"I know," said Samuel. He stayed silent after that. In his mind he asked himself if Don Juan would request one more dose at the end, to tide him over. Would he give it to him? Yes, he would. Without question. He did not think that he would take more himself. There was no place for him to go like this. His home, inhabited by his family, might as well be a foreign and hostile country. The school was impossible, he could not turn up there anything less than sober and decent. So this old house was the trap of his own making, until he got himself through the dark valley into a new day. There was no word to describe the morning that would await; to give form to its hatefulness and violence. He felt despair. What was left to do? Not much.

The water poured and poured from the tap into the bath and now it flowed over. It swept over the edge and ran down on the tiles. Around their feet, it did turn pink. Samuel let go of Don Juan's ankle, stood up and wanted to reach to close the tap, but got sidetracked by his comment. "I was working on that, before you came," he replied. With the hope to have overcome his conundrum, he tried opening the last button of his shirt. Of course it slipped through his fingers. He sighed and looked down his chest towards his hands, blurring before his eyes. Impossible.

Instead of trying again, he sat down next to Don Juan on the edge of the overflowing tub and slipped his suspenders off his shoulders. He would simply pull the damn thing over his head. Someone, he thought, should probably turn off the water.

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