. But I asked him to send me a bill to my parents house.
He wished me good luck as he slowly pulled out and away.

I would have assumed you probably listened to Michael Bolton and lost interest in you.

I had to be at the court house early. I had already missed the first day, and was beating myself up about it. I had taken the first bus from Skellefteå to Umeå. That was a two-hour bus ride and I had arrived in Umeå just after eight in the morning. The first day of the trial was set to start at 10 am. I had thought that would leave me plenty of time to be on time. But when I had approached the stern gray building, with a belly full of moths and two cheese sandwiches and a Walkman loaded with goth rock in my purse, there were already throngs of people waiting outside in the hazy morning. Crush barriers had been erected and some people had squatted down onto the pavement inside these pens, and where drinking coffee from thermoses. This really made the rock show/freak show vibe even more pronounced. I waited in line too. And more people came and stood behind me.

I noticed a couple of raven-haired girls with heavy eyeliner and 'Free Juha'  t-shirts. They looked at me too. Because I could tell and they could tell that we should be friends, would be friends. Because back then friendships seemed easier, and less complicated. The only prerequisite to become a friend of mine was: Good taste in music. This meant that if you answered Michael Bolton, when I asked you what kind of music you liked, you would never be invited to sit on my bed and listen to records and talk about black holes at the outskirts of the universe. And if you said: Oh, I listen to everything, or: I am omnivorous when it comes to music, I would have assumed you probably listened to Michael Bolton and lost interest in you.

But we didn't talk and we didn't get in. After I had stood waiting for about half an hour some guy said that only fifteen people from the general public would be admitted. The rest of the seats in the courthouse were reserved for relatives and for members of the media. There were probably fifty or more people waiting. But I stood there anyway until I knew for certain that it wouldn't happen. Someone was talking about Juha being brought in. And I thought maybe I would catch a glimpse of him being led into the building. But they must have used a back entrance because I never saw him. Instead I walked back to the bus station and sat on a bench eating my lunch while waiting for the next bus.

She was scared of the dark, just like I was.

My sister was a terror. And for that she sometimes had to endure my beatings. At other times she simply had to be held captive while I force-fed her horror stories. She was scared of the dark, just like I was. I often checked for monsters underneath the bed, even as I steadily chugged towards so-called adulthood. But darkness and the ghouls that inhabited the negative space also had a magnetic pull on me.
Like Satan in the windowless bathroom.
Like Juha Valjakkala.Because sadness and darkness are so much alike. And maybe, in the end, the same thing?

The trial date had been set and it was fast approaching. I had to go. I was destined to see my pen pal in real life. I felt instilled with helium when I thought about it. It was that same feeling of anticipation as a concert with your favorite band, for which you have a ticket in a heart-shaped box for, is coming up.

A few years later I felt that tingly nausea as I entered Pere Lachaise through and iron gate, and begun following the graffiti towards the lizard king. It got to my head and I was dizzy as I hurried through the maze of tombstones. But when me and my friend Etta arrived at Jim Morrison's grave that feeling sank like a rock to the bottom of my stomach and was replaced by a dull ache. The site was filthy with beer cans, crushed glass and cigarette butts. The people that hung out there seemed like lost souls with scraggly hair and worn tie-dyed t-shirts. One guy strummed on a guitar in desperate need of some tuning. It wasn't a worthy resting place for a king. We took our six-pack of Stella Artois and wandered randomly along a path and in silence, after awhile, we came upon Oscar Wilde's tombstone. There peace and stillness had settled onto the granite. And some of that rubbed off on us too.

But when she found out she was too short to become a cop, she became a skinhead instead.

The excitement I felt could barely be contained within the frame upheld by my bones. I re-read the short letter, a page and a half of smudged blue ink on off-white lined paper. (He writes that he's left-handed and that the pen sucks).
I stared out the window onto the dismal dying summer that easily has given in to even colder autumn winds, gushing leaves onto our wilted lawn. I took a few deep breaths and opened the desk drawer where I kept my stationary.
I liked writing letters. I always had. Always would. Or so I thought at least. Who could have predicted that the art of letter writing with all that entailed. Like picking out pretty stationary, and then personalizing it further by adding stickers, scents and glued-on pictures, would so quickly become extinct? I had pen pals almost all over the world.
There was Sharon in Australia, Scott in Scotland and Annie in Texas. She was a total dork. In the photos she sent me she rocked thick glasses and a snaggletooth smile. And her letters bored me to tears. She would ask me questions like: How many books do you have? What did you have for dinner on Friday night? Do you like animals? But a sense of duty kept me responding in a timely manner to her letters mailed in flimsy airmail envelopes from the desert plains of the hottest state. I tried to outclass her in tediousness, by in detail describing every bland meal I'd had during the week. For lunch on Wednesday I ate boiled potatoes, about three of them, with some green peas and string beans, a dollop of gravy, three medium-sized pieces of boiled carrots and a slice of whole wheat bread with a thin layer of margarine and a slice of cheese and three cucumbers.  By doing this I hoped she would stop writing me. Which she finally did. I guess it was the pen pal version of being too much of a coward to break up with someone. I also had several Swedish pen pals. One of them was Helena. I had gone to visit her by train once. Then she was into horses and wanted be a police officer. But when she found out she was too short to become a cop, she became a skinhead instead.
And there had been a pen pal boy who didn't live that far away. He had good taste in music and dressed sort of new wave. I had liked that style back then. We had actually met after a few months of 'pen fighting' and exchanging of cassette tapes in padded envelopes. I fell in love with him right away. But could sadly tell he didn't reciprocate my teenage feelings.

