They dropped me off like a package. There was an iron gate, looking at least like 150 years old. When I pulled it, it went open with a loud creak. Around the cold iron, twines must have been climbing for quite a long time. They whistled in the soft wind when I closed the gate behind me. Only then, the vehicle left, obviously making sure I would enter and not run away into the endless green of the woods. In front of me, in a cared for, but rough-shaped garden, was my destination: The Hightower Home for Young Boys and Girls. The name sounded like a free-time enjoyment facility for rich kids, when in fact it was the place you went when you had no parents and also had been kicked out of the other child care facilities in the county. Which was obviously true for me. “Be careful, or you’ll be taken to the Hightower”. That was what they said.

When I pushed the button on the golden bell, a surprisingly bright chime seemed to flood the insides of the house. Then there were steps and the door was opened. A lady, unusually tall in a grey dress looked down at me and my checkered suitcase.

“We were already expecting you.” She stepped back and following the gesture she made (which was rather demanding than welcoming) I took my suitcase and went inside. “I am Miss Adamson”, the lady said. “Follow me”. The house seemed dark and heavy, despite the sunlight coming from huge windows everywhere. We walked towards another door, past walls full of strange pictures. Miss Adamson finally stopped and knocked. Then she opened the door, pushed me and my suitcase inside and closed the door again.

I was alone with a woman, grey-haired and with a very strict facial expression. She was sitting behind a huge dark wooden desk. The sign placed in front said “Headmistress”. I gave her the letter from Sweetwater Children’s Home, the last institution I had been dismissed from. The lady retrieved a letter opener from her desk, ripped open the creamy coloured envelope and read the letter. Then she looked at me again.

“Elisa Halicott, aged 11, mother unknown, father unknown, referred from Sweetwater Children’s Home for repeated severe disobedience towards superiors and repeated damage of school property.”

I swallowed. Trying to explain that not everything on the list was my fault would not have worked, as it had not worked at Sweetwater either.

“My name is Mrs. Evans, I am the headmistress. Don’t think you can continue the malicious quest you started, because here it won’t work. I have eyes and ears everywhere.” Her voice was clear and cold like half-frozen water.

“But, I…” My face flushed. I was not on any quest and surely not a malicious one. Maybe she would let me explain after all why the things at Sweetwater and the other places were damaged.

“Silence, young lady! I won’t hear of any excuses!” Mrs. Evans picked up a short cane from the desk and held it so close to my face that I could smell the wooden scent of the material.

“Disobedience, unlike in other places, will have consequences here”, she hissed. “Now go, Miss Adamson will show you your room.”

I got up, picked up my suitcase and stepped out of the office. “Follow me.” Miss Adamson took the stairs up to the first floor. I couldn’t see any children, they were probably in class. Like the rest of the house, brown and yellow were the dominant colours. The wooden floor creaked under our steps. There was a long hallway bearing the same old-fashioned yellow wallpaper. Miss Adamson opened the second door to the right and let me enter. To my surprise, the wallpaper was green here and there were two beds, two desks and white curtains. “This is your room. You are sharing it with Melissa Underheart.” Miss Adamson showed a brief smile, in fact, the first smile I had gotten since I could not remember when. “Please unpack. Dinner time is at 6 p.m. sharp. If you are late, you will be excluded.” Then she left.

I opened the small checkered suitcase and placed my few belongings on the bed. I just owned underwear, stockings and a few dresses for clothing. Then there was Ted, my teddybear, whom I had gotten from a bag of stuffed toys someone had donated. He was brown, black-eyed and patient and the only one who thought I was not getting too old for stuffed toys.

I sat down on the bed and closed my eyes, realizing how tired I was.

Then the door flew open and a girl in jeans, a white t-shirt and with bright blonde hair came in. She stopped and stared at me with a mixture of surprise and anger. “Get out, this is MY room.”

I got up from the bed. “Miss Adamson said that we are sharing it.” I saw the flickering in her eyes and expected her to push or slap me. Instead, she rolled her eyes and went to sit on her bed.

