On the first day, I lose my sense of time, my dignity, and a banker. In exchange, however, I now have two children and a cat. I don't remember their names, except for the cat, who is called Miss Tinky. I also have a husband. He is tall, with short, dark hair and gray eyes. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, as I sit on the ancient sofa, pressed up against him. He holds me tightly in his arms and the wounds on my back throb, as if each one has its own, individual pulse. I have a cut on my forehead that stings terribly. Every so often I lose my sight or see white flashes. And I am just trying to keep breathing.

I don't know if it is really night or if he decided so. The windows are hermetically sealed with metal sheets. He creates day and night. Like a God. I try to convince myself that the worst is over, but I suspect that soon we will go to bed together. The children have already put on their pajamas. The boy's is a bit too small, while the girl's is much too big; the sleeves hang from her hands. The children are kneeling on the floor a little way from the sofa, with their palms stretched out toward the wood stove, trying to soak up whatever warmth is left. The fire has given way to a black heap of ashes, where here and there glowing embers shine. The absurdity of the whole situation is completed by the clear little voices of the children, chattering happily. I don't understand exactly what they're saying. I hear them muffled, as if I have cotton in my ears, while at the same time I am thinking about how I will kill their father.