This was the prologue of my first book. The book that was about to launch me into the literary scene of my country overnight. The book that had found itself from the very first days of its release at the top of the sales charts in Germany – a position it held effortlessly for months – and of course the book in which Polizeioberkommissar* König**, or otherwise known as the King, was born. The one who made me and the one who destroyed me a few years later. I had not imagined this prologue. I had seen it with my own eyes. I was there, at the Oberzendling metro station, present from a safe distance in the whole scene, knowing that at any moment I wanted, I could take control of the situation, I could wake up, that is. This always happened in my dreams. Or rather in my nightmares. I had control, I knew I was dreaming and that I could interrupt them whenever I wanted, whenever I could no longer bear it. Perhaps, however, this was also the reason why in practice I never interrupted them. I saw them in full, feeling paralyzed by terror and horror, but I never gave myself the favor of waking up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night screaming, as most people probably did when they had nightmares. It was this possibility of avoidance, the "emergency exit" that ultimately urged me to remain and endure combined with the fact that in these dreams I always had the role of the observer. The one who saw and recorded everything, who felt the despair, the fear, the pain, the emptiness… of others. Always of others. Never his own.
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