“Tell me this: have you never wanted to hit someone who’s just said something stupid? Seriously? Are you telling me you’ve never felt that way at all? I’m sure you have, whoever you are, whatever kind of life you have led until this point.”

We all have. At one point or another, if not very often then at least on one or two occasions--Donovan McAeda’s eyes said with conviction.

“I suppose you’re right, Mr. McAeda,” agreed the judge, “I’m sure we all have, truly, at one point or another.”

The presiding judge was an old man. There was with him the look of a fatherly figure, the kind of sagely old man with a life lesson always at the ready in his pocket to throw at your face unasked. Those with a notebook jotted full of one-liners to close a court session with a bang.

That sort of a pest. 

And so, in that manner from the lofty judge bench, he gazed down at Donovan all fatherly-like.

“But Mr. McAeda,” (there comes the lesson), “as an English Professor, I’m sure you already know this too well--but just feeling like doing something doesn’t necessarily mean you have to do it. The ability to ask yourself, ‘Should I really do this?’ is surely what sets humans apart from animals. The use of reason and rational thinking to keep our emotions in check, that struggle to overcome one’s savage beast and nurture the civilized parts of ours--is that not the whole point of your department? The sole function of literature?”

Donovan smiled wryly.

It might not have been a smile, rather a skewed expression one wouldn’t have been amiss to call an ugly grimace. 

Standing proudly at the defendant’s table and ignoring his lawyer’s scathing look, the man, who had gone long past the point of caring, said in defiance, “Your honor, I’m afraid you’re sorely mistaken. The point of literature is actually to teach us to be violent despite the circumstances. What does that mean? I’m afraid you would just have to open a book and start reading, instead of basing your judgments on the grandstanding quotes of people smarter than you.”

“The point of literature is violence, I see. Is that the reason,” the judge adjusted his reading glasses, eyes narrowing on a document before him, “behind your seven charges of assaults during your time in the English Department? Could it be for this philosophy of yours that on seven occasions you have hit, slapped, kicked, and suplexed your students? For telling a joke, for suggesting changes in teaching materials, for writing...let’s see...a subpar essay? And the latest case, for which this court is being held, for showing you a tk tk video? Mr. McAeda, these are not convincing reasons to assault your students--these are no reasons to assault anyone.”

“My reasons are convincing to me, your honor. Surely that should be more than enough. Just as you’re self-convinced of the loveliness of your own voice, I suppose. Consequently, I have even less interest in your opinions regarding legal matters than what cliched bullshit you have to say about my field. Do we have an understanding?”

Of course he was more than aware that said legal matters were the whole point of this court session.

But who cares anymore. 

In the first place, everything about this was utterly pointless. The outcome had already been decided long before he had set foot into this courtroom.

The judge frowned, as though for a moment considering another comeback, but then wisely chose to ignore the blatant provocation. He reached for his gavel. “If that’s all you have to say, I see no reason to amend your sentence at this point, Mr. McAeda. Six months’ custody and restraining order from ever entering a campus ground again. That is all. This court is adjourned.”

As soon as he pronounced this, but just before he could land the wooden mallet fatally on Donovan’s academic career, a young man came up from behind the judge out of nowhere. And it was really out of nowhere. Until then he had been part of the furniture, despite being neither a court official nor allowed to approach the judge during the proceedings.

True, there was an unassuming air about him, another well-groomed man in black a dime a dozen in such a setting, but that was not why everyone in the room, even those in charge of security, had ignored him. 

He had been invisible because nobody had wanted nor dared to look.

This man whispered a few brief words in the judge’s ears, then just as quickly withdrew to the back, becoming once more an innocuous part of the backdrop.

In the following three and half seconds (as Donovan patiently counted), the fatherly old judge went on to stare at a certain someone in the audience.

There weren’t that many people there to begin with, mostly the employees of Donovan’s family and sundries, but Donovan didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. 

The identity of the person on the receiving end of that stare was an open secret to every single person in the room.

“Well... let’s see,” at long last the judge stammered, sweat beaded on his wrinkled forehead, “I have been reminded, very timely, of course, of your circumstance. How do I put this... You are yet young, very young, Mr. McAeda, and we all make mistakes when we’re young, don’t we? To add, so young and already a professor for a reputed academy! And weren’t you originally a mathematician too? Ha! A celebrated mathematician teaching English! Now that’s what you call a genius! A prodigy? Or are you too old for that title, haha...”

The old man, so composed and self-assured only a minute before, was now making not a lick of sense. He was rambling like a madman, sweating, trembling, almost verging on a comical display.

Not that anyone laughed. Not even a silent murmur was raised in the courtroom.

Forget bizarre, it was utterly absurd. One struggled to guess how someone at his age could behave in that manner at all, let alone someone in his office.

And yet every single person in that courtroom knew and comprehended exactly what, or had expected it in some manner.

The judge was one of those few blissfully unaware up until a minute ago.

Naturally, even he should have known. 

An open secret is by nature open, unless you willfully choose to avert your eyes from it.

In the first place, he was perhaps the only judge in the whole country proud or arrogant enough to take that seat presiding over one of the McAeda family, instead of waiving the case as one normally would. Any bystander, less brave or foolish, would have at once understood the inevitable outcome of this court. Only he had underestimated what was at stake, had dismissed certain cautions in his circle as rubbish.

The folly typical of self-assured men in positions of power.

Donovan said nothing in response. He stood still like a disinterested statue.

“In light of this realization,” the pitiable old man concluded, looking himself finished, “I’m sure we can overlook your mistakes, this once. You may go now--I mean, Mr. McAeda, your sentