The man who’s no longer your father lies on the floor and looks up at you. You defied him. You said no to him. You fucked up Judas. The satisfaction sets off little explosions in your body.

The man who’s no longer your father turns red in the face, his chin trembles, a thin thread of blood runs from his nose, the blood is almost black, he yells at you,

“THEN FUCK OFF! GET OUT OF HERE! AND IF I EVER GET BACK ON MY FEET, I’LL FINISH YOU OFF, YOU GET THAT? YOU CAN HIDE WHERE YOU LIKE, I’LL FINISH YOU OFF, DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M SAYING?”

You nod, you understand, you’re a boy without muscles again, who sees his mother standing at the roadside with two suitcases, waiting for a taxi and promising she’ll call you soon. Again you’re a boy with no muscles, running in tears to his father because he hopes for a hug and instead he gets laughed at. You’ve been a boy with muscles for too long. You don’t want to be you anymore. You get up and look across at the hotel, and in that moment the hotel represents everything you once were. Your uncle and his stories about the wolves and the memory of a time that will never come again, because your uncle stopped existing. Only this hotel remains, and your despair has a target. You raise the gun with both hands, release the safety catch, and fire and fire and fill the front door with holes as if this pitiful door is to blame for everything. After fourteen shots the magazine’s empty, only the echo of your despair floats in the air.

It’s over.

You turn away and walk over to the slope that you climbed with your father. Your life in reverse. You hear the man who’s no longer your father yelling after you, but he no longer speaks your language.

You go, because you’re no longer furious with anyone. Not with Taja and what she’s done, not with your father, who never wanted you. You forgive them. Your mother. Your first girlfriend, who dumped you without a word of explanation after two weeks. Those bastards, lying in wait for you and Mirko. Everybody. Even Mirko, who went and got shot. And particularly your father, who is no longer your father. You’ve changed, whatever that means, you’re no longer the person you were this morning. You forgive everybody, but you keep hold of your own guilt, because you still can’t forgive the murder of the boy, and even the fact that you’ve forgotten his name is inexcusable. His death will stay with you for ages yet. Eventually you’ll be standing at a crossroads in Berlin, watching after a bus that beeped at you. And at that moment the boy’s name will come to your mind. Twenty-one years will pass before that happens. Twenty-one years without forgiveness. Take time with your guilt, the wounds need to heal. And look around you every time you get to a crossroads.