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.