“Then you loved him as a father?”
“You had sexual intercourse with him more than once?”
“Many times?”
“Can you remember precisely? The number of times?”
Balot raised her hand and lifted three fingers.
“Three times?”
“Your older brother attacked your father violently when he learned of your relationship, yes?”
“Do you know why your brother felt so angry at your father?”
“Why?”
Balot was given more paper. She scribbled on it again, passed it to the clerk again, and again the judge read it out: “Because he loved me.”
Further excitement in the courtroom. A number of the reporters rose from their seats, running to pass on the news.
“Did he look at you as a woman?”
“Then as a younger sister?”
“Now, as a result of his injuries, your father was admitted to a hospital in the capital as a severely disabled patient, yes?”
“Did you ever see your father again after that?”
“How did that make you feel?”
Balot, head bowed, didn’t answer. The DA leaped up and shouted, “Objection, an irrelevant question.” The judge banged his gavel. The counsel continued down a different line of questioning.
“Do you still love your father? As a father?”
“Why can’t you answer?”
Balot remained silent.
“Do you love your father as a man?”
Balot shook her head emphatically. The DA objected, screaming. As if to intercede, Balot raised her hand to call the clerk over for some paper. On it she wrote: “I don’t know how I should feel about my family anymore.”
“Not just your father?”
“Your brother is still in the penitentiary, isn’t he?”
“After that, your mother entered an ADSOM facility—that is to say a rehabilitation center for alcohol and drug addicts—and still lives there to this day? Is that right?”
“Did your mother know about your relations with your father?”
“Do you believe that what’s happened to your family is your fault?”
It was a reflex action. Balot didn’t press the button. But she did
No one saw that Balot had actually not pressed the button, but then, no one was about to pay any attention to that now. Apart from the Doctor. The defense counsel then asked her a succession of additional questions. Balot just stared at the one button, fixated,
Balot’s answers to all the additional questions were the same:
02
Balot’s father was a mild man. He had a beard but didn’t make a frightening impression. He had a healthy physique and was a sound blue-collar worker. He was somewhat rustic—burly—but had a gentle grip. Even when his motor neuron disease started taking a turn for the worse and he was down to three fingers on his right hand, he still gave off an aura of gentleness. On his left hand he only had his thumb. His four working fingers undid Balot’s uniform when she returned from school one day.
That was when she learned to project her consciousness into space. As Balot’s father’s fingers and tongue tentatively caressed her body, she felt an unknown feeling well up inside her. Desperately trying to suppress this feeling, she launched it into the air. There were the unbearable feelings of guilt, and then there was her clear, calm consciousness. With half-shut eyes she looked at the room, looked at the furniture, and tried to project her consciousness onto something else.
But she hadn’t yet perfected her technique of losing herself.
Sometimes her voice leaked out. Naturally. Like in the movies, when a woman was embraced by her lover. She fought it. Biting down on her lips, frantically averting her eyes. Trying not to look at her father’s face.
How long had she been doing this? Then, all of a sudden, a feeling to extinguish any lukewarm waves of pleasure. A red-hot scalding sense of bitterness. It was penetrating her. She heard her father’s voice, apologizing. She heard her own voice asking him to stop, please. But the pain intensified, and her father started moving his body.
She tried forcing her father back with both arms. Her father was crying. He gripped her arms tightly with his hand with three fingers. His tears dripped down onto her arms and breasts. As if he were vomiting up blood. Eventually, the waves of pain subsided into silence, and a lukewarm liquid—different from tears—trickled down her thighs.
This was the “lucky guy” that the Hunter spoke of. This was why she had no answer when the defense counsel asked her why she didn’t resist.
She could recall her father’s face from then—full of sorrow—anytime. She could barely remember him looking any other way.
She’d wanted to do something about this sadness. Balot didn’t really understand that her father had just made love to his own twelve-year-old daughter as he would a woman, and in any case she wasn’t really in a position to refuse.
After the last time they had relations, Balot was taking a shower, mind blank, when she heard shouting and screaming. And then—a burst of gunfire.
Balot wrapped a bath towel around her body and came out of the shower to look on the scene. Her older brother, screaming like a mad dog. At his feet was her father, writhing in agony from a gunshot wound.
When her brother saw his little sister, steam rising from her half-naked body, he cried out maniacally.
Her brother was a volunteer at ADSOM. The reason he worked there could be traced back to childhood, when his mother shouted at him for not properly holding the end of the tube she was using to bind her arm as she was shooting up.
Balot’s brother was as neurotic as their mother. He was trying to save her from herself, but despite his good intentions, his irritation and hatred grew violently. And her brother was pretty much the only one in the family who could do a proper day’s work to earn a living wage.
So her brother was always on the lookout for opportunities to earn money more
Before long he got mixed up in bad company and became a gunrunner. This all came out in the investigation into his father’s shooting, and her brother was consigned to the penitentiary.
