After a little while in the room with me he began to look around; he saw something up on the bookcase and said “I want that.” It was a crane made of Bilofix; he immediately began to tackle it; although the crane was fairly complicated, there was no hesitation from Jón Gunnar: he took it apart, loosening a screw here, another there, and tightening a nut in a third place. It took just half a minute until the crane got totally entangled; the band inside it slackened completely and the crane started to fall apart. Then Jón Gunnar took the band, wrapped it around the whole thing, and tried to tie the band. That failed, so he let it fall to the ground and began looking at the instructions for the Bilofix, which had many pictures. He said he couldn’t do this, nor this, nor this; eventually, he found the easiest part, and said “I can do that.” He made no effort to carry it out; he just left the Bilofix mess there on the floor, and didn’t seem bothered by it, even though he had to walk over it when he wanted to play with something else.
When we went out into the corridor, he began to hear a thundering from outside the building. There were people drilling into the wall. The lad looked towards the window and asked what that was; I wanted him to tell me what he thought it was. “It’s just from the corner,” he said, and tried to let that solution suffice; when the noise increased, he began to look back in its direction and went towards it. Once he saw the radiator, he said, “It’s just from the radiator.” But we drew closer to the radiator, and he began to listen to it. Then he said, as if nothing were more self-explanatory, “It’s just someone drilling outside.”
[…] When he started playing with small animals and cowboys and such like on the table, he described to me what was happening. He selected the bull, which perpetrated the most awful bloodbath: it killed every single one of the animals and most of the people. When it was over, he took it up and made fences on the table around the bull. He used whatever was available: for example he took a phone and used that as part of his protective wall. He didn’t see this as interfering in any way; however, the buzzing from the handset continued for about 5 min. Then he said, “I’m going to read my paper.” He got onto his knees and read for about 10 minutes and was completely in his own world, unaware of what was taking place around him. He never once looked at me.
He drew a picture of his own accord and told me that it was Satan. I asked for more information about this person, and he said that he is friends with the octopus.
I cannot say for sure what I have discovered in my very limited contact with this child, based on the hour that I was with him. I think it would be safe to say that he never looked at me from beginning to end. He seemed to show absolutely no consideration for me. He went away and seemed no wiser than when he came.
(National Hospital, Psychiatric Ward,
Children’s Hospital Trust, 07/03/1973)
~ ~ ~
I went out and got a few big rocks. I had to make several trips because they were so heavy. I gathered them in a pile by the porch. Then I snuck in with them, one by one, without my mom seeing. I was sure she’d ban them. I put some in my Liverpool FC bag and wrapped my coat around others; I took them up into my room and hid them in a closet.
When I was done carrying all the stones I went back out and gathered firewood. I filled my Liverpool bag with thin sticks and kindling. Then I took the stones out of the closet and arranged them in a circle on the floor. I put the sticks and the kindling in the middle of the ring.
I built my fireplace like the Indians in cowboy movies do. It would be cozy to lie in bed and read Duck Tales beside a crackling campfire. Mom would certainly be thrilled when she saw it. Dad would sit beside me, or maybe at the campfire, when he came home from work. We could go out to the Elliðaár River. I could catch a few salmon and we could come back and grill them over my fire.
I’m an Indian. I’m in a tribe of Indians. Mom won’t sew me Indian clothes. She’s stopped sewing because of the arthritis in her fingers. But I’ve got a knife and a headdress with feathers in it, which I bought in a toy store in the Grímsbær shopping center. It’s really very handsome, with a brown plastic stretchy headband that goes around your forehead. The plastic piece goes over your ears and hangs down from them.
On the headpiece there’s all sorts of patterns; colorful feathers stick up into the air from your forehead and hang down over your shoulders. These feathers are like the ones chieftains have.
The knife is real, big and strong, in a leather holster that has a glorious leather smell. Dad calls him Sting. But it’s an Indian knife, a real and authentic Indian knife: Made in U.S.A. I do not know what that means but I think it is some kind of Indian mark. Maybe it’s the name of some Indian chief. A knife is the only thing an Indian needs. Everything else can be taken away from him. He can be in everyday clothes and he can look like everyone else. But he never forgets his knife. He needs it in order to defend himself, to cut all kinds of rope, to whittle, to hunt dinner.
When the fire was ready, I snuck out. Mom was talking on the phone inside her room. I casually walked into the living room. I took a big table lighter from the table and stuck it in my pocket. Then I went back into my room and lit the fire pile.
It didn’t take the fire long to get under way. First the paper burned, then as it reached the flames it engulfed the sticks and before I knew it the fires of Hell had broken out. And smoke! My eyes stung and I was in tears. The room was full of smoke. I ran outside, coughing. Mom broke off her phone conversation and came running. The smoke was out of the bedroom door.
— What the devil have you been doing, child?
Later that day, Dad came home. I knew it was because of the fire. I knew why he had come. I had a knot in my stomach. I tried to breathe but I couldn’t fill my lungs.
It’s terrible being spanked. I tried to stick against the bed and hide my butt from him. But he was stronger than me. He picked me up in his hands and put me over his knees.
My tears fell freely. My heart was thrashing about like it wanted to rip itself out of my chest and escape: to climb up the bookshelves and sit there, or to run all the way, in one burst, to Aunt Salla’s house.
I fought tooth and nail and cried like a condemned man:
— I’ll never do it again! I’ll never do it again, I’ll never do it again!
~ ~ ~
His aggression frequently vents itself quite directly, though when he’s stuck in a hole he tends to find it more advisable to run and hide […] He is exceedingly simple in the way he identifies with others’ lives and experiences […] To help deal with his anxiety and unpleasant feelings, the boy employs denial, albeit sometimes with good reason. Also, he tries to escape or avoid discomforting or anxiety-inducing situations, often through a quite mechanical restlessness in his behavior.