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.