So I had a lot of stationary to chose from, and I carefully selected a neutral light blue sheet of paper and grabbed my best pen.

Thank you for your letter, I begun. Real good to hear from you. What kind of music do you like?
Quickly moving onto the essentials.

I could only think about the face, the hair, the lips, the tattooed arms. That icy blue gaze. Was it the sky or nothingness between those dark eyelashes? He said he was innocent, that he hadn't done nothing. And I wanted to believe that. I had to believe that.

I poured over that letter. Contemplating splashing a little bit of cheap drugstore perfume on the envelope. But I held back. I held myself together. But fell apart when my sister banged the door open and shrieked: What are you doing?

I pulled her onto the floor by her flaxen hair.

I remember feeling a sense of relief about the ex in front of the girlfriend.

But one day I returned home from god knows where, because I usually did nothing and went nowhere. But I remember walking in through the door and how my dad stood in the kitchen in his too short running shorts, fanning himself with an envelope. Or at least that's what it looked like he was doing. He yelled at me with a furrowed brow: You've gotten a letter from that damn Juha Valjakkala. That was his name. Both him and Marita were foreigners, from the neighboring land of Finland. A country of knives, vodka and blondes so fair their eyelashes were see-through. My heart did a somersault and I rushed forward to snatch the letter from my very tall and very red-faced father's hand. He took a step back and glared at me and then handed me the letter.
Thanks for nothing, shithead, I mumbled. I sat down at my desk slowly and opened the envelope with my index finger. That envelope had been in his hands that had been and done fuck all knows what. I removed a sheet of paper folded in four.

It begun: Hi Stella! Thanks for your letter ... I thought I'd write you a few lines because your name is so beautiful. Haha. No, I would have written you anyway, I guess.
He went on to talk about how he was innocent and would be freed in the court of appeal at the very latest.

The investigation had taken an unexpected turn when Juha a few days earlier suddenly had admitted to being at the place of the crime. He also admitted to stealing a bicycle that was unlocked and parked outside the victims' house. He admitted being there when Sten and Fredrik, because that were their names, had gotten their brains blown to smithereens. He had also been present when Ewa, the mother, had gotten her throat slit all the way into the spine. But his hands hadn't pulled the trigger, or handled the knife. He said, and everyone present dropped their chins into their laps, that Marita, his ex-girlfriend was the triple murderer.

I remember feeling a sense of relief about the ex in front of the girlfriend.

My head was spinning and I had gotten a giant whitehead on my chin.

And this is what made me contemplate a pact with Satan.

I read every newspaper article and listened to every news cast on the small radio in the kitchen. My internal clock became tuned to the TV news schedule.

At first Juha and Marita denied having had anything to do with the brutal killings. They hadn't even been near that Midnight sun village. Or so they said. Or he said, at least. She was mostly quiet, the papers reported. She was very pretty, I thought. She possessed the kind of delicate porcelain features I wanted for myself. Because as a teenage girl you were painfully aware that there was no power like the pretty power. And that I lacked. I was gifted with wit and brains, but that paled into transparency in comparison to feminine allure.
And this is what made me contemplate a pact with Satan. We had a windowless bathroom, that smelled faintly of mold. It was there I made shaky attempts to get through to Him. But I always chickened out and bolted out into the light before any contact was made.

One day I just decided to write letters to Juha and Marita. Again, it's hard now to remember my exact motivations. It was just an idea I had. I was ruled by impulses and hot hormonal flashes. I sat down first to compose a letter to Juha. He exerted some kind of pull on me. I gravitated towards him and he visited me in my dreams.

There was one that I jotted down in my journal. It took place on a playground. I was sitting on a swing made from a tractor tire. I kept swinging higher and higher, dangerously close to the steel-wool clouds that hung close and blasted me with goose-bumps. Each time the chain went slack and I dropped, my crotch and heart collided in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. I wanted more. I wanted less. I wanted up in the clouds, even if they would rough up my face. I wanted down, off, home. And then I saw that it was Juha who stood in the sand and pushed the swing with his tattooed arms every time I came towards him.

I wrote my little letter and dropped it in the mailbox.

The following day the newspapers reported that Juha had been getting hundreds of letters from female fans. That's how they put it. I wasn't sure I was a fan, but I was certain that there was now that I would get a letter back from him.