She must have been about my age and her clothes looked like they were new. Suddenly I felt very old-fashioned in my black and purple dress and brown leather shoes.

“I am Elisa. Elisa Halicott. Are you Melissa?” She turned around. “Yes, smartpants, I am.”

Great. Guess I just got a new friend.

I was just deciding whether I should feel desperate about being in this place when I heard a noise coming from the wall next to us. It sounded like someone was hitting the wall again and again, in the same dull rhythm. “What is that?” I asked, but Melissa just grumbled, her face to the wall. I opened the door and looked to the right, to where the noise was coming from. Near the wall, further down the hallway, a little boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor. I went towards him. He was playing with a small red ball and passing it against the wall repeatedly. “Hey…” I approached him carefully. “What are you doing here? What is your name? I am Elisa.”

The boy did not look up. Instead he carried on his playing with no expression on his pale little face. Then I heard him say: “Victor.” “Nice to meet you” I replied. He did not look as if he was fond of further talking, so I went inside the room again. The noise had now stopped. “That was Victor.” I explained. “Do you know him?” Melissa turned around. She looked angry and a little anxious. “Don’t you talk about Victor! I mean it!”

“Why…” I started but she interrupted me. “Just don’t mention him, ok?” So I went silent but asked myself what was going on between her and that boy.

The weeks passed and were filled with the daily dullness of classes, punishment, food that tasted like soaked cardboard and just few moments I had for recreation. Nobody seemed to take notice of me and few of the other children talked to me. Until one evening at dinner. We were supposed to stay silent during the meal and except for the clunking of plates, forks and spoons, nothing could be heard. Then, the noise started again. The noise of Victor throwing the ball against the wall. I turned to the girl next to me. “Isn’t Victor coming to dinner? Has he been suspended?” The girl looked at me. “Who?” “Victor, the boy with the red ball. I can hear him playing upstairs.”

The girl snorted. “Are you a nutcase? I cannot hear anything”.

“Silence, girls!” Miss Adamson had heard us. I looked at my plate and wanted to continue to eat when suddenly someone knocked over my glass of water. I hadn’t even touched it. The noise upstairs continued.

“Miss Halicott!” The headmistress stood next to me, holding her cane to my cheek then quickly and sharply hit my fingers with it.

“You are suspended from dinner! Go to your room!” The noise persisted and even got louder. No one seemed to notice though. I got up and took a quick look around the room. Melissa had taken a seat at the other table as she had refused to sit with me. She had her ears covered with her hands and her eyes were shut tightly.

Later that night, after bedtime, I couldn’t resist.

“Melissa, you heard the noise, too, didn’t you?” I did not expect any reply from her, but she surprised me by jumping out of the bed, switching on the light and grabbing my arms. “If you tell that to anyone, you are dead, hear me, DEAD!”

I pushed her away. “Ok, ok, I won’t say anything, if you don’t say anything.” I rubbed my arms. My fingers still hurt, too, from the headmistress’s cane.

“You don’t know anything, Elisa Smartpants.” Melissa was still furious and about to grab me again when the lamp above us started to drizzle and then went dark.

I heard her walk towards the bed, crawl into it and pull the blanket over her.

“Welcome to hell.” she said.

They had been inside the meeting room for several hours, in fact, for almost the entire day. Matt, the programmer, was sitting at his desk, pretending everything was just fine, like it was any other day. But it wasn’t any other day and Matt knew what was going on behind the wooden door.

He wished he could just talk to someone, but he couldn’t because the meeting was not official. They did not know what it meant. Matt also wished he was as clueless as the others. This medium sized company was more than a workplace, it was more like a home. He had been the one to help create NeoDriver, a new piece of software to be used in GPS devices. Tom, the leader of the programming team did his best to integrate Matt more and more into bigger projects. Plus, Matt learned how good the coffee was if it was freshly brewed.

