ONCE UPON A TIME, A LITTLE GIRL VENTURED TO THE BIG CITY TO FIND HERSELF. TRAGICALLY, SHE SUCCEEDED.
She was the fairest of Berlin-Mitte. Proud and arrogant, her roots bleached to perfection, her skin a porcelain shield against the biting winds of Torstraße. Her eyes were small but watchful, keeping count of the countless little men who dared to enter the manicured land of 10119.
Every morning, she’d preside before the mirror in her chambers, worshipping the apparition that worshipped her back. The glass was loyal; it confirmed what she already knew. At times, she’d break the silence:
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who’s the cuntiest of them all?
A few breaths later, she’d mouth her own reply:
‘Tis I. I serve cunt, bitch.
That morning, the ritual started as it always would. She arose. She made her way to the powder room. She wiped away her hangover with expired French cleanser. The reflection waited, patient and complicit. She locked in:
Mirror, mirror, on the wall—
Before she could land the perfectly rehearsed final words, a drop. Blood. From her left nostril, onto the gleaming midcentury sink.
Guten Morgen, Sonnenschein.
A voice. Not the soft kind she had usually heard in her own head. Male. Dry. Too close.
Hast du Wasser?
Her pulse jumped. Intruders? But how? Nothing ever—ever—slipped by her. And yet…
Yeah, Schatz, we got any wine left also?
She turned around, leaving a faint red constellation on the ceramic floor. Who were they? How did they get here? Did they know her? Did she know them?
Whose place is this anyway?
Blood continued to slide past her dry lips; a metallic tang on her pointy tongue. Before she could settle on a single, viable explanation, a third presence announced itself:
Babe, can I borrow your iPhone charger?
A cough. A scrape of a lighter. Then:
Is she still here?
More voices.
ADE kind of sucked this year, oder?
If she screamed, would anybody hear? In 10119, would anybody care?
Gentlemen, shall we get another bag?
She reached for the powder room door. The hinge gave out a long, pathetic squeak. From the crack spilled a thin strip of light—kitchen light. Had she left it on?
She pushed the door open. The place smelled of smoke. Her heart stumbled. Someone was standing at the counter. And another, lingering by the window. A third sprawled where the floor met the wall.
She blinked. The shapes didn’t vanish. There were more. Faces surfaced from shadow until she could count them. Four, five, six… seven. Each slightly wrong, as if drawn from memory.
The questions stopped. The air went thick with stillness. The men watched her step out, heads tilting in uncanny unison. She touched her nose, blood smeared across her fingers.
I just don’t—
The stream continued to grow, slow but insistent. A dizzying, arterial flush against the pristine white. The sight of it seemed to animate them. The one by the counter licked his lips. Another bent down, his stare fixed on the scarlet trickle hitting the tile.
How have you—
She couldn’t finish the useless query. Two more were on their knees. She could hear their breath now. And a low, guttural vibration:
Relax, princess.
From one moment to another, they were onto her, like moss onto a rock. They began to drink. First, from the spreading pool on the floor. Then, from the source. They slurped and swallowed with a single-minded devotion, seven disciples at the altar of her ruin. It looked almost holy.
She felt her strength drain away, leaving her hollow and pale as ever. Each sip erased her, absorbed her, until the room itself seemed to pulse with her reflection. The only sound to be heard in all of 10119 was the soft, visceral smacking of seven sets of wet lips.
From deep inside the mirrored void came a whisper:
‘Tis I. I serve cunt, bitch.
★ TBD Excitement
Diane Arbus’s retrospective at Gropius Bau!!! “America at 250” panel at Babylon with the American Institute and The Atlantic. Wim Wenders reading excerpts from his new book at the Haus der Berliner Festspiele. Skrillex playing at Berghain (LOL). French Film Week? Salep, salep, salep.
★ IRL of the Month
Atelier of cursed ceramics, Galerie Hinrich Kröger
Eisenacher Straße 114, 10777 Berlin
OGs will remember Hinrich Kröger’s pre-pandemic gallery on Gipsstraße. Despite the new zip code, once a Mitte girl, always a Mitte girl—at least in our book.
Part gallery, part cabinet of very curious curiosities, the place is a fever dream of tattooed teacups, cross-eyed porcelain poodles, and glinting vases that toe the line between antique chic and softcore filth.
Kröger’s work has graced a Gaultier runway, as well as the private shelves of Lana Wachowski. Now it’s waiting for you in Schöneberg. Open Saturdays, or whenever Hinrich feels like it.
This Halloween, don’t be the girl who forgot to check the mirror. Share this with your evil twin. And subscribe for more monthly tales from the dark side of Torstraße.