Cannibalism – Children are not innocent

My first boyfriend was called Hugo. Hugo was born two months, three days and five hours before me, but his body was still much smaller and more delicate than mine. As infants, we were laid side by side on a wool blanket and adults literally watched us from above as we tried to communicate with each other, drooling and gurgling – or simply fell asleep blissfully next to each other.

Hugo was the first other infant I saw, at least after the first few days in the maternity ward, the first other being my age that I came into contact with. He was no more articulate than I was, but, in keeping with his slightly earlier birth date, he was able to turn around two months, two days and seven hours earlier than I was, and one and a half months, nine days and 15 minutes before me, Hugo took his first step in the wide-open arms of an adult, attracted by a plush toy in the shape of a deer with a bell-shaped rear end. I, in turn, took my first step unobserved when there was no one in the room other than me, which is why, not entirely accurately, my first step was recorded by the adults as one and a half months, seven days and two minutes later.

Hugo and I were friends without ever deciding to be friends. It was just us – because it was decided for us. Tiny creatures of the same species.

As we got older, our friendship changed a little. We could now speak, but did little. Instead, Hugo, who was still much more petite than me, developed a strong preference for contortions, which he regularly demonstrated for us. He invited us one by one into his half-dark children’s room, where he greeted us, already sitting in splits on the carpet, to show us what he called his “twist show.”

It must have been around the same time that Hugo’s parents regularly discovered bruises on his body after our visits, which turned out to be bite marks. We were separated shortly afterwards and were no longer allowed to spend time alone in a room because it turned out that I had tried to consume Hugo – out of love. Hugo and I never saw each other again.

Perhaps it is precisely because of this history that I recently became alert, that is, bright-eyed, when a person walked past me in a slogan shirt that read: “A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.” Maybe it’s actually the slightly mysterious nature of otherwise innocent desires that appeals to me. One of my greatest fears has always been to accidentally kill the person I love most – perhaps even out of love, out of that strange impulse of “something more.” Like when you hold a fluffy chick in your hand and are spontaneously afraid of squeezing it a little too hard. Or when, just before you get on the subway, you think about letting yourself tilt forward slightly, just because you could.

These are Tourette thoughts, so to speak. Forbidden thoughts, like thinking about another person while having sex with your partner. And they are, I learn, “completely normal” – whatever that category is supposed to mean. Someone once said to me, “If you have these thoughts, it’s a sign that you’re not turning them into reality.” You have to think them to get them out of your head. Just like in the opera: catharsis.«

In fact, I remember going to my first opera with my parents when I was in kindergarten: “Carmen.” At the end, when Carmen is dead, I’m crying snot and water. My mother, who assumes I’m mourning the murdered woman, tries to comfort me, but then it turns out: I wasn’t crying for Carmen at all, but for her murderer, the jealous one, the betrayed one, the guilty one.

In response, my mother, out of sheer emotion at her empathetic and reflective child, bites me on the greasy, childlike upper arm so hard that I start to bleed slightly. Cannibalistic tendencies seem to run in the family.

Speaking of slogan shirts: A stranger to me was walking down the street the other day, his shirt screaming at me in capital letters: “Love is spending time together.” The message is so clear, so direct that I can’t make sense of it. I’m still puzzling over what its subtext, its second level, could be.