A few days ago, Mr. Henman, CFO had called Matt in to help with an allegedly broken laptop. Since the IT department had been diminished to just a few people who were too busy to respond to Henman’s frantic calls, Matt had to jump in for IT. “I’ll see what I can do”, Matt had stated before he put down the phone and made his way through the corridor to Henman’s office. Henman always looked like he was constantly pulling his hair in anger. He stood beside the desk when Matt arrived.

“My e-mail program has stopped working.” He blurted out. Henman was sweating heavily and breathing loudly. Matt checked the laptop and quickly found out that Henman had somehow managed to deactivate the access of his laptop to the internet. He reactivated the access and then pushed the update button on the e-mail program and the inbox filled itself with new mails. Matt was already about to leave and in retrospect he wished he had left by then but Henman asked him to check if a mail he had composed was still stuck in the inbox.

Matt checked the inbox and it was still there. It was to the CEO and another person and by having to check Matt caught a glimpse at the text. He took a deep breath.

Yes, the company was not in a good shape. Yes, they had always been struggling. No, there were never millions generated by the great projects done in this company, which was a pity. But Matt had not imagined the situation to be that hopeless. Basically, it was all about LightYear Inc., another enterprise thing about buying the company and their projects including the staff.

“How unfortunate you have to see it this way. You might have guessed we are having a rough time right now.” Henman wiped his sweaty forehead with a tissue. “Please do not mention it to anyone.”

Matt did not mention it to anyone. But the contents of the e-mail he had seen were stuck in his stomach like a heavy stone. He could have found a job elsewhere, but it would not be the same. He had a great team leader and a lot of freedom. He did not want to become a puppet of corporate superiors. But he also needed a salary.

Remembering the sweat on Henman’s forehead, Matt walked past the meeting room a couple of times. He felt like a tennis ball resting right on the middle of the net with nobody knowing if it was to fall to the left or the right side. Was he going to fall on the side of job applications or on the side of keeping his job under new, unknown conditions? He did not feel at home on any side.

Matt opened the door and went outside. Tom seemed to sense something was wrong and offered him a cigarette. Matt was not a smoker, but this was a situation that required changes to certain habits. He breathed out and blew out smoke into the sky of a day which had moved to evening. The sky was coloured in a deep blue, just right between darkness and light. The only certainty we have, so thought Matt, was the fact that the blue would turn to darkness and then to light. That was guaranteed.

“What’s up?” Tom finally asked. “I am hoping for the light.” Matt said and entered the building again, past the meeting room.

Inside, people were carefully shaking hands.

It was one of these mornings when Louise thought it was a pretty usual start to the day. Ethan, her husband, was frantically looking for his tie and left shoe while he sipped coffee from his favourite cup. Adrian, their 13 year old son showed everyone how much he disliked morning time by hiding his head and face under his oversize hoodie. The youngest, 7 year old Melanie, was running around upstairs, late as always, because she’d rather play around with a doll, or a car or both, or spending the last few minutes in her room with Jackster, the family dog.

Everything seemed normal to Louise until Melanie came running down the stairs shouting: “Mooom, Mom, there is something wrong with Jackster!”

Louise was not preoccupied at first, until she looked at the family dog’s food plate. When she went upstairs, Jackster rested on the floor in Melanie’s room and was breathing heavily. Melanie had wet eyes. “I called him over when he was sleeping in his basket, then went towards me but broke down.”

Louise bent down to gently stroke the dog’s soft and hairy head. Jackster was not the youngest anymore, but not old enough to die (which was something everyone in the family refused to think about). They got Jackster from the local animal shelter when he was just a handful of a puppy from probably 5 different breeds. Louise and Ethan thought it would be good to have him as a guardian. Now he was a family member, nobody remembered how life was before Jackster.

“I’ll see if Brad is there.” Louise went down, grabbed the keys and was out of the door, having Ethan and Adrian looking a little puzzled at her sudden speed. Brad was a veterinarian living next door. He had retired just a year ago, but he looked after Jackster every few months.

He followed Louise into the house, saying a brief hello to Ethan and Adrian, who also got upstairs then.

Brad kneeled down beside the heavily breathing dog and started to examine him. His face went serious and when he got up again he said: “I am afraid, there is not much I can do here. Probably something with his intestines.”