The so-called summer days rained away and my plans weren't so grandiose anymore.

His eyes were murky wells that held dark secrets at the bottom. And he had a certain rock star swagger. You could see that clearly in the photos from the capturing. This happened on a train in Denmark after a week on the run. A train conductor had recognized the pair and at the next station hordes of police waited. The pictures were splashed all over every newspaper. Juha in handcuffs with wild hair like a halo of twilight around his pale unsmiling face. Flanked by policemen, you could tell he wasn't very tall.
They brought the two to a jail near my hometown. Well, it was really about 150 kilometers away, but when you live that far out into the sticks your judgement of distance becomes fucked. To drive two hours to see a band you kind of, sort of like? No problem.
Either way, the thought of him sitting in a jail cell in that town, where I had lived once when I was a child, created little bubbles of electric current that bounced around in my belly. It was not unlike the effect a roller coaster has on me; the feeling is hard to label. Is it fear? Is it joy? Is it lust? Is it a mechanical orgasm?

The so-called summer days rained away and my plans weren't so grandiose anymore. On the last day of classes, when I knew I wasn't coming back to those corridors and the little smoker's square out back like a monkey play pin, I had gotten pretty tipsy. I bragged about my highfalutin plans to anyone that cared to listen. Mostly it was my friend Anneli who had no choice. Since she had succumbed to a friendship with me. Her hair did what mine never managed to do. It mimicked a porcupine or Robert Smith and it looked so damn good. It didn't matter how much hair spray, gel and mousse I used, my hair never did anything like that. It mostly just looked like a scraggly bush in need of some deep conditioning. I dyed it with henna.
Anyway, I said to Anneli that I was going to try my luck in London, or at the very least in Stockholm. Now everything that I didn't have seemed to be slipping from my hands.

I honed in on Juha. Don't ask me why. It was something to do, at least.

his chiseled, hard face that prominently featured Mick Jagger lips

The killers were on the loose. A young couple, the newspapers told. A few more days passed and it was reported that this young, triple-murderous couple also traveled in the company of rabbits. They found rabbit poop in an abandoned stolen car driven into a ditch inside a dense forest, penetrated only by them and a small, muddy stream leading straight into nowhere.
And then one evening, as I approached the door to the corner store for my daily candy dose, I saw that the evening papers were all plastered with the same blown up black images.
She sported a pretty face, shoulder-length curly hair and a smile. He had wild black hair that stood like a burning bush around his chiseled, hard face that prominently featured Mick Jagger lips. I bought both papers instead of candy and half-jogged home to read them.
The young couple came from Finland. Their names were Juha and Marita. The centerfold was covered with pictures from a vacation of theirs. The Theft Tour the rag blared. But couldn't help, and was thrilled to, paint the picture of a new Bonnie and Clyde.
In one of the blurry photos Marita was wearing a leopard-print skirt and her eyes were circled with heavy panda-bear make-up. Juha was wearing big dark sunglasses like; the future's so bright I got to wear shades.
I thought they looked like Sid and Nancy.
Later that evening my best friend called and said the unspeakable: He's hot right?
And thus made it speakable. And true.

I mostly stayed in bed, ate candy under the covers, fantasized about a pact with Satan and felt sorry for myself.

When I was 17 I had dropped out of high school because mean boys tortured me in the green corridors, that reeked of linoleum and foot sweat. The walls felt like they were about to close in on me and trap me in an arctic eternity; a wasted ice age.
Those boys called me ugly and stupid. Which I was to some extent. I had a major acne problem, and later that year, in the summer, I fell in love with a guy who had killed three people over a bicycle.

If that's not stupid, I don't know what is.

The summer was a disappointment, as it usually is. When it didn't rain, the skies kept a stern steely-gray and threatening look. And if the sun actually shone, then the wind whipped around the corners, feeling like an icy skeleton hand caressing my pimply cheek.

I mostly stayed in bed, ate candy under the covers, fantasized about a pact with Satan and felt sorry for myself.

Then one day there was a story about a triple murder in the newspaper. We lived in a very small town, way behind god's asshole, on a cultural, intellectual and action-less tundra. Even a triple murder was something to get excited about. But it was terrible too, of course. A father and son had been shot in their heads, from such a close distance that their brains had been blown out of their heads. Their bodies were found on a cemetery. A mother was found in the forest, below the midnight sun and faintly buzzing mosquito clouds. Her throat had been cut all the way into the vertebrae.

01:46 and the bed sheets turned into a straitjacket

That's when I, after some tossing and turning, got up, my vision impaired by the night and the bad dreams, and sat down at my desk and began to create a blog.

I am not exactly sure how this will pan out. I have a plan. But I am easily swayed.

I quite often change with the wind. Now it's morning and I sit here in my purple sweat pants with tired eyes and a cup of tea, looking out at the gray drizzle this May morning.

I feel anxious about today.