Episode 2: The Crooked Spine & The Protesting Elks (2025)

The elks are demonstrating!
The elks have had enough!
The elks want security!
Here in their own forest!

Too fucking right.

The ride from daycare (or ‘dagis’ as we say) was one of the highlights of my day, especially during the winter months because dad would pull me on the Snowracer. I liked to think I controlled the direction, though in reality, I simply weaved from side to side in a dramatic slalom across the hard-packed snowy street.

I know it was cold, probably around -30 degrees (-22 Fahrenheit), because he’d asked me to wear my thermal balaclava, even from daycare that was barely a 10 minute walk from our apartment.

We entered the alleyway that teased us into the neighbourhood, slowly revealing an expansive green courtyard. It housed a sizeable green, a large play area with swings, a sandpit, a bike obstacle course, and an area of trees and shrubbery. A footpath for pedestrians and cyclists divided this family haven from the apartments above.

Today, the courtyard was empty apart from two rat corpses close to a sewage pipe. Nearly made it, guys.

The neighbourhood had been built to support young families connected to the university, a stone throw away, especially those parents whom also had young children.

Dad turned to me. Barely audibly whispered:

‘Can’t feel my face. It’s… it’s so, so cold.’

I ripped off my balaclava.

‘My face is too sweaty!’

He grabbed the Snowracer and started the ascent to the apartment. In my usual fashion, I jumped up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. The two steps at a time was no real choice. It had to be done, otherwise I had to go down and start all over. This could be rather a time consuming routine as we lived on the fourth floor.

First floor cleared.

My heart started racing.

Second floor cleared.

We were so close.

And, there it was. The third floor, with THAT door.

It wasn’t an ordinary door. Sure, it had the ‘Atom Kraft? Nej Tack!’ (Nuclear Power? No Thanks) sticker on the door like most people on the block.

No, this door was different. Behind that tatty and scuffed frame lived: Angelica.

She was 5 as well. I liked her, kind of like my girl friend. Nothing we’d discussed at great length yet, though it was imminent.

We could both feel it.

On weekends, when all the kids on the block played in the courtyard, Angelica would be on the swing next to me.

It was pretty much a done deal.

Relationships could be very complex. Not this one.

It was Angelica’s birthday soon and she’d invited all her pals from her daycare. I was getting kind of nervous about it. Silly, sure, but I could do without any competition for her love.

Dad was way ahead up the stairs. He turned and looked at me strangely.

‘You OK, lad?’

‘Yeah.’ I had stopped abruptly. ‘Why?’

‘You’re leaning to the side when you walk, buddy.’

‘I dunno, back hurts, I think.’

Dad scratched his goaty.

‘Hmmm. When does it hurt?’

‘Oh, not very often, just when I walk, jump, run, sit… and when I lie down.’

We continued. I can tell when he’s in deep thought because his head tilts to one side.

It’s going to be a long evening.

As we take the last step and join the landing to our apartment, Tamara, the mentalist mongrel, or Gamma as we called her, could be heard clearly through the walls.

Her bark was distinct. I guess most dog owners would recognize theirs too, but Tamara’s was unique, it had that classic cartoon dog bark, but it was intertwined with what sounded like a crying baby. When she was at it, in the midst of darkness, it was fucking creepy.

Whilst mum and dad cooked dinner, I laid in my bed listening to my favourite track on the record player, ‘Älgarna Demonstrerar’ (The Elks Are Demonstrating). I turned the volume right up and sang as loudly as I could muster:

The elks are demonstrating!
The elks have had enough!
The elks want security!
Here in their own forest!

The best tune ever, stopped abruptly.

I turned to see mum by my bed.

‘Hey my favourite chap. Dinner’s ready.’

I slid off the bed, not commando style like usual, landing on my chest ready to fight, but carefully, with my feet on the floor, as the bed felt unsteady for some reason.

‘You ok my little man? Dad said your back’s painful, how’s that?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Don’t get me started on masturbation.’ My future self interjected.

