[liv tuh–mawr-oh: Laleh personally wrote and produced the song, which was nominated to “Song of the Year” at the “P3 Guld Awards” in 2005.
The House That God Has Forgotten Part 32: How I fell in love with an almost prisoner.
I spend a good amount of my time closed in a little steel box. Driving all over the city of Stockholm. I think a lot. I have a lot of time to think. I think about injustice, things that happen at The House That God Has Forgotten, and sometimes as a song comes on a radio or Spotify; I my friends get inspired.
Sometimes while driving in my car I will hear a song that reminds me of her. Someone that easily could have been an inmate in any jail.
She was a friend of my we met innocently on the internet chats before it was the internet. It was before e-mails, and Facebook and all of this. It was screens with green text and teased hair. It was my friends the late 80´s and early 90’s.
Her nickname was Rikkie, my was Iocaste a moon that was a play on words of Jocasta the wife/mother of Oedipus in Greek Mythology. (Yes, I was a snobby little shit back in the day. A good reason to explain why I studied English at the university).
When I first met her in person I remember driving up to her house to pick her up and having an ugly felt hat in front seat to try and impress her and make her think I was cool.
This was before me understanding that I was gay, but she knew it long before I did.
We had a lot of fun in the beginning. Hanging out with older people in the gang (they were in their early 20’s). Making fun of people, stealing booze from my parents.
She was the only person I let in my house because I was so ashamed of the drugs my parents used and how the house was filthy (TV filthy dishes that spilled on the counter that were 5 days old). The swimming pool was green with alge and looked like a swamp. All covered with the smell of marijuana and the anger of my father on amfetamin.
She accepted me for the life I had, and her mother accepted me as one of her own children, which at the time I really, really needed.
We lived on the other side of town from each other so we went to different schools. I was the girl playing sports, having that cute jacket with the big letter and all of the glory of all the teams and things you did.
She was the hippie, The cool kid that was nice to everyone. She did not look like a cheerleader, nor was she one. She was different, she rolled with an outside crowd.
As we got older we hung out more and more. It was her I partied with on the weekends. It was also me who was jealous for some reason of the boyfriends she had.
Then we had our periods where we would just stop talking.
I would get a feeling and I would call her.
“Cal I just had an abortion and I do not feel so well”
Things like this.
We we had our periods of hanging out, I was always the first one to get dropped off. I always thought it was because my father would kill me if I was late (which he would have see above about his bad habits).
I found out later it was because she would go out after and take drugs.
Once when we were not speaking we were at the same camping trip in the middle of the desert with all of our friends. We did not say a word to me.
To protect me, from the drugs.
Something I could have easily gotten myself into considering all the adults in my life were doing them.
One of the last times I saw her was before I went away to the university. Rain was pouring on the windshield as I drove my car (something unusal for the desert I grew up in) when she said with a serious tone in her voice;
“Promise me you will never do LSD. You see the world in such a beautiful way. I never want you to change that.”
When she was on the drugs I started to hang out with her little sister and could see the sting in her eyes.
But she always stayed away and never said a word.
I joined the army and her letters while I was in Japan made me smile and gave me joy, she would talk about all the tings that were happening that were funny, but she never talked about the drugs, Never.
But when the letters would stop coming, I knew she was using again.
I came home from Japan for a month after Special Reaction Team Training (Insatsstrykan in the army) and met her.
She had a problem with her boss that was threatening her if she did not have sex with him.
I picked up the phone and called him.
I threatened him and scared the shit out of him.
My friend that she shared a house with told me; “She loves you Cal, she loves you for real love”
At that moment I realised that all this time I was gay.
That night we drank too much, and she begged me to have sex with her.
Even as much as I wanted to, I could not stop thinking about the drugs.
After Japan when I moved to Texas I had a feeling. I could not find her so I called her mother.
That had her in treatment. They found out she was doing herion.
The next time I called her was to tell her I was getting divorced from my husband.
I had fallen in love with a Swedish woman.
“I was supposed to be your first” she cried and hung up the phone.
I went to the united states one year, and met her mother and her sister. She left a letter with her sister to give to me.
It was brutally honest. All she had been through, how she sold her body and lost her soul. How the drugs had taken over her and she had lost all control of everything.
She was looking for me to save her. I did not do it this time. My head was not in the right place.
I wish I would have kept that letter.
I saw her on that trip, she had come into her mother’s house and we did not say a word to each other. She just left…
and I never saw her again.
I drove by her city once and thought about meeting her, but I was afraid of what I would see.
We would write back and forth. “Don’t tell my husband but I am secretly taking methadone”
She started to forget things, e-mail passwords so I would never hear from her.
It was on and off just like it always was.
The last song I sent to her was “Live Tomrrow”. The last one she sent me was some Otis Redding song I do not remember.
The last e-mail I got from her had a last line; “I do not remember much, but I remember every moment with you.”
My reply sent later was answered by a man I do not know.
“I am sorry to tell you, but she has died.”
And now she goes with me everywhere I go. 130203. The day she died tattooed on my arm.
She could have been just as easily someone you would meet behind the door at The House That God Has Forgotten.