The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

It wasn’t just that the caretaker would have to endure an isolated and lonely life. There was also a myth—a local ghost story—that the island had been haunted since Roman times. It was considered bad luck to set foot on the island, let alone live there. A superstitious lot, these Mykonians.

Agathi’s grandmother used to call the Aegean wind to menos, which means “the fury” in English. The island also has a name, by the way. The island was named Aura, after the Greek goddess of the “morning air” or the “breeze.” A pretty name, which belied the ferocity of the wind, and of the goddess herself.

The reality is, these days, I am proud to be different—I thank God I am. And even when I was a child, and full of self-loathing, I sensed another world was out there. A better world, where I might belong. A brighter world—beyond the darkness, lit by spotlights.

Her grandmother had been rumored to be a witch.

Now, I know only this for sure—the first half of life is pure selfishness; the second half, all grief.

Character is fate. Remember that, for later.

“I love that scarf you’re wearing. Such a deep red.” “It’s a shawl.” Kate threw it over her shoulder, contemptuously, then told a long, grandiose story about how the shawl was made for her by an orphan she sponsored in Bangladesh, to thank Kate for putting her through school.

It is not unnatural that the best writers are liars. A major part of their trade is to lie or invent and they will lie when they are drunk, or to themselves, or to strangers. —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

Which reminds me of something Tennessee Williams used to say. His writing advice to aspiring dramatists: Don’t be boring, baby, he’d say. Do whatever it takes to keep the thing going. Blow up a bomb onstage, if you have to. But don’t be boring. Okay, baby—so here comes that bomb.

I wish I could end the story there. Smashing ending, isn’t it? It has everything you need: a man, a woman, a gun, a beach, moonlight. Hollywood would love it. But I can’t end the story like that.