The Nature of Cruelty

by L.H. Cosway

  I reach forward and grab the camera out of his hands.

  “What are you playing at?” I snap.

  He looks at me like I’m the lunatic. “Calm down. I was only taking some pictures,” he tries to reassure me. I am not reassured.

  Furrowing my brow, I shuffle away from him and try to figure out how to find the shots he took. I’ve only ever used cheap digital cameras in the past, so this one’s a little more difficult to get to grips with. It must have cost at least a couple grand.

  Robert sits there, not even trying to take the camera back from me, like he wants me to see his handiwork. Finally, I get to them. The first one looks like it was taken from up high. His bedroom window, maybe? The next one is closer up, so I presume it was taken out here in the garden. It’s after this that things start to get a bit…weird.

  There are a dozen more shots, but they’re all of tiny parts of me: my wrist, a lock of hair lying against my chest, my ankle, my lips, eyelashes, a mole just below my knee. With shaking hands I set the camera slowly down on the blanket before raising my eyes to meet Robert’s. He’s staring at me expectantly. He doesn’t seem embarrassed, not at all.

  “Why do you take pictures like that?” I whisper.

  “Because I like to.”

  “They’re…disturbing, Robert.”

  His face simmers with a touch of anger as he says, “They’re beautiful.”

  I laugh joylessly. “They make it look like you want to chop me up into little pieces.”

  He looks at me like I’m being ridiculous.

  “What?” I exclaim. “They do. Please say something to prove me wrong, because I’m kind of freaking out right now.”

  “I like photography. It’s a hobby. Taking pictures relaxes me. Lots of photographers like to focus on small details, Lana. You wouldn’t think it was weird if I had a closeup of a flower or a blade of grass, would you?”

  “No, but that’s different.”

  “It’s not different at all. Some people photograph nature, some do cityscapes. I photograph bodies. Well, female bodies, to be exact.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. I get it. There’s just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Please take your pictures of somebody else. I don’t want you photographing me anymore.”

  “But you’re the only person I want to photograph.”

  We stare at each other for several tension-filled seconds before I cough and gather my wits. “Well, I’m sorry about that, but no more. I’m not comfortable with it.”

  I pick the camera back up in my hand. I don’t know why, but I flick past the other pictures he took, the ones on the beach, and I gasp. There are more of me. Pictures he took when I didn’t even know he was around. All through the past week we’ve been living together: me eating an apple, me sitting on the couch looking down at my hands, me in the garden watering some flowers, and on and on it goes. I don’t know how he managed to take all these without me realising, but I’m guessing it took a fair amount of creeping. A shiver permeates my body.

  Glancing up at him, I see that his eyes are alight with interest. He’s sucking in my reactions like he needs them more than air.

  “I don’t…” I whisper and trail off. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Robert scratches at his neck. “You’ve, um, become something of a muse.”

  “That – that certainly seems to be the case,” I agree, my voice shaky.

  Oh. God. There are pictures in here of me sleeping. He came into my room without permission – at night. Jesus.

  I drop the camera onto the blanket. My stomach twists and turns in distress. I always dreamed of a world where Robert was interested in me. Now that dream has come true, and it’s not at all like what I expected. I feel ill.

  “You need help, do you know that?” I say, confronting him. I pick up my book and get to my feet.

  “I’m not going to show them to anyone,” he replies, as if that makes it all better.

  His statement outrages me. I fling my dog-eared book at him in sheer disbelief. It smacks off his shoulder and then falls to the grass. “You’ve got problems. Just don’t talk to me anymore, Robert. Don’t even breathe in my direction for the rest of the time I’m here. And absolutely no more pictures!”

  At this I think of something. I dash to pick the camera up from the blanket.

  “What are you doing?” he asks urgently, his voice suspicious.

