One can own nothing but oneself

En novelle af Ninna Schrøder

A hand came and grabbed the green hiking trousers that were tossed in the cabinet. An immanent fear was awakened in the worn trousers as a result of the action, and perhaps also a bit of anger or both messed up in the same feeling. The trousers pretended not to notice the feelings, but they were brewing beneath the surface. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to go out today Misha?” a voice asked from across the room. “I never had problems before even though it was pouring” the owner of the hand, and the trousers, replied. “Great I only had a short nap today and now he wants to use me again” thought the trousers, meanwhile preparing itself for the worst. Sometimes a gentle awakening is all you need, but that never happened since the owner of the trousers moved to western Cameroon. It could easily remember the good old days and how the alarm rang in the morning with a sudden outburst, how the canary bird was chipping away as if a simple signal from the clock allowed it to keep disturbing long after the alarm was put off, and how even though all the sounds were loud and annoying, no danger lured in the corners. The bird was a friend, and the trousers would just keep sleeping until the iron warmed it up on the board. The hiking trousers now got stretched out across two legs, which resulted in pain from the open wound, and without ironing the trousers followed the legs all the way up to the hip. A brown belt was strapped around the waist and before the trousers could refuse, the belt was entangled in its strops. The trousers had to share the small space with the belt and even though they knew each other very well, their earlier conflict overshadowed their otherwise good mood.

At daybreak a shot was heard in the southwest and Misha wanted to protect what he thought belonged to him. In the split second the shot was heard he grabbed a knife and stuck it in the sheath in his brown belt. The movement was done so violently that the knife scratched a small hole in the green trou-

sers, and nearly touched the skin on Misha’s right thigh. That was the last straw for the trousers, that had otherwise tolerated the belt’s little brother and its atrocious actions. “Watch out that your small accessory doesn’t hurt me you bastard” the trousers yelled at the brown belt. “Excuse me! I am no accessory, but the primary reason that the forest keeps its protected status and that the wildlife can roam around freely without a huge threat on their lives. I SURELY HAVE A MORE IMPORTANT ROLE THAN THE BROWN BELT!” the knife interfered. “Sweet innocent little brother, no one means more to me than you, but in regard to primary and secondary status, you will end up on the latter. It is a simple fact that you as a knife wouldn’t have a place to hang if it wasn’t for me” the belt replied. “That is exactly why I accuse both of you for meddling with my appearance and tear my fabric apart” the trousers hissed at the belt and the knife with fury and fought against the tears that were on its way because of the pain. Another Park Guard took the shot even more seriously and stormed in the room with an assault rifle. “I will take this one” the Guard said admonishing to Misha.

Now at noon Misha heard another shot that penetrated every fibre in his body, and the scenario from the morning crept into the mind of the green hiking trousers. A wound in trousers does not heal with time and neither does a bad experience. Entangled in each other, the trousers, the knife and the belt hung on Misha’s body, and were on their way to find the source of the shot. Through the damp forest vegetation, the trousers felt clamped to the thighs, and the further they got into the forest the further the wet dew oozed through the green fabric, which felt cold but at the same time relieving the pain from the wound. With a pounding face the knife dangled from the belt and it could almost feel the metallic taste of blood on its tongue, but for now that was only an illusion. “What on earth is that?” Misha whispered to himself after looking down in front of him. A little girl laid huddled up in the long grass and gasped for air. She was lying

on the side with her back towards him, and he could sense that something was horribly wrong, but he wouldn’t believe it. It could be a trick. At first Misha had grabbed his knife in case of poachers lurking somewhere with nothing better to do than killing innocent animals. Now the knife was tucked back in the sheath, which triggered a sigh of relief from the knife. It wasn’t ready to kill at the moment. Misha was of the same belief and suddenly couldn’t bear to look at the girl. Saliva gathered in his mouth and he had to spit and sink multiple times before gathering the courage to speak. “Di…did you hear a gunshot just before?” he asked in the hope that the girl would reply, or even better; stand up. No reply followed and she was still lying on the ground becoming gradually soundless. In complete disbelief the Park Guard rose to the occasion and said strictly: “No one is allowed this close to the fence. How will you explain your-

self?” No answer. In a wave of panic Misha dropped the Guard exterior and banged on the silver chain - link fence that was between him and the girl. “What happened to you?!” he almost screamed when it dawned on him that the girl did not react. Eventually he grabbed for the knife again but this time his intention was not to kill, but to save. He cut through ten or so chain - links in the fence before bursting through it with his upper body, creating a hole to reach for the girl. Meanwhile his moral compass spun around and he was conflicted in the action. Did he destroy the pillars of sustaining the undisturbed forest and wildlife by helping a seemingly dangerous and perhaps armed poacher? The knife also had a troublesome mind, because for some reason the fence tasted like blood as if the girl had leaned towards it with a wound. An unwilling joy ran through the knife in the revelation that it didn’t need to kill to taste blood, and it would rather taste blood than do the actual action of taking a life. A gentle push was all it took for Misha to turn her over so he could see her face. She was anything but an armed poacher. She was a small child with a stream of tears down her left cheek and a huge wound. All the water from her eyes had assembled on

her left side and this made Misha even more worried. How long had she been lying like this? In a quick movement he pulled her through the hole, and now she was on the other side. She gasped for air and he saw how the wound spilled blood. “Pleeeease don’t hurt me I cannot take another shot” she moaned. “Don’t worry I will bring you to our base and get you some help” Misha replied and stroke her sweaty hair. “Everything will be alright” The blood slowly crawled from her body to his and stained the green trousers he was wearing. With an immanent fear the trousers felt the warmth from the blood. Surprisingly it could immediately see that this blood was necessary for itself and the knife to make up. It looked at the knife and the belt, who was both covered in blood, and murmured that they should bury the hatchet. It was more important that the girl’s wound would heal, than the one applied to the trousers. In other words, this blood tasted like love and not war.

“I only wanted to hunt for some food, there is no more on the other side of the fence and then the Guard shot me” the girl wept. “That is awful and I’m sorry. I will help you now” was all Misha could vocalise. He looked with new eyes on this little intruder he had lying on his lap, she was no criminal, but just an innocent girl, forced to live on the other side of the fence.

Forward at each daybreak the trousers did not care about ironing or familiar sounds, all it could think about was how it would help both animals and humans and get dirty in the process. This was by choice, and a little wound wouldn’t stop it.