Melanie started sobbing. Louise took her in her arms to spend some comfort. Adrian went downstairs and left the house without saying goodbye.

“You should bring him to the animal clinic in town as soon as you can. The earlier, the better. It is quite serious.”

“Thank you, Brad.” Louise grabbed the phone, called the clinic and announced their arrival. Melanie refused to go to school, so Louise did something she thought she’d never do: Call the school and saying Melanie was unwell when she wasn’t. Then Ethan helped her carry Jackster into the pickup before they all got in to drive him to work. They only had one old pickup since they had sold the first one. Louise had lost her part-time job just last month and Ethan had a hard time in his job as a broker.

At the clinic, they had Jackster examined and waited until Louise got called to the reception counter.

“Mrs. Miller, I am afraid, but your dog has swallowed some unknown object which has hurt the stomach and colon. We will need him to undergo an intense surgery. It will be a long procedure and it is not sure how he will react. He looks pretty strong though and his heart is working well so the chances are good.”

“How did this happen?” Louise felt guilty. What could Jackster possibly have swallowed that hurt him so badly?

“We cannot say for sure, Mrs. Miller, but without the surgery, he will not have much time anymore.” The doctor passed Louise a sheet. On that sheet the contract for the surgery including after-care was described. When Louise saw the number at the bottom of the sheet, she gasped. 4000 Dollars!

“We do not have 4000 Dollars right now. Is there any alternative?”

“I am afraid, there isn’t.” The doctor was friendly but determined. “He must have the surgery within the next two days, or I will have to put him to rest. We will keep him here until your decision.”

Louise mumbled a “Thank you” and returned to Melanie, who was sitting on one of the chairs in the waiting room. “Mom, will Jackster be alright?”

Louise looked at her daughter. “He will be, but the doctor has to keep him here for a while.” Melanie looked down on her shoes. “I miss him so much…”

Louise exhaled. “Me, too, honey. Let’s go home.”

Until the evening, Louise went through all the possibilities in her head. If they could possibly sell some stuff to raise money, it would still not be enough. They had to pay the rates for the house, too, or else they would lose it. They did not have anyone in the position to lend them the money.

“It feels like, either way, we have to sacrifice one family member to keep our home. Or sacrifice our home for a family member. This is not fair.” she said to Ethan when he came home for dinner. Louise was barely able to eat. Adrian sat down at the table with his earphones in his ears, a behaviour she used to scold immediately once she discovered it. But not today.

They all went to sleep but did not rest well.

The next morning was a saturday. Louise got up a little later, feeling knackered. Just when she had gotten down to prepare coffee and pancakes, Adrian came in. His head was not hidden under his hoodie as usual. His face was red from the fresh air.

“What did you do out there so early, son?” Louise inquired. Adrian hardly ever got up before 11 on saturdays.

Adrian did not reply. Instead, he pulled out a bunch of dollar notes and put it on the table.

“What is this?” Louise did not know how to react.

“This is money so we can have Jackster saved.” Adrian looked and sounded determined.

“Where did you get it?” Louise was nervous. A 13 year old did not just have all this money.

“I sold my guitar to Rick Henderson. And his old ones, err, I mean parents will let me work for them during the next months to compensate for the rest of the money.”

This was impossible. Louise was stunned. Rick Henderson was the richest and most cocky boy from the neighbourhood. Adrian loved his guitar. And she wondered how Rick’s parents had agreed to give Adrian all the money in advance. They probably still felt guilty because Rick had been using all the other boys, including Adrian, as his punching bag now and then.

Louise felt guilty, too.

“Thank you, Adrian” She tried to hug her son, but he just said: “It’s ok, Mum. Please get Jackster back, will you?”

A few weeks later, Jackster was almost back to being his usual cheerful and wagging self. Louise found a new part-time job and Ethan’s business was going better, too. There had been some sacrifices, sacrifices Louise and Ethan had not even thought about, but the family was still together. In their house.

And the parents smiled at each other when they put some money into the secret “Get Adrian a new guitar” cookiejar.

