Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

stoneage

psychiatric sanitarium and longterm care institute “foresthome.” the woman from south of the border shuffles along the long hallway, she cradles imaginary children in her arms. her eyes are dead. when she was committed, she laughed, cried, and she screamed. she was alive. at night we smoked in the restroom. most of the time the nightnurse joined us and a sixteen-year-old girl who was there for insulin treatment. later elsa hanged herself in this restroom. the small circumventions of certain prohibitions united us. we became fellow conspirators against the white maw that was threatening to devour us all. a forbidden cigarette can mean a bit of freedom. later when i got evening passes, i became a regular at the small workers’ pub. showing off, i ordered my pint- sized bottles of veltlin wine. i was fourteen years old. the wine did not taste especially good, but i was able to do something they did not know. in the foresthome i began to guzzle. it was a really nice, down and out dive where the homeless drank their beer, many yenish sat there and workers in overalls, truck drivers and the de- ranged from the institute. the hair of the landlady was bleached with peroxide. she emanated that mixture of motherly care and backalley corruptedness. her husband, a weak windbag, became ridiculously sentimental whenever he drank too much.

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