  As quick as I can, I select all of the pictures saved in his camera. I don’t have enough time to only select the ones of me, so I have to delete all of them. For some reason, a slight twinge of guilt twists in me, because even though I’m only getting rid of pictures he took without my permission, violating my privacy, it feels like I’m destroying his art. I push that thought away quickly. It’s not art. It’s voyeurism at most.

  He grabs the camera from me now, suddenly realising what I’ve done.

  “You deleted them all,” he whispers in disbelief, scrolling up and down as though that might make them reappear.

  Tears spring to my eyes. “Yes, and I had every right to.”

  His face contorts with suppressed anger. “You had no right,” he grits, his jaw working. “For fuck’s sake, I hadn’t even saved them properly to my computer yet, Lana!”

  “I had to get rid of them. You took pictures of me sleeping, Robert. That’s not healthy.” My momentary outrage dissolves, and now I just feel guilty. “I’m sorry, but you can’t keep those kinds of pictures of me. You…you just can’t.”

  He stomps right up to me and takes me by the shoulders harshly. His stare is so intense that I don’t know if he’s going to kiss me or smack me. In the end he doesn’t do either. He lets go and brushes harshly past me, stalking into the house.

  I’m left standing in the bright, sunny garden, while my heart falls into a dark, perturbed place.

  Interlude II – Robert

  September 2004.

  The first day back at school is always exciting. I’m just home from spending the summer at my dad’s. Turns out, living in Ireland wasn’t as atrocious as I expected it to be. It’s definitely different, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. For instance, back in London we’d steal booze from our parents’ drinks cabinet and go get pissed on some street corner. In Ireland we get someone’s older brother or sister to buy it for us, and then we’ll go drink it on the beach or in the middle of a farmer’s field before stealing a car and going joyriding around the countryside.

  I’m basically the king of the guys in my class. They all look up to me like I’m some sort of god of cool. I think having an accent works to my advantage. It makes me exotic to the kids here, someone to emulate.

  Today is not only exciting because it’s the first day back, it’s also exciting because it’s Lana’s first day. Sasha and I are two years ahead of her, so we’ve never attended the same school before.

  It’s sort of a big deal when a new girl starts here, since it was “boys only” up until a few years ago, having originally been an all-boys boarding school, so there’s a distinct lack of females. I haven’t seen my little redhead all summer, and I’m eagerly anticipating encountering her in the halls or at lunch.

  My initial hatred has died down. I no longer blame her for being a friend to Sasha when I needed my sister to be friendless. Now I’ve developed a new feeling for her. It’s something perverse that I can’t quite explain. I enjoy making her miserable…seeing the ghost of pain flicker in her pretty blue eyes.

  It’s kind of sadistic, but what the hell, maybe I’m a sadist. All I know is that I live for being around her, for being able to hurt her emotionally. It’s like verbal foreplay. Something in my psyche must be malformed, because if there’s a button in front of me, I’m going to push it. And if anyone’s the human equivalent of a button for me, it’s Lana.

  Sometimes she seems so unaffected, yet I can tell I’m getting to her on a deeper level. She never
lets it show on the surface. Like a little stoic warrior, she doesn’t give me the outburst that I crave. Perhaps that’s what drives me. I have to keep doing it until she finally cracks.

  The signs are minuscule, but after two years I’ve learned to recognise them. When I’ve hit a sore spot, her eyes get huge and her nostrils twitch. It’s adorable.

  The sick thing is, I think I might be in love with her.

  I know, I know. What right does a sixteen-year-old have talking about love? Perhaps it’s just obsession. Mum says I’m far too intense for my age. I mean, if this is how I treat the people I love, then how on earth do I treat the people I hate? I think about this sort of stuff a lot. When you live in the back arse of nowhere, you have a lot of time to think.

  Funnily enough, Mum also says I think too much.

  When it comes down to it, though, it’s really just all about Lana. Somehow our relationship has evolved into this unhealthy cycle of me being a dick and her taking it.

  I crave our interaction like a drug.

  Since we’ve been apart for three whole months, I’m in desperate need of a fix.

