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Faith consists in believing what reason cannot. VOLTAIRE, THE WORKS
I’m not intentionally funny. Snide and mocking, yes. Smug and egotistical? Oh, fucking absolutely. I’ve earned my notorious reputation.
“But, it’s not what a man writes when he’s had time to form and censor his thoughts. It’s what he says, that which can be swept away by a sudden wind and questioned if it ever existed.”
Moving on, I point to a twenty-something guy in an expensive, stylish button-down in the front row. “What does this mean to you?” His smile is cocky. He reminds me of myself ten years ago, and I have no doubt he’ll say something witty to get a reaction from the other students. “That I wasted a lot of money on textbooks for this course?” he says. On cue, laughter circles the hall, and I praise his cleverness with a wry smile. “Your wardrobe states your parents can afford it.”
While in Cairo, I had cemented my viewpoint. I won’t be swayed. What I found in Egypt wasn’t divine inspiration or insight to a profound wisdom. It was nothing rousing or enlightening at all. It was the damn simplicity of how tragically basic we are. Upon that realization, I decided there is a difference between pondering life and living it.
“Light cannot exist without the dark. Good cannot exist without evil. The totality. Ergo, peace cannot exist without violence.”
He’s referring to the rumors of my interest in the dark arts. Particularly, chaos magick. I had more than one revelation in Egypt.
“What a douchebag,” Ryder says as he hands me the laptop. “Professional rivalry keeps you sharp.” I pat him on the shoulder. “You’ll know you’ve made it in academia when you get your very own douchebag to heckle your lectures.” His tight smile holds a menacing weight. “Not sure how you didn’t punch him,” he says. “I would have. I like the concept of taking it back to our primitive roots.” I sling the leather strap over my shoulder. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” I halt at the door to say, “But if you do, record it and send it to me.”
I’m proof of this. A beautiful creation fashioned by the sharpest blade of violent cruelty. When my muse does arrive, she will come to me in this same, beautifully violent way.
“It’s heated glances and charged near touches. It’s cruel words and fiery tempers. It’s instant chemical attraction across a quad when you make that first real connection, when you feel the center of gravity shift…and you know nothing will ever be the same again.”
“I want you,” he says, as relentless as the storm. “All of you. Your sexy as fuck body that drives me right out of my goddamn senses. Your intellectual mind, rational and logical to a frightening degree, but so fucking brilliant everyone else around you pales miserably by comparison. Your beautifully broken soul, so immersed in anguish it chokes me—” he swallows hard “—but I relish the pain. I’m begging for it, because the sweetest taste of you soothes the burn, and it’s fucking euphoric.”
“The villain only becomes such after he’s lost that which he cannot live without,” he says. “I’m in no need of a metamorphosis. I refuse to lose you.”
If she keeps stroking my ego like this, she’ll force me to show her how rewarding I can be when she gets something right.
“Maybe you just need something rousing to stir your soul.”
“You pay attention. Quite the studious student.” “No, you just like to hear yourself talk, so you talk a lot.” “Hmm.” I bury my hands in my pockets, curbing dark urges. “There are plenty of sounds I prefer to hear that only your lovely voice can deliver.”
It’s a scary thought that you can’t trust your own past. As the mind wasn’t meant to hold on to every memory, it’s the most damaging ones our brains will obsess over, never letting us forget. Those painful memories define and shape our existence. Then there are the memories so shattering the psyche has to purge them or risk being damaged beyond repair. It’s a defense mechanism. The mind constructs and alters memories to protect us.
“You told me before that Voltaire is the philosopher you would have chosen for me.” My hands grip either side of the stool, holding me back. She glances at the marred skin of her tattoo, at the black thread stitched into her flesh, before lifting her gaze. “But what if you’re the philosopher I want branded on my skin, Kallum.” Whatever restraint I held shatters.
“Then unlock me, Kallum. Unravel me. I don’t want to be blind anymore. I want to see.”