I was never the one to claim anything I desired as a basic right of mine. Part of me sometimes wished I was like those women in the movies, with black hair and red lipstick who were depicted as beautiful splinters broken off from the mountain of evil. They never got no as an answer and they never felt bad because of all the people they made burst out into tears. One of them being the pristine blonde in the blue dress.

I felt bad, more than often because of more harmless things. When I got a “No”, I accepted it.

I accepted when Brad told me he would not dine with me on my birthday because of some family emergency. I was sad, yes, I was and part of me was furious, too, but I practised acceptance, because I had no right to claim Brad SHOULD be there. Because he was someone else's husband. Never thought I could do that anyway. We met like you meet in daily life, in a cafe where I tripped over the power cord of his laptop, which almost made his 2000 Dollar Mac hit the stone floor of this vintage hipster place. Not only was I stuck in the nowhere between black and white queen, I was also a bit clumsy with expensive things.

After he saw that nothing was damaged at all (Relief), he invited me and my blushed face to sit down and have a coffee with him.

Soon after, I learned that he was married and that his kisses were the right mixture of rough and soft. In my mind, I pictured his wife like a poisonous creature with hair consisting of purple snakes and a double voice which came from a mouth filled with sharp teeth. He did not tell much, but whatever he told me made this picture of her become more vivid. The other part was added by my secret desire to have him leave her and move in with me.

What if on that day the Roger’s, my favourite restaurant, had not been closed due to a family emergency? What if my friend Mary had not been ill, too and would have encouraged me to go to the movies and for some drinks?

Then, I would not have had the spontaneous urge to walk into the Milagros in 7th Street, a place I could not afford. I wanted something I had never tried. Or a Martini. Or both. A burger sprinkled with exquisite truffles. When the receptionist asked me if I was alone, I looked around the room and I saw him. My heart seemed to stop for a second when I realized it was Brad. With a woman sitting at the most exposed table, laughing, holding hands and even exchanging a kiss.

I walked mechanically, following the waiter to my table, near enough to them so I could hear the waiter asking “Anything else, Mrs. Croydon? Mr. Croydon?”

No snake hair, I thought, and a beautiful smile, so beautiful it brought a pain to the left side of my body.

And then, there was this part of me, that was closer to the black queen and her red lipstick. This part made me get up and follow her to the bathroom, and made me leave the stall just at the same time she was ready to wash her hands and repaint her lips.

I smiled, she smiled back and I heard myself saying how beautiful this restaurant was, especially for a nice candle light dinner as a couple. She looked down when I told her that I would not come with my husband anymore since he had cheated on me with some blond assistant lawyer from his firm (How did I make this up? I don’t know, I never had a husband, let alone a cheating one.) Then I said some nice things that made her blush and probably thing I was trying to flirt with her until she wished me a nice evening and hurriedly left the bathroom. I went back to the table, emptied the glass of wine I had ordered, paid and tipped a large sum at the counter before I left.

At night I got a message from Brad: “Was this you? What is this about you recently?”

I deleted the message. I was further from white than I thought.

Zeitungsverweigerer - German word for a person actively refusing the receipt of free newspapers with adverts by registering at the newspaper provider.

Horace, aged 63, had recently established the habit of watching people from his window. He took one of the chairs from the dining table in the living room and placed it in front of one of the larger windows so he could better observe what was going on inside. Horace could easily have gone outside to pursue his newly found hobby there, for there were plenty of places in the park and in town where people could just sit and watch strangers walk by.

However, he seemed to be quite pleased with the distance between him and the other people in the world. Horace had just retired from his position as a head of Quality Assurance for the main manufacturer of silent vacuum cleaners in his area and he was so used to handle all his communication through the phone or e-mail. He was not used to talking to someone or being near someone, except for his wife.

“Why don’t you do something else for once?” Wilma, his wife of 40 years, tried her best to encourage him to use his newly won freedom and free time for something else than observing the life of others, but to no avail so far. At least she had managed to get him put his binoculars away after the neighbour from the house in front of them rang their bell and stated she was going to sue if “that” was not going to stop.

