her spirit. She does not think like a fighter. She does not know how to equip herself, how to take advantage of her surroundings in order to dominate her opponents. If she were thinking like a predator, she’d be attempting to break out of here—she would’ve used dinner as an opportunity to kill or disarm as many of my men as possible. She would not have sat at a table laden with food, refusing to speak, refusing to eat, refusing to answer my questions, as though she were a wounded little girl mortally offended to be ordered to eat her vegetables and wear a pretty dress to dinner.
She is, in a word, harmless.
I’ve only known her for less than one day, so I hope my later observations will prove these early hypotheses wrong, but it seems abundantly clear that she has no idea what she’s capable of. So much so, in fact, that I’m confused as to how she even got to this point. She is no more of a danger to society than a pair of scissors locked in a drawer. How could her parents look at her in fear? How could they—why would they—give her up to the authorities? How could the doctors not see that she is probably more afraid of herself than they are? She has been outrageously wronged in her life. Misjudged. Mistreated. Locked away and labeled insane for no reason. She may have killed that little boy, but even I can see now that it was very likely an accident. I tested her—I gave her an opportunity to embrace her true nature, to be the terror she’s accused of being, and instead she stood screaming in front of me, tears streaming down her face, looking like the pain she’s been carrying might actually kill her—
I’m surprised by my reaction to her.
Surprised that my hands shake just a bit as I type this, that I want to give in to my own rage, this blind anger I feel in knowing that there’s been a great injustice done to her. She is so innocent. So small. But I see the hurt, the pain simmering just under the surface of her skin, this fierce stubbornness that gives me hope. In time, I’m sure I can coax the emotion out of her. I can help her. She can be so much more than what they’ve done to her. Years of abuse and neglect and unfounded cruelty created this cowering girl, but I can attempt to undo the damage. It will be more work than I had anticipated, but I think in the end it will be worth it. She has so much potential—such tremendous, extraordinary power she’s unaware of—and I will teach her how to use it. She’s been wronged by the world, and the anger she undoubtedly feels (and that I will endeavor to provoke out of her) will be the fuel she’ll require in order to fight back, to exact revenge in a satisfying manner. She will be perfect, and perfectly suited to my needs. I know it.
But I have a lot of work to do.
Copyright
Destroy Me
Copyright © 2012 by Tahereh Mafi
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Epub Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780062208194
FIRST EDITION
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