It’s Monday so the delights of fishballs in a tomato sauce on rice is served up. When you imagine fishballs, don’t think fish testicles (do they have balls?), that would be unspeakable and disgusting. Instead picture gourmet ingredients such as 15% fish meat, thickener, flour, toe nails, gelatine, tomato powder, water, and a long series of numbers starting with the letter ‘E’.

The sauce made the rice soggy, so that the meal resembled an execution gone awry with brain chunks and blood splattered across a bed of cow parsley. Yummy.

‘So, babe, everything alright in school?’

Here. We. Go.

‘Yup.’

‘Are there anyone that bugs you more than usual, you know like teasing you?’

‘Nope.’

‘Can we speak openly now, Siggy.’ Now Dad’s also included in the session.’

Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

I could usually handle one of them ok, but two… jeez man.

‘Course Dad.’ I said.

‘We always tell each other if something’s wrong, don’t we?’ Dad continued.

‘‘Yeah, everything’s ok. I promise.’ I said, trying to sound casual.

‘I can usually feel when something’s wrong, but today is different, Siggy.’ Mum said.

‘I’m OK, like really.’

‘So when did the back pain start then?’ Dad said and Mum added, as if I wasn't around:

‘So I’m thinking probably not TMS.’

‘Tension Myositis Syndrome.’ Dad quickly added.

‘Correct. We hear you Siggy, there’s nothing going on in school.’

Phew.

‘Is there something at home you are sad or unhappy about maybe?’ Dad suggested.

‘Nooooo. I’m fine, really.’ I moaned.

‘I know we don’t always have loads of time together mid-week, but we do hang out as a family on weekends. We all love to be together, don’t we?‘ Mum said.

‘I love our weekends mum.’

‘So, Siggy, are there any mates that are horrible to you?’

‘Here? Nah, it’s only, you know, Tony, but he’s been on holiday for a while.’

Dad leaned over to mum: ‘Juvie.’

She nodded.

Everyone remained quiet until mum broke the peace.

‘Maybe Somatization and-’

‘Conversion.’ Dad added pleased with himself.

‘Precisely. Though I’m unsure what the unmet need may be.’

‘What are you talking about? I. Am. Fine.’

Ignoring me, mum said:

‘We could try the Somatization Scale from the SCL-90-R and see if this sheds any light on why there’s pain?’

They continued discussing possible ways they can analyse the origins of my pain.

I was so done with this conversation. I cleared my plate and headed back to my room.

I needed ‘me time’, so I quickly put on my headphones. Big ass fluffy ones that engulfed half of my little 5-year old head.

It’s me and the music now.

The elks are demonstrating!
The elks have had enough!

The drums in the tune, man. They were so cool.

Elks.

The forest.

They’ve had enough. Fuck yeah.

The music cut off mid-note as the needle lifted unexpectedly.

It was mum. I sat up and removed my headphones.

‘What’s the matter?’ I growled.

‘Anders…’ She called out.

My dad appeared in the doorway.

‘Yes Agneta - A-ha. I see. Well that explains why it was difficult to diagnose.’

Mum grinned.

I was utterly confused.

I attempted the ultimate commando roll, ready to impress with my flawless agility. The moment I shifted my weight, the entire bed frame betrayed me with a sickening CRACK!

WTF?!

I was on the floor. I scrambled up, only to discover the carnage behind me.

One side of the bed frame had completely split in two, the mattress slumping pathetically onto the floor like it had given up on life.

So much for showing off my might.

Mum giggled and tickled me as I slowly stood up.

‘So just a broken bed, no major trauma then.’ Dad grinned widely.

I stared at the wreckage. The mattress slumped in defeat. The frame snapped clean in two, like my dignity.

Mum’s still giggling. Dad’s grinning. And me? I’m standing there, five years old, wondering how my entire existence just got diagnosed before dessert.

Mic Drop

Was this my future?

Every stubbed toe, every weird dream, every slightly wonky posture met with a full psychological assessment, served up alongside a side of fishballs? And what happens when I get my first real girlfriend - will that require a family case study?

‘Don’t get me started on masturbation.’ My future self interjected.

Maybe I should’ve started journaling.

Maybe mindfulness.

Fuck it - CBT?

I just need a new bed.

Either way, the elks are demonstrating. They’ve had enough, big time.

And right now, so had I.