“Apologies” mumbled Horace and walked back into the house and let his wife do the extended version of the talk.

(Some miles away in a newspaper distribution center)

“Oh and Paul, something else!” Paul turned around. He did not like the commanding tone of this young guy but he swallowed a nasty answer because this was his first day at this post-retirement side job and he wanted to keep it in order not to ride on the unstoppable train of boredom.

“Yes”, Paul replied instead, checking his right pocket for the car keys.

“Please take notice of the addresses which do not like to receive the paper, ok? There have been some, uh, incidents in the last few months and our main wish is to avoid them happening again!”

Mark, the young guy, poked the writing pad with his pen as to put more emphasis in his words. “I will”. Paul was not a man of big words, but he knew instructions were part of every job, no matter what it was really about.

The day started out really quiet, he hoped that he would get to distribute the papers without any problems and to breathe some fresh air. The entire car smelled of printing paint on soft paper.

(Meanwhile at 25 Hollowside Drive)

“You know Wilma, if I catch one of those guys again putting some adverts into my letterbox, I will tell them what to expect for crossing that line!”

Horace had been watching the driveway carefully. His letterbox was next to three others and while the others did not mind receiving free newspapers with a lot of adverts, Horace did not want any piece of such kind of paper to take up any space in there.

“Horace, calm down, please. There are always new guys distributing the papers, and you can’t expect them to not make any mistakes when they start their jobs.”

One of the new guys actually faced (he had to) Horace appearing on the driveway with a bucket of cold water (and if it had been just from the tap it would not have been Horace). It was icy water with some half melted pieces of ice swimming in it. Before the poor (maybe 20 year old) guy could listen to the complaint and take the paper out again, he was blessed with a rather cold shower from Horace’s bucket.

“I am prepared, Wilma, that is all I say. I registered with them. I do not want any more of their shitty papers, and they should take better note of their files. THAT is real service to the customer, or to the non-customer, in my case.”

A car stopped in front of the house. Paul got out of it and looked at his list and then looked at the driveway. Three letterboxes but two newspapers to be tucked into them. There was a note for this address on his pad that one of the residents did not want to receive the newspaper. The names on the letterboxes though were bleached from the sun and rain and he could not really figure out the correct one.

Just as he spread a hand with one newspaper in it to put it into box number one, a window opened with a light, screechy sound. A man, almost certainly in his sixties, put his head out and yelled: “Read your damn instructions for once, it is known what happens to people not following them!”

Paul turned around. The voice of this man sounded like he had been talking a lot, but not smoking or drinking. “I am sorry sir, but which one is your letterbox?” Paul figured that some simple and plain question would solve the situation.

“I am going to show you!” Horace closed the window, made his way to the kitchen equipped with a bucket, where he opened the freezer, then took out a lot of ice and filled the bucket with some cold water.

“Horace, please!” Wilma tried to build a connection she would have assumed would work to talk some sense into her now energized husband, but it did not work.

Horace, on the driveway, having trouble carrying that bucket because it was way too full this time, stopped in front of Paul.

Paul, still the newspaper in his hand, looked at him in a quite different way than the previous guy.

“You must be very bored, are you?”

Horace took a deep breath and lifted his arms to put that bucket where it belonged, over the heads of people who did not read their papers and knew what quality customer service was. Then something inside him put down the bucket slowly.

“Well, I am used to a little more action than the one I get here, to be honest”.
Horace was a little out of breath. Paul smiled. He did not smile often, but when he did, it was an honest, decisive act.

“Then take this. I could use some help here.” Paul stuffed the newspaper into Horaces arms before he put the other ones into the two mailboxes that apparently had names on them if you looked closer.

That day was the first one any of that papers made its way through Horaces and Wilmas front door to their kitchen table.

It had been one year, six months and exactly fourteen days since Ebony fell, down by the small lake, and succumbed to the crack of her right spine. Since then, I had not looked at horses, I had not touched them or even ridden one of them.

