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I’m bored, taking pictures, lost on an Island of useless school books. Drinking a passion fruit juice with too many icecubes. I can see her body, silently asleep in the distance. A pale trace of puberty stained on her lips, a milky nightgown soaked in her teenager odour, endlessly floating around her tightened flesh. It seems to me that whatever bond held us together, is now gone forever. Probably dissolved in the dark current, or by the strange turns life took, without warning. My hands are in control, I turn the pages, but her neck is still as white as the hospital sheets. And her odour still smells of a thick liquid, that has been emprisoned for years in a rotten bottle of cheap perfume. The kind of smell she sprayed on her tennis skirt, splashed on her notebooks and drowned in on a typical friday night. This particular kind of smell repulsed her mother, no wonder why that -mixed with the simple, arrogant smell of death- made her throw up. When she saw her daughter’s face, the immaculate conception, she looked the epitome of disapointment and rage. That woman probably thought, how is the cleaner gonna take the blood off ?

Clem Prime