  Class doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes, and I’m sitting on the grass with my mates Dean and Liam, loosening the tie that my mum made me put on before I left the house this morning. Oh, yeah, there’s another difference between my school here and the one I went to in London — we have to wear uniforms. Ugh.

  I see Sasha and Lana approach the school gates, and my heart speeds up. Sasha’s over the moon to have her best buddy back after our summer away. She’s got her elbow resting on Lana’s shoulder as they walk along, reciting some big story, probably about how our dad’s a bastard and she hates him.

  They fought more than ever this summer. I can’t count the number of occasions where he’d say something to piss her off and she’d pull a strop. There were lots of feet stomping up stairs and bedroom doors being slammed shut. Now Sasha’s going through a Goth phase; black hair dye and matching nail polish are her new favourite things.

  I’m so fucking jealous of my sister, my skin crawls with it. She doesn’t realise how lucky she is. I hate that she gets to spend every waking hour with Lana. I hate that she gets to touch her, gets to make her smile, gets to comfort her after I’ve been an arsehole.

  I jump up from the grass.

  “Where are you off to?” Dean calls after me.

  “I have to talk to my sister,” I answer. “Be right back.”

  “Oh, in that case tell her I want a blowjob,” he says, giving Liam a high-five.

  “You’ve got more chance of giving yourself one,” I bite back.

  Sasha and Lana are just walking by the wall surrounding the school when I get close to them. “Tampon! Welcome! Step inside my office,” I say with a flourish.

  “Fuck off, you don’t own the school,” Sasha hisses, giving me the finger as she saunters past. Lana’s eyes get all wide before she quickly looks away from me, studying her feet. In this moment I realise how desperately I’ve missed her. I want to pick her up and squeeze her tightly to my chest. Breathe in her scent. Kiss her all over. That would be the normal thing to do to the girl you like. Unfortunately, I’ve never been normal.

  She’s so shy, she clearly hasn’t been kissed before in her life, and that pleases me far more than it should. I situate myself in front of her. Some girls have run up to Sasha, asking her about her summer and her new Goth look, so her attention is diverted for the moment.

  Lana stops walking and breathes deeply. Her posture is tense but resigned. She’s waiting for me to strike. Like she expects it and is fully prepared to soldier on.

  I hate myself for needing this. Why can’t I just tell her I’ve been in love with her for two years? Why do I have to express myself in a way that completely opposes my true feelings? Perhaps I’m just emotionally stunted. A child of divorce, and all that.

  “Look at you in your big-girl uniform.” I smirk and tug on her loose sleeve. “It doesn’t even fit you properly.”

  She glances up for a second, and I suck in the connection of her eyes on mine. “My mum got me a larger size on purpose,” she practically whispers. “She says I’ll grow into it, and it’ll save us buying a new one next year.”

  Her eyes get wide again, like she’s surprised she told me that.

  God, her mum’s a fucking bitch. I mean, who does that to their kid? Making them wear an over-sized uniform for a whole year just to save money.

  “That’s stingy as fuck,” I say. I didn’t actually mean it in a bad way, I meant it in a sympathetic way. Too bad the sympathy gets lost in translation.

  Her throat moves as she swallows and makes to walk past me. I sidestep so that she can’t get by.

  “So, you do realise the boys outnumber the girls here practically ten to one.”

  “I know that,” she answers quietly.

  “Well, are you prepared to give it up? The girl drought means even you’ll probably be getting some attention.”

  I give her my best full-wattage grin.

  “Give what up?” Her brow furrows in adorable confusion. God, she’s so innocent.

  Ever since I lost my virginity last summer, I’ve been seeing girls in a whole new light. They aren’t the unknown anymore. And what I know of them is constantly in my head. I want to do the stuff I know to Lana.

  I lean in close so my lips are a whisper away from hers. Her breathing quickens, and her cheeks colour. “Your v-card,” I tell her seductively.

  She practically jumps away from me. “I’m fourteen years old,” she says in outrage and fear.

