OCCUPIED (mud article)

I loved my apartment, such a shame I had to torch the place. Let me tell you a story about friendship.

Back in the days I inherited my older brothers cramped apartment on a struck down corner of a shut down street, on the eastside. Even though it was small, and it smelled like somebody was burning tires in the backyard, I grew quite fond of the two room treasure my brother left me so close to the capitol. All though the neighbours might have seemed strange or even threatening to somebody who’s not from the eastside I got along with them just fine. All my things fitted perfectly, like they were meant to end up between these walls.

One day, a friend of mine called me up and said he was in town, and that he would stop by for a visit. Great, I thought, a good occasion to try out my new coffee station that was taking up most of the kitchen area.

The doorbell rings, and through the spy hole in the door, I see my friend pale as the corridor walls behind him, with a suitcase held tight in his right arm. His mouth was open, his eyes were blank, something awful had happened. I knew at that exact moment that I was being pulled into something I had nothing to do with. I hesitated, but finally opened the door, slowly. My friend falls over the doorstep and passes out of exhaustion.

He was quite the skinny guy, so carrying him to my coach was fairly simple, his suitcase was heavier though. I put on a pot of coffee, got him a blanket, a pillow and a warm cup. The only words I could get out of him was: sleep. Sleep. I tucked him in and let him be for now.

Next morning I woke up to the sound of somebody rummaging through the kitchen. My friend was awake, alive and kicking. What intriguing, nerve wrecking story would he tell?

As I got up, walked in the other room, his suitcase was unpacked, and I could see his things blending in with mine. I looked at him with two palms facing up, and a pouched under lip; What’s up?

He just looked at me and said: drink. Drink. He was holding a cup of tea, my coffee was not a success.

It went on like this for days, single words, single expressions, more and more of his things appearing next to mine.

One day when I came home from work, I noticed a new sign on my front door. It was a sign with two names. My first reaction was that he could at least have written my name on the top line. I walked in, and there he was, sitting on a brand new coach, speaking a strange language in a cellular phone. I didn’t even know I had coverage here. Two palms facing up, pouched under lip; What’s the deal? He didn’t answer.

Days go by and the living room fills up with more of his stuff. He has even replaced my coffee station with a water boiler. Tired from work, I let it slide, all though on the inside I wanted to kick him face first out the door. I know he is my friend and all, but this is getting weird.

I wake up the next morning to deep voices echoing from the other room. I go out and I see my friend with these three sharply dressed Americans. I try to intervene, but nobody recognises me. I am air. After screaming at them for a couple of minutes, I take the damn water boiler and throw it out the window. It was a wonderful splash. It felt wonderful, but then one of the Americans picks up my LP-Player throws it in the same direction. I take dead aim and push the guy over my innocent coffee table. It breaks. They throw me out.

I knock on my landlords door, but it turns out he had moved out, and somebody, definitely not from the east part of town comes out and just looks at me like I am trespassing. I go out. Wait for a couple of hours to calm myself down. I go back.

When I get to my front door my name has been crossed out. The door is locked and my key doesn’t fit. I ring the doorbell. My friend opens the door. Two palms faced up, pouched under lip; what the hell!? Behind his back I see a guy laying down in my bed. Most of my things are gone. My face is pale, my mouth is open, my eyes are blank. My friend hands me his suitcase and shuts the door.

I start screaming and kicking the door, but it won’t budge. I start jumping on the suitcase in pure rage, but not even the neighbours react to my little fit. I run down the white corridors, and go outside. I can see all my things piled up underneath my window, destroyed.

I go to the shed , find a can with gasoline, start pouring it over my stuff, in a desperate move to smoke out the occupants. I scream. Two middle fingers facing up and spit. My friend appears in the window, the last word I can hear him say is terrorist. Terrorist.