He killed her.
Slaughtered her.

My tormentor, my colleague, whom I was exposed to day in, day out for nearly one year, murdered his girlfriend. His gruelling rage for women extinguished her.

I experienced this rage in all its facets.

Insults our colleagues just laughed about
Martin U Waltz melanie

Threats that sound like friendly jokes.
Transgressions, sexual innuendo, unwanted touches.
I don’t like men exclusively. I experiment. Women are not as furious.
But I am.
Quite often.
I don’t keep on walking as if nothing had happened, when men throw food on me, spit at me on the street, or when a man touches my crotch while taking a walk with his family.
And I don’t allow this fury driven man to treat me like I was a disposable object, a piece of trash.
I am loud, I don’t accept when a man pushes his cock against me in a narrow corridor. Just as if it had happened by accident.

Men are mistaking that for playing “hard to get”

Martin U Waltz melanie

This infuriates them even more, makes the trespassing even more intensive.

And makes me even stronger, or so I think.
My rage grows, my resistance becomes my driving force. Makes none of this easier.

Being the only woman in this company, I know too well that all the men are chasing me. Or nearly all of them. Its in their blood, their education, in this country.

The country, rather a colony with an US passport and a separate word for murder of women – femicidio.

My boss is laughing along when somebody asks me if I like to get fucked in the ass.
Silence is a yes, protesting is a double-yes.

Every day at the company is full of these attacks.
I cannot get used to them and I cannot let it happen.

And rage isn’t a sufficient word anymore.

It is pure hatred

Sometimes I have the feeling of being all alone. It doesn’t stop and on my way home, someone bumps into me again or a construction worker splashes water from his water bottle on my shirt to see my nippels.

Nobody cares.

I have to think of the guy with whom it all began. The guy I saw on the other side of the street a couple of years ago. One of them. A pedestrian.

I didn’t see the hit coming. It knocked me over. He knocked me over.

My lights go out. Shortly. I am lying on the street. That is how easy it is.

And now my colleague is not my colleague anymore. Even in my country you don’t get away with murder. That is hard to sweep under the rug.

His half hearted attempt to take his own life after the blood frenzy will probably serve him well. It is a relationship crime and it always takes two in a relationship. Someday he will be back. Psychiatry. Home arrest. Something absurd.

He will be back. His HR file not so much. His murderous rage was neatly documented. The file, thick as a telephone book, disappeared after his crime.

A crow doesn’t pick out another crow’s eyes.

Time bombs.
Now it is my turn to disappear, to leave the country. I cannot change any of this. But I have to get rid of this rage, this hatred, and I can’t do that here. Only if I admit to defeat.

In Berlin I’m roaming through the streets without thinking