On this autumn saturday, however, something seemed to be dragging me towards this place out of town, where a huge riding festival with celebrations and high level competitions was held every year.

I had been none of those proficient ones in the black and white trousers and jackets. Instead, I flew through the woods, near the sea, and, when it was ebb tide, it was just me, Ebony and the now exposed wavy ground of the sea.

Now I observed horses and their riders from the distance of the spectator’s corner. It was crowded, and I just leaned towards the fence when a demanding hand grabbed my shoulder.

“Elby, there you are. Come on, you need to get ready.”

I turned around. That woman must have been in her forties, red and curly hair wildly surrounding her head. She wore a green jacket and riding boots. I would have followed her, but the problem was that my name was not Elby.

“But, I am not…” I started, but she would not let me answer. “But, my name is Isobel”, I was going to say, but instead of holding on and listening, she just dragged me towards the contestant's quarters, just like in a bad dream when you are pulled into something you are unlikely to escape. “Go and get dressed!”

That red-haired woman pushed me towards a small cabin and closed the door. It was a small room with a mirror, some bags and a pair of shiny leather riding boots. Near the mirror, there was a complete rider’s attire hung up, including white gloves. A black smooth riding helmet was sitting, working as the exclamation mark of this outfit, on the makeup table in front of the mirror. I did not think much, I put off my clothes and put on the white trousers first, then the white blouse and the black jacket.

Never had I worn such clothes. I pictured myself on freshly cut grass, near the lush woods, on the back of that high black horse with a white star on its forehead. She would never be near the woods again, I thought, when I heard a knock at the door.

Where could Elby be now? Maybe she was hiding somewhere, or locked into some place where she could not be found. At least, I must have looked a lot like her, because in this moment, for some people, I WAS her, playing her part, the part she was missing.

The horse was dark, almost black and I held my breath when I first saw it. It did see me too, and did not watch me even as I stood next to it. The blanket under the saddle said “Avalanche”. Before I could even remember I was not able to get on any horse but my horse which was never going to return again, I was on the back of Avalanche, being guided towards an arena full of spectators. I was counting with the rhythm of the steps of the horse, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, until I was there, held my breath and waited.

Then they announced me, or Elby, or whoever they wanted to see. “Ellen Holby Simmons, junior champion and future Olympic contestant with Avalanche, a ten year old stallion in his third year of this competition”. That was certainly not me.

I went to greet the judges as I had seen it on TV, then turned around. Obstacle number 1 was near me. Avalanche was apparently aware what he had to do and he went straight for the obstacle while I already looked for number 2. He flew high up in the air and I pressed my knees together when that indefinite power from the dozens of muscles pushed us over obstacles higher than any stick or fallen tree I had ever jumped over.

And the legs of this horse kept up with the pace, landed safely. I did not know what I was doing, so I held on tight to the reins and the mane, which was as dark as Ebony’s mane had been the last time I stroked it before they pulled me away from her.

When we approached the last obstacle, I was certain we would fall down and disappear somewhere between the walls and the waters and never get back. I closed my eyes shortly before we reached the wall and anticipated the cracks, the crashes, the fall.

Nothing of that came. Instead, I felt we lifted off, took off from the ground right into the air. I thought of flying, imagined nothing had happened on that day more than one year ago, imagined me flying over that incredibly small lake, sparing Ebony from that malicious hole she stepped into, making her live on for real and not as a picture I carried with me in my troubled mind.

When Avalanche landed, it was quiet for a moment until the cheering broke out. I opened my eyes to see a huge red zero on the board. This had been a flawless ride, I concluded, unbelieving, when I was dragged from the horse and shouted at, unable to react on what had just occurred in that minutes, during the last hour, around me and inside me.

After the lawsuit filed by Ellen Holby Simmons against me and the red-haired woman had been arranged for good, I returned to other horses, bought an old stable, learned to repair saddles, but never again jumped higher than 90 centimetres. The woods and the lakes became my friends again and the wind my graceful company.

Avalanche joined the ranges of Olympic gold medal winners and Ebony was somewhere out there, with the stars.