Excerpts from Alicia - A Love Story

On Terrorism:

Alicia pressed further and and asked what I was writing about.

I said it was about the German occupation of Northern Jutland and my father, a new theme for me at that time – like a wound which had just been opened.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

I told her. He’d been executed. 

“And it was twice,” I added. “First as a terrorist, then as a freedom fighter. I don’t believe he liked one any more than the other.”

She looked at me with an ironic expression.

“Do tell!”

Maybe it was her irony that provoked me. Any maybe because she always claimed pointblank that nothing was easier to condemn than terrorism. Anyway, I mentioned that I’d come across several newspaper clippings about my father’s execution in my research. The first was from the 16th of March, 1945 and had appeared in all the Copenhagen newspapers and the major provincial papers. It stated that he had been shot, along with six other named men, in Ryvangen. The headline read: “Seven terrorists executed.”
In the same folder I found nearly identical newspaper articles from the time after the Liberation. The headline in these though had been switched and now read “Seven freedom fighters executed”.

My father had been a terrorist up until the 4th of May, afterwards he was a freedom fighter. It was only with great difficulty that I could grasp this metamorphosis, living as I did at that time still with the naïve belief that the world was based on solid terms such as good and evil, right and wrong.

“Terrorist in March and hero in May. Is that not bordering on a miracle?”

Jonas is raped by Alicia:

A few hours later I awoke to find Alicia lying on top of me, fucking me. Maybe “making love” is the right phrase. My cock was sleepy but not disinterested, on the contrary quite stiff, and when she realised I was awake she began kissing me, coming ever closer to her orgasm as she did.

I don’t know how long she’d been making love to me while I slept. I was far too tired and had drunk too much wine, and remember only that I could smell her heat, filling the dark bed with a strong smell of musk and a dash of fish and sea, all together a sweet, heavy and arousing scent. She stayed above me, held me in her and moved herself calmly, almost cheerfully, as if proud of her performance. She manouevred us around a bit to put me on top and seemed to enjoy setting the pace. Her head had dropped off the edge of the bed, her hair swept out over the darkness of the floorboards, until the sounds she was uttering rose up again deep down from the tips of her toes and streamed out of her throat like a royal fanfare.

“Sorry,” she whispered then and kissed me. “Sorry, am I too selfish?”

“No,” I replied. I don’t think the thought would ever even have occurred to me. 

“You looked so innocent, asleep … not the slightest bit the war reporter.”

“That’s how you see me then?”

“Yes, a little bit,” she whispered. “But you’re sweet.”

I was still half asleep and it took quite a while, several weeks in fact, before it dawned on me that she’d raped me. Well, maybe not raped exactly, but used me while I slept and, although it flattered me that I’d awoken her desire to an extent where she couldn’t control it, I still had to constantly think about what would have been made of me mounting her while she slept, but on that night it hadn’t mattered.