The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

Can anyone pinpoint that precise moment when love turns to hate? Everything ends, I know that. Especially happiness. Especially love.

Love, it seems, is deaf as well as blind.

I often think life is just a performance. None of this is real. It’s a pretense at reality, that’s all. Only when someone, or something, we love dies, do we wake up from the play—and see how artificial it all is—this constructed reality we inhabit.

“Screw another woman, fine,” she would say. “But take her out for dinner, hold her hand, tell her your hopes and dreams—then you’ve screwed me.”