[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned.]
To this day I remember everything. EVERYTHING.
That is the problem with so many. Their memories are not their own or they conveniently forget all the cruelties and kindnesses done unto them. In the former case, there is the “historical crusader,” an individual who uses terror to inflict upon the present a punishment for a historical wrong, a wrong that this individual did not really live through. No, this individual merely “inherited” hatred and follows the tradition blindly, deafly, and totally obediently; most “religious” terrorists fall into this category.
In the latter case, there are two kinds of people. The first are those who have every right and reason to be outraged, who have every right and reason to externalize their rage and scars upon the world. And I do not necessarily mean a visible mark when I say “scar:” a scab that one cannot pick is infinitely more infuriating than mere damaged skin. Yet, despite all the reasons to lash out, these people choose to forget. Women, and, to a lesser extent, men, who are abused and return to their abuser fall into this category. These people would be my comrades, my unborn, invisible brothers and sisters: fruits of a gnarled and rotten family tree.
The ones who forget kindness are the worst kind of terrorist.
Maybe my life could have been different – BUT I DID NOT WANT TO BE DIFFERENT.