Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Shit,” he breathes, just now realising that he almost killed the both of us.
The aftershock makes me lash out. “You see! You can’t fucking help yourself. You’re so reckless. We both nearly got knocked down!”
“I’m sorry, Lana. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please, let’s just go home and talk.”
Scrambling to my feet, I hold my hand out in warning for him to keep his distance. “Don’t, Robert. Just stop, okay?”
His sad eyes momentarily make me wish the truck had hit us. At least then we’d both be put out of our misery. He remains sitting there on the path as I walk away, finally getting safely over the road and heading home.
In the morning I wake up early and have this urgency in my gut to get out of the house. I heard Sasha and Robert return at around one, but neither of them came into my room. I guess Robert must have already explained to Sasha why I left. I can’t imagine how awful he’s feeling. Actually I can, because I’m feeling it, too.
It will fade.
It has to fade.
I get dressed and pack a bag for the day, planning on staying out for as long as possible.
I spend a long time in the British Museum, staring at a picture of Medea and thinking about how her husband Jason left her for the princess Glauce. As revenge, Medea killed Glauce by sending her the gift of a dress covered in poison. Then she murdered her and Jason’s two children. I always used to wonder how Medea could be so callous, having never felt the need to be callous myself. But now I can understand it. I might not condone what she did, but I get why she did it. I feel callous by the simple act of withholding my love from Robert.
Callous and selfish, but oh, so very desperate to survive.
There’s always a reason for cruelty, no matter how big or how small.
After lunch I walk to Speaker’s Corner, happy to see Fareed standing in his usual spot, smoking a cigarette this time instead of a cigar. He nods to me in greeting, but we don’t converse. Perhaps he sees the look of contemplation on my face, a look that shows I’m thinking deep, dark thoughts.
There’s a lull in the people debating, a quietness permeated only by soft mutterings and chat. Within this quietness I see an opening, an outlet for the thoughts that fill my head. If I don’t get them out, I feel like I’ll burst. Like an out-of-body experience, I step in front of the gathering and begin to speak, my voice low and unsure.
“I – I want to talk about cruelty.” Glancing around warily, I wonder if anyone will even listen to what I have to say. Coughing to clear my throat, I go on, “The casual kind you commit every day in small doses but don’t really think about, and the more serious kind, the kind you obsess over, plan in your head to the point of madness. Sometimes cruelty can be careless. Like a suicide bomber or a shooter, you plan it out, convince yourself that your reasons are noble and worthy. But then, quite ironically, after all the agonising and planning, the way you dish it out is random.
“You walk into a crowd of people you don’t even know and hit the ‘detonate’ button, or you spray and pray, not caring who you hit – just so long as you hit someone. All the political and religious causes in the world are nothing compared to the need to get your own feelings out from underneath your skin, where it feels like they’ll eat you alive if you don’t do something to appease them.” I pause, glancing around wide-eyed to find that I have the attention of at least thirty or forty people. Fareed looks at me, intrigued, and continues puffing on his cigarette. Taking a deep breath, I continue.
“Cruelty is seldom forgotten. You feel it as a child. Somebody takes away your toy or thoughtlessly kicks over your sand castle. A beautiful boy walks into your life, sees something he doesn’t like or doesn’t understand, and painstakingly endeavours to make you feel how much he hates you, to be constantly aware of the flaws that provoke that hatred. And then you grow older and wiser, but you don’t forget the cruelty. You can’t forget it, because there is nothing stronger, nothing more palpable in the human brain than the memory of mistreatment. The feeling of denigration set upon you by another. You fixate on that person, question the reason why they act the way they do. Is the reason big, or is the reason small? Like, maybe they just don’t like your hair or the set of your mouth. Or maybe you are so very imperfect that they simply can’t ignore you — they have to set out to make you see all those little imperfections in bright and vivid detail.
“This is why cruelty is hard to forgive. Those memories that you hold onto like a brick tied to your wrist, constantly dragging you down, tell you that you can’t let it go. You cannot and should not forgive the person who wronged you, because if they can do it once, they’ll do it again, right? They can’t change the fundamental aspects of their personality. But then doubt sets in. You compare the child who was cruel to the grown-up who seemingly isn’t, and you ask, have they changed? Was it all just juvenile stupidity? Have they evolved into a person who deserves to be forgiven?
“And then you realise that cruelty is the symptom of a deeper cause. It makes you want to show forgiveness, because there was a reason why that boy mistreated you. He was lost and confused, the child of a broken home, mistreated himself by a father who taught him a bad value system. He didn’t know how to deal with the feelings inside him, so he lashed out.
“Or maybe you’re a girl who sees that your father will never accept the truth behind the façade you put up, and so you hide, living a lie under the cruelty of a parent who simply can’t open their mind and give you the acceptance you deserve. You could be a pop star who’s shot to fame, living the life you dreamed about, but then you realise that the reality doesn’t match the dream. You see that there are sharks in the waters you tread, and they are waiting for you to bleed just one drop of blood, show just one tiny flaw, so they can dive in for the kill. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re a woman who’s had something stolen from you, something that could ruin you if it’s revealed to the world. So you become crazed in your quest to get it back, breaking the law and hurting others in the process.