The Fury(17)

My therapist was called Mariana. She had inquisitive dark eyes, long, wavy dark hair—I think she might have been Greek, or half-Greek. She was wise and very kind, for the most part. But she could be brutal, too.

I remember once she said something chilling—it messed up my head for a long time. Looking back, I think it changed my entire life.

“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.”

I must have looked dubious because Mariana delivered the killer blow directly to me:

“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.

But I heard it. I heard it loud and clear.

A terrified child trapped inside my mind. A child who won’t go away.

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.

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.

Mariana was right: I had better take the kid out of my head—and sit him on my lap, instead.

It would be much safer for both of us.



* * *



Character is fate. Remember that, for later.

Remember the kid, too.

And I don’t just mean the kid in me, but the kid in you.

“I know telling you to love yourself is a big ask,” Mariana used to say. “But learning to love, or, at least, have compassion for, the child you once were, is a big step in the right direction.”

You might laugh at that. You might roll your eyes. You might think it sounds Californian, and self-indulgent, full of self-pity. You may say you’re made of stronger stuff. Possibly, you are. But let me tell you something, my friend: self-derision is merely a defense against feeling pain. If you laugh at yourself, how will you ever take yourself seriously? How will you ever feel everything you went through?

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, it’s impossible for you to feel hatred. Compassion arises, and—

You’re such a hypocrite, Elliot. Such a damn liar.

That’s what Lana would say, right now—if she were looking over my shoulder, reading this. She’d laugh—and call me out on my bullshit:

What about Jason? Lana would say. Where’s your compassion for him?

Good point. Where is my compassion for Jason?

Have I been unfair? Misrepresenting him? Twisting the truth, deliberately making him unlikable?

Possibly. I suspect my empathy for Jason will forever be limited. I can’t see beyond his terrible actions. I can’t see into the heart of the man—all the things he endured as a kid; the bad things, the indignities; the cruelties that made him believe the only way to succeed in life was to be selfish, ruthless, a liar, and a cheat.

That’s what Jason thought being a man was. But Jason wasn’t a man.

He was just a kid, playing make-believe.

And kids shouldn’t play with guns.





13





Bang, bang, bang.

I woke up with a fright. What the hell was that noise?

It sounded like gunfire. What time was it? I checked my watch. Ten A.M.

Another gunshot.

I sat up in bed, alarmed. Then I heard Jason outside, swearing with annoyance, as he missed yet another bird.

It was Jason, hunting, that’s all.

I sank back in bed with a groan. Jesus, I thought. What a way to wake up.

And so, we come to the day of the murder.

What can I say about that terrible day? Truthfully, if I had known how it would end, and the horrors it would bring, I would never have got out of bed.

As it was, I must confess that I slept soundly, troubled by no bad dreams, no premonitions of what lay in wait.

I always slept well on Aura. The island was so quiet. So peaceful. No drunks or garbage trucks to disturb your sleep. No, it took Jason, with a gun, to do that.