The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

“Character is fate.” And if Heracleitus is right, then the tragedy that awaited us in a few hours was a direct consequence of our characters—of who we were. Correct? So, if who you are determines what happens to you, then the real question becomes: What determines who you are? What determines your character? The answer, it seems to me, is that my entire personality—all my values, and opinions about how to get on in the world, succeed, or be happy, can be traced directly back to the shadowy, forgotten world of my childhood, where my character was forged by all the things I learned to conform to; or even rebel against—but was nonetheless defined by.

The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am.

I thought I had left him behind me, years ago. I thought I was running my life. But I was wrong. I was still being run by a frightened child. A child who couldn’t tell the difference between the present and the past—and, like an unwitting time traveler, was forever stumbling between them.

“Our motivation is to remove pain.”

Lana was in so much pain that night—it caused me distress just to witness it. And my misguided attempt to alleviate her suffering—and my own—was my intention. And my goal? To help Lana, of course. Did I succeed? Well, that’s where theater diverges from reality, sadly.

Lana was clearly something more than a saint. A martyr, perhaps?

That’s my story, in a nutshell. A tale of beautiful, well-intentioned failure—ending in death. Which is a pretty good metaphor for life, isn’t it?

That’s where all creativity is born, I believe—in the desire to escape.