He is plushy, old and very tattered. My Teddy Toldi. Probably a bad murderer. But nobody believes me. Nobody should know anyway. I just have to think about who else could theoretically be considered for Thorsten Hoffmann’s death. This causes me a headache. The police, the unnecessary emergency doctor (dead is just dead) will ask me questions. I can barely arrest my teddy. Toldi is my best friend since childhood, I’m not scolding.
Right now I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, drinking helpless red wine, smoking one, two, three too many and staring at a severed throat. Everything is full of blood, pillows, sheets, blanket. It’s damn late, I should sleep long ago. But there’s a dead body in my bed. This is currently unusable for me, as dull red soaked. Besides, I do not want this cold man by my side.
What do I do now? What do I do with this Hoffmann?
My little teddy slumbers in half sleep next to the useless body of Hoffmann. Sweet, Toldi’s dark button eyes, the soft paws, the mouth slightly smudged. Acts like he did not do anything. But I know that he has bitten rough and rude. Since he can not play me with all the fidelity, I am strict and rant. “You do not do that, my friend!”
He was always jealous. I found that always touchingly golden. It was cute how he scared off men who would not have been anything to me anyway. I talked to Toldi privately. He shook himself, and I kicked the guys charmingly, but consistently out of my life.
Toldi loves me. Me too. He can become strange to strangers. But he definitely went too far with Hoffmann.
I got to know Hoffman after a rather empty lyrical reading in a trendy downtown mall, not far from my parents’ house, where I still live. So to speak, since my birth, I appreciate my roots.
We chatted about stupid poems, sense and nonsense, laughed, drank, flirted. At some point he got on my nerves. But I was lonely – a reason why I had listened to bumbling poetry – so I invited him. “Are we still going to me?”
Slutty I felt like. A little bit. But also self-confident. A woman who goes her way. It was not the right one for him. No matter. Now he was there. Had bright-brushed teeth, smelled of musk and wore this beautiful cashmere sweater.
Hoffmann was not necessarily my type now. Too lacquered, too convinced of his head, his body. Overconfidence makes me ill-tempered, I can not stand that.
In my living room he showed me unsolicited photos, which he conjured out of his bulging wallet. His house. His boat. His horse. I could have vomited. But I feigned interest. After that he craved. I said, “How beautiful, this architecture, and this sparkling ship, really, and, great, what a horse.”
At “Gaul” he looked a little offended. I apologized for my mistake and kissed him away. That’s the way to do it. Even if you do not necessarily want it. Secretly I wished that he disappears. It was not my best day.
Poor Hoffmann. He remained stubborn, tipped down Italian liquor and stayed. His mistake. When we rummaged together in my bed and had physical contact, which I liked only to a limited extent, Hoffmann discovered Toldi. He joked: “Such a big girl, still a cuddly bear?” And then: “By the way, do you have orgasm problems?”
Toldi looked at me sternly but sympathetically. A real friend. He bit off Hoffmann’s testicles and cut his throat.
I can not change it. Squat here with a dead man and have that blood taste in his mouth. Must gargle with peppermint water and dispose of the knife. Otherwise someone else comes up with stupid thoughts.