Warning of the author
I have to warn you, you’re about to meet an asshole. And I know what you’re thinking now: “Jesus, not another one!”
You know what? I feel ya. We all know them, don’t we? People who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth and yet can never seem to get enough. People who get everything they want – or just take it themselves. People who pretend to be everybody’s darling on the outside, but in reality are arrogant, cunning… well, assholes.
Now I’m grinding my own teeth myself. If I were to write a book about what I have already done with such people in my fantasy, it would certainly not be a romance novel, you can believe me.
But I also tell you, nothing comes by chance. Nothing is forever. And no one is unbreakable.
I’m not referring to myself, by the way, but to my enchanting protagonist Kamila Palander, whose world you’re about to immerse yourself in.
Kamila is… different. To put it mildly. Maybe you’ll love her, but maybe you’ll hate her, too. I’d like to warn you about that.
No matter how you feel about her – the moment you feel anything while reading, I have already done a damn good job as an author. Don’t stop reading at that point! Laugh, cry, hate, rage. You have every right to do so. But keep reading, and see what happens.
With this one asshole you have the opportunity to get a glimpse behind the facade. Take advantage of that. Give Kamila a chance. Allow her to suffer. And who knows – maybe, possibly, you’ll get to see her in a new light?
Alexandria Emilia Rawa
To the world, you’re just somebody. For somebody, you’re the world.
This phrase is the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever heard, and the person who first said it should have their dirty tongue chopped off.
Unless they already choked on it.
Hatred. That’s the dominant emotion on this planet.
And love, because you can only hate when you’ve also loved.
Then there’s the love-hate thing, when you’ve embraced your hatred so much that you start to love it. Because at some point it’s the only emotion that makes you feel alive.
And I wonder, what about hate-love? If you love, but hate it?
That’s what the laminated note in my pocket says. Laminated so that the blood does not smear the ink later and the paper does not dissolve.
Maybe they’ll use me as an example in philosophy class sometime for that? If not then at least I’ll be on the news, that’s for sure.
“Stop here, please,” I say to the taxi driver, spontaneously deciding to walk the last stretch.
I wanted to enjoy the last minutes of my life in the fresh air. Maybe smoke one more cig.
I tip the driver generously, pay with card and wish him a wonderful evening. He could enjoy the privilege of having experienced me as a nice person.
Then the surprise is all the greater afterwards, when he hears.
As I get out I can feel my Tokarev pressing against my ribs. It rests on my stomach, pleasantly warm from my skin, and makes me feel safe. Powerful. Almighty.
Smiling, I straighten my light blonde hair in the side-view mirror of a prolific Audi parked in front of the building. I want to look good when it all ends.
A woman walks past me, and stares. I look back without batting an eyelid, and realize she is unable to look away. She thinks I’m beautiful.
“Whore,” I think to myself. I would love to embellish her meaningless face with a bullet to the forehead, right here on the spot, but I have to pull myself together. No, not yet. An electrifying shiver spreads down my neck. But soon.
My name is called at the reception, just like everybody else. I get a seat assigned, like everyone else. I don’t attract attention. I’m just another random somebody. Today I wanted it that way. The gun under my clothes is pulsing from my accelerated heartbeat. My appearance in the spotlights will come, fuckers.
If I could give humanity a parting gift, it would be two things:
First, don’t love. Or at least love nobody but yourself.
And secondly, consider carefully whether if you die, people will remember you for your deeds or for your failures.
Kamila // Düsseldorf // 05 January 2013
“One third gin, one third crème de cocoa, one third cream. Shaken. With ice,” I dictate coolly, while my bored gaze does not leave the barmaid’s left eye for a second.
You can only see into one eye at a time, not into both. If you jump back and forth between your eyes, it will be interpreted as insecurity. If you immediately decide on one, it will be seen a…