Chapter 18 - Night Flight
He was at an utter loss. "...Who can tell me...what I'm supposed to do now?"
Other people had always come to him, asking what they should do. Now, he was the one asking. And no one could give him an answer.
A Killer
All this time, he’s made sure to stay between me and the door, blocking
my escape. But now, it doesn’t matter because I finally hear what I’ve been
waiting for since I let out that scream: footsteps pounding through the hall,
over the flagstones. Distant still, but I can feel the vibrations. And through
the walls, I hear Raphael’s muffled voice calling my name.
The intruder doesn’t even turn around. Does he not hear Raphael? But
then I hear him whispering again. And the mist rises around the door.
He lets out his eerie laugh as I stare in horror, realizing what’s about to
happen.
Raphael will barge through that door, straight into the mist. It will kill
him in seconds.
I let my fury course through me and summon my magic to disable the
mist, except this time, the mage is ready for it. Before I can snuff out the
power of the mist, he slices at me, forcing me to jump back, breaking my
focus. The mist rises all around the door, shimmering in its unearthly colors.
“Nia!” Raphael cries, closer now.
I gather my powers, and the mage lunges again. I dodge, his blade
whispering inches away from my throat, my concentration disrupted.
“Nia, I’m coming!” Raphael calls outside the door.
I tug at my power for the third time. The mage strikes once more. This
time, I ignore his attack, flinging my magic at the mist.
The hum stops, the veil mist flickering.
The mage’s scimitar sinks into my stomach, and searing agony spreads
through my body as the blade plunges in. I try to scream, but I can’t. I make
a strangled sound as the mage rips his scimitar from my gut. The door
Reklam
A flashback to our chapter's tragic opening scene, only this time set in a parallel universe where my trauma imprints don't rule the day: The plane lands and Rae's text pops up on my screen. "Hmm, that's not what I expected," I say to myself. "But I get it: she's probably immersed in her painting. Nothing new there, nor anything personal. Actually, I can empathize: How many times have I gotten so absorbed in work that the clock got away from me? Okay, taxi it is." I might well notice some disappointed feelings, in which case I allow myself to feel them until they pass; in effect, I choose vulnerability over victimhood. Arriving home, there is no upset, no emotional detaching, no sulking-maybe some gentle teasing, but all within the bounds of loving humor and with affinity intact.
I would have thus exhibited what is called response flexibility: the ability to choose how we address life's inevitable ups and downs, its disappointments, triumphs, and challenges. "Human freedom involves our capacity to pause between stimulus and response and, in that pause, to choose the one response toward which we wish to throw our weight," wrote the psychologist Rollo May. Trauma robs us of that freedom.
“Falling right into this manuscript,” I write in the caption. “Blocking out the negativity, because when you’re a writer, all that matters is the story within. We’re overdue for the next chapter. I can’t wait to share this one with you all.”
When people like our post-structuralist anarchist found themselves becoming the footsoldiers of democracy, monitoring the voting and counting process, they immediately smelled something fishy. Or rather, something oniony. It was a strong and horrible smell, one they may have felt they couldn’t bear, but had to. By the end of this chapter, and hopefully before your own country has to endure a similar stink, you’ll understand why the smell of onions is such an integral part of democracy. If you cannot tolerate their smell, then you may be in danger of losing the lesser of two evils – the imperfect democracy-establishment-state triumvirate – to an authoritarian regime.
Fourth Estate
Chapter 6 - Visitors
"I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
Reklam
Reklam