Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
This is the second part of my short story, "The Tumour." Please would you take a look at it and correct my mistakes.
We stood among the stacks of history books, and as we were looking at the raw of book spines, our faces came close together. I wished to stay near her as long as possible, despite feeling drops of sweat on my back and under my armpits.
“It’s a terrible tragedy what is happing in Bosnia, today,” I said.
“Are you from Bosnia?
“Yes,” I said and noticed that her eyes sparkled.
“ I’ve seen so many terrible news from Bosnia on TV. All those killed innocent people, raped women, and prisoners who looked as if they had been imprisoned in Auschwitz. It must be awful to be there.”
“It is. I myself am a victim of ethnic cleansing, and I had been imprisoned in a Serbian prison camp. The guards did unspeakable things to my fellow prisoners.”
Her eyes turned dark blue, and she put her hand on my shoulder.
“I feel sorry for you. It must be terrible to leave your homeland and your people and come to cold Sweden, where people are so introverted and don’t welcome strangers with open arms.”
I told her that our cultures were different. In Bosnia people welcomed strangers, invited them to their homes, and treated them with drink and food like important guests, while here in Sweden, strangers were seen like intruders who had come to abuse welfare state.
“I wished I knew more about your homeland.” Her eyes sparkled again.
I interpreted her sentence as an invitation I could not pass up. I told her we could meet somewhere, and I would tell her about my experiences.
I returned home drenched in sweat, but I had never been so happy in my life. Three days later, we met in a cafe, I and told her about the war and myself. I tried to be objective and did not wish to exaggerate the suffering of my people and my own, but I saw how she winced when I described the months I had spent on the bare concrete floor in a factory, which had been converted to a prison camp. I spared her the most gruesome details. I knew that Sweden had not had a war for hundreds of year, and the Swedes were not used to listen to such stories, unlike people in Bosnia where every generation had its own war. She hung on my words as I told her about my childhood, school time, military service, and the death of my parents who had been executed by the Serb soldiers. I did not hide anything except my problem with perspiration. I was afraid if I mentioned it, she would run away, and I would never see her again. In one moment, she looked me straight in the eye, leaned forward and cupped her hands over mine. “You’ve suffered so much. You’re such a handsome man, and I really like you.”
Sweat was breaking out all over my body, but I did not care. Her blue eyes made me forgot my painful past, worries and problems. My heart was thumping and I wanted to shower her with kisses, but I knew that for any Swedish woman that would be too much. If I wanted to keep her as a friend I had to behave like a Swede, and that meant to be reserved and not show much feelings.
The next time we met, it was in her flat. She invited me to dinner, and wanted me to taste her fish. She grew up in a town on the North Sea, and since her childhood, she had eaten fish at least two, three times a week. Her fish tasted delicious, and the white wine we drunk to it, also. Then we sat in the living room, and she told me about her travels he had done in about 30 countries. She was just 26, and she had seen more in her short life than the majority of the people do during their all lives. She sat on a sofa and I sat across from her in an armchair, more looking at her than listening to her words. Who was going to make the first step, I asked myself.
“Please sit on the sofa,” she said and patted the seat beside her. I did as she told me, and soon we were locked in a passionate embrace. “Come, we go into the bedroom,” she said and took me by the hand.
When I saw her naked body, I believed I was going to lose my mind. My desire to have sex with her was overpowering. She lay under me moaning, while I worked hard, dripping with sweat like a marathon runner, a professional cyclist on the Tour de France, or a sauna user. My craving for her had shut off any other thoughts that might have entered my mind. I saw our lovemaking not only as a physical act, but a gift from the Universe –a reward for all the misery I had gone through.
Ingrid put her hands on my shoulders and stroked my body down to my bottom. “You’re dripping with sweat. You’ve got a real workout.” I groaned a yes, and carried on with unwavering passion until my semen shot out and I screamed in orgasm.
We met two, three times a week, and sometimes we spent a weekend together, talking, cuddling, cooking and listening to the classical music. Finally I told her about my handicap, and to my relief, she was not upset. She told me some of her colleagues were going through menopause. She saw them suffering, sweating, having hot flashes and headaches. She wondered if my problems had their roots in my experiences during the war, and I explained to her that my body perspired heavily since my childhood. She let out a deep sigh, kissed me in my forehead and said, “You poor boy, you must have suffered enormously.”
To be continued
We stood among the stacks of history books, and as we were looking at the raw of book spines, our faces came close together. I wished to stay near her as long as possible, despite feeling drops of sweat on my back and under my armpits.
“It’s a terrible tragedy what is happing in Bosnia, today,” I said.
“Are you from Bosnia?
“Yes,” I said and noticed that her eyes sparkled.
“ I’ve seen so many terrible news from Bosnia on TV. All those killed innocent people, raped women, and prisoners who looked as if they had been imprisoned in Auschwitz. It must be awful to be there.”
“It is. I myself am a victim of ethnic cleansing, and I had been imprisoned in a Serbian prison camp. The guards did unspeakable things to my fellow prisoners.”
Her eyes turned dark blue, and she put her hand on my shoulder.
“I feel sorry for you. It must be terrible to leave your homeland and your people and come to cold Sweden, where people are so introverted and don’t welcome strangers with open arms.”
I told her that our cultures were different. In Bosnia people welcomed strangers, invited them to their homes, and treated them with drink and food like important guests, while here in Sweden, strangers were seen like intruders who had come to abuse welfare state.
“I wished I knew more about your homeland.” Her eyes sparkled again.
I interpreted her sentence as an invitation I could not pass up. I told her we could meet somewhere, and I would tell her about my experiences.
I returned home drenched in sweat, but I had never been so happy in my life. Three days later, we met in a cafe, I and told her about the war and myself. I tried to be objective and did not wish to exaggerate the suffering of my people and my own, but I saw how she winced when I described the months I had spent on the bare concrete floor in a factory, which had been converted to a prison camp. I spared her the most gruesome details. I knew that Sweden had not had a war for hundreds of year, and the Swedes were not used to listen to such stories, unlike people in Bosnia where every generation had its own war. She hung on my words as I told her about my childhood, school time, military service, and the death of my parents who had been executed by the Serb soldiers. I did not hide anything except my problem with perspiration. I was afraid if I mentioned it, she would run away, and I would never see her again. In one moment, she looked me straight in the eye, leaned forward and cupped her hands over mine. “You’ve suffered so much. You’re such a handsome man, and I really like you.”
Sweat was breaking out all over my body, but I did not care. Her blue eyes made me forgot my painful past, worries and problems. My heart was thumping and I wanted to shower her with kisses, but I knew that for any Swedish woman that would be too much. If I wanted to keep her as a friend I had to behave like a Swede, and that meant to be reserved and not show much feelings.
The next time we met, it was in her flat. She invited me to dinner, and wanted me to taste her fish. She grew up in a town on the North Sea, and since her childhood, she had eaten fish at least two, three times a week. Her fish tasted delicious, and the white wine we drunk to it, also. Then we sat in the living room, and she told me about her travels he had done in about 30 countries. She was just 26, and she had seen more in her short life than the majority of the people do during their all lives. She sat on a sofa and I sat across from her in an armchair, more looking at her than listening to her words. Who was going to make the first step, I asked myself.
“Please sit on the sofa,” she said and patted the seat beside her. I did as she told me, and soon we were locked in a passionate embrace. “Come, we go into the bedroom,” she said and took me by the hand.
When I saw her naked body, I believed I was going to lose my mind. My desire to have sex with her was overpowering. She lay under me moaning, while I worked hard, dripping with sweat like a marathon runner, a professional cyclist on the Tour de France, or a sauna user. My craving for her had shut off any other thoughts that might have entered my mind. I saw our lovemaking not only as a physical act, but a gift from the Universe –a reward for all the misery I had gone through.
Ingrid put her hands on my shoulders and stroked my body down to my bottom. “You’re dripping with sweat. You’ve got a real workout.” I groaned a yes, and carried on with unwavering passion until my semen shot out and I screamed in orgasm.
We met two, three times a week, and sometimes we spent a weekend together, talking, cuddling, cooking and listening to the classical music. Finally I told her about my handicap, and to my relief, she was not upset. She told me some of her colleagues were going through menopause. She saw them suffering, sweating, having hot flashes and headaches. She wondered if my problems had their roots in my experiences during the war, and I explained to her that my body perspired heavily since my childhood. She let out a deep sigh, kissed me in my forehead and said, “You poor boy, you must have suffered enormously.”
To be continued
