The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

If anything, it’s a whydunit—a character study, an examination of who we are; and why we do the things we do.

And before you accuse me of telling my story in a labyrinthine manner, let me remind you this is a true story—and in real life, that’s how we communicate, isn’t it? We’re all over the place: we jump back and forth in time; slow down and expand on some moments; fast-forward through others; editing as we go, minimizing flaws and maximizing assets. We are all the unreliable narrators of our own lives.

The friends we make when young are rarely the kind of people we seek out later in life. The length of time we have known them accords them a kind of nostalgia in our eyes, if you will; an indulgence; a “free pass” in our lives.

It’s like falling in love, isn’t it, when you make a new friend?

Agathi’s grandmother used to call the Aegean wind to menos, which means “the fury” in English.

Average looks, I’d say. Some have described me as handsome; but I don’t think of myself that way at all—unless I’m in good lighting.

do not despair at being different. For that very difference, initially such a source of shame, so humiliating, and painful, will one day become a badge of honor and pride.

Forgive me, I’ve become such a cynic. I used to be so idealistic when young—romantic, even. I used to believe that love lasted forever. Now, I don’t. Now, I know only this for sure—the first half of life is pure selfishness; the second half, all grief.

Which comes first—character or fate? This is the central question in any tragedy. What takes precedence—free will or destiny?

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. That’s why, these days, I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?

“When we are young,” Mariana said, “and afraid—when we are shamed, and humiliated—something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age—forever.” “Trapped where?” asked Liz, one of the group. “Trapped here.” Mariana tapped the side of her head. “A frightened child is hiding in your mind—still unsafe; still unheard and unloved. And the sooner you get in touch with that

child and learn to communicate with them, the more harmonious your life will be.”

“After all, that’s what he grew you for, isn’t it, Elliot? A strong adult body, to look after him and his interests? To take care of him, protect him? You were meant to liberate him—but ended up becoming his jailer.” Strange, that. Hearing a truth you’ve always known, in your heart, but never put into words. Then one day, someone comes along and spells it out for you—This is your life—here it is, take a look. Whether you hear it is up to you.

Suddenly it all made sense. All the uneasy feelings I experienced on the street, or in social situations, or if I had to disagree with someone, or assert myself—the queasiness in my stomach, fear of eye contact—this had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with the here and now. They were old feelings that were displaced in time. They belonged to a little boy long ago, who was once so afraid, under attack, and unable to defend himself.

Once I saw the kid in me, I started seeing kids in other people—all dressed as adults, playacting at being grown-up. But I saw through the performances now, to the frightened children beneath. And when you think of someone as a child,

Beautiful is the word. Arriving at Mykonos at night is an enchanting, almost hallucinatory experience. As you approach, the island sparkles with shimmering white lights, illuminating the white-domed buildings that rise and fall along the curves of the hills.

Both theater and reality, said Mr. Levy, came down to just three words—motivation; intention; and goal.

Love isn’t affairs and lying and sneaking around.”

“Deep breath, shoulders down, big smile”—that was the mantra Otto taught her to recite to herself before an audition. It served Lana well now.

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.

Human beings are complex creatures, with shades of light and dark operating in all of us.

“Of course, I don’t know—but I think it’ll get darker before it gets lighter.” Mariana meant this metaphorically, referring to the process of therapy. She was right: things do get darker before they get lighter; before the therapeutic dawn.

I made a promise to the kid, there and then. A pledge, a commitment—call it what you will. From now on, I would listen to him, I would look after him. He wasn’t ugly, or stupid, or worthless. Or unloved. He was loved, for Christ’s sake—I loved him.

From now on, I would be the parent he needed—too late, I know, but better late than never. And this time, I’d bring him up properly. As I walked, I glanced down—and there he was, the little boy, walking by my side. He was struggling to keep up, so I slowed down. I reached out and held his hand. It’s okay, I whispered. Everything’s okay now. I’m here. You’re safe, I promise.

Lana felt so powerful now, rising like a phoenix from the ashes. Strong and fearless. Alone, but not afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of. She felt … what—what was this feeling? Joyful? Yes, joy. She felt full of joy.

I was dissatisfied with the reality I was forced to endure. So, in my imagination, I created a new one. That’s where all creativity is born, I believe—in the desire to escape.