  “Age won’t keep you safe from the perverts in this school. You better get ready for a threesome at the very least, an orgy if you’re feeling adventurous.”

  It’s official. I’m a bastard.

  She narrows her eyes. “You’re lying.”

  “You wish I was lying.”

  Her face is disbelieving. “This is a school. They don’t have orgies at schools.”

  I laugh condescendingly. “Schools are the main places they have orgies.”

  Pausing, I fold my arms, appraising her with my eyes. “I tell you what — I’ll make sure the guys know you’re off limits. Call it a ‘welcome to school’ gift.”

  She stares at me, trying to figure out if I’m playing with her. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Well, there would be one or two requirements,” I allow.

  “Like what?”

  I take two steps forward so I can look down at her. “Like letting me touch you wherever, whenever I want.”

  She blinks rapidly and her eyes grow watery, but she’s stubborn. She doesn’t let the tears break free. “I hate you,” she says shakily, seething.

  I love you, I think inside my head, but I don’t voice the thought. Instead, I break out the sarcasm. “Of course you do.”

  “Lana, you coming?” Sasha calls from where she’s standing with her group of girlfriends.

  “Yes,” she answers, relieved for the opportunity to get away from me as she rushes to my sister’s side.

  Sasha gives me the evil eye from across the green, knowing I’ve been teasing Lana. I twist up my face comically and walk towards the school building just as the bell rings.

  The morning classes and lunchtime pass, and I don’t see Lana again. I’m looking around every corner, trying to spot her, but she’s nowhere. Maybe she’s avoiding me. Fuck it, she has every right to avoid me. I’ve been running high off our little encounter earlier, but still I want more.

  At the end of the day I’m standing with a group of my friends at the lockers, while this arsehole called Oisin from fifth year is bragging about how he shagged some blonde girl called Leanne, who apparently every guy at school wants to get with.

  I’ve noticed her around, but I don’t see the appeal. She wears so much makeup that there’s always this brown stain on the inside collar of her uniform. I have a curse of noticing small things about people that either entrance or disgust me. Every time Leanne
walks by me in the halls, I just fixate on that brown makeup stain. According to Oisin, she’s got a great rack, but all I ever see is the stain.

  I don’t think other people are as obsessed with little details like I am. For instance, I know that Lana has exactly twelve tiny freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. I know that her upper lip curves in the most perfect Cupid’s bow I’ve ever seen. I know that she picks at her nails when she’s nervous in groups. I know…shit, I know a lot about her.

  And now I’ve finally spotted her.

  She’s got her rucksack on her back and she’s walking down the hall in my direction, staring at the floor. I wish she didn’t always look so hunted. More importantly, I wish I didn’t get off on being the hunter.

  I nudge Dean, who’s standing beside me.

  “What?” he asks, chewing on a massive wad of gum.

  “You see that redhead girl?”

  “Yup.”

  “Trip her when she walks by.”

  “Eh, why?”

  “Just shut up and do it.”

  He looks at me like I’m being weird but gives in anyway. “Okay, then.”

  Just like clockwork he trips her when she reaches us, and I step in to save the day. I catch her in my arms before she falls down, my hands holding tightly to her small frame. Her eyes flutter as she looks around, trying to figure out how she tripped. I let my hands travel up her arms to her shoulders and then to her bare neck.

  “What – did you trip me, Robert?” she asks in a low voice, still glancing around. She’s so flustered I don’t think she even realises how intimately I’m touching her.

  “No, it was one of those pricks,” I answer, gesturing to the guys standing near us. “Hey, how about a kiss for catching you?” I ask her, pushing my luck.

  “Let go of me,” she requests calmly, her breathing slow and deep, like she’s trying to keep herself together.

  “I thought we had an agreement. I keep the horny teenage boys away from you, and you let me touch you whenever I want.”

  “There was no agreement. I never agreed to that,” she sputters, losing some of her calm. I revel in her returned fluster.