Deborah Schamoni

I’m in an unfamiliar city made up of low rise industrial buildings, architecturally it reminds me of downtown LA but the sky and surrounding hills are undeniably English— that verdant green—those low rain clouds. In some ways it brings to mind the town where I grew up, I think I can see The Devils Chimney on Leckhampton Hill, but the streets and shops are more like a Hollywood film set, sitting incongruously in British the country side.

My perspective shifts suddenly from the street view to the interior of an industrial warehouse, similar to those studio buildings in East London - all metal stairs and red bric kwalls. I’m a member of a gang — we’re all similarly dressed in functional but ragged and dirty clothes. Together we loiter in one of the stairwells, there’s general atmosphere of camaraderie. I get the impression I live with these people and yet I recognise none of them. The vague hope that we might have a party crosses my mind. Suddenly, there’s a commotion downstairs, the sound of heavy boots on steel vibrates from bottom to top — outsiders —we’ve been infiltrated. There is a mass of movement as the bodies of intruders come hitting and kicking into a giant cartoon of a scrum.

After the brawl I look down at my arm and see the unmistakable red imprint of a set of teeth just below my elbow. We collectively know that it’s only a matter of time before I change. I think, ‘what if I’m immune?Maybe it won’t affect me like everyone else’. A woman from my group tells me it will start with my arm going numb, then heavy and finally itching. We all know what must happen, a man and woman come forward to escort me away.

En route, we take a bus and while sitting next to the window on the upper deck I feel an overwhelming urgency to tell people I lovet hem, but I can’t recall now if I got round to it. We’re walking now and my arm is feeling different; it’s heavy and its starting to ache. My whole body begins to change and I wonder if I’ll still feel like me when it takes over completely, maybe it will feel nice?I stand on the pavement and wait. The man, my comrade — a stranger —stands about ten feet away, while the woman takes her stance to my right. I face him and close my eyes breathing deeply, I’m ready.

He aims and fires.

The shot hits me in the middle of the forehead a, perfect dark hole bright round the edges. I immediately fall backwards to the ground. I’m seeing my self from the outside looking at the body of a woman lying on the ground. I admire the perfection of that hole, it’s just the right size for a finger. Back in my head I feel myself blinking as I hit the ground — my last blinks —I can feel every lash and the weight of my eyelids. The woman looks over me, as I picture my lungs emptying of air, ‘I don’t need to do that anymore ’ I think. I tell myself to let go. I feel myself release. It feels impossible this is it, I feel too alive to die. I feel completely free.

25/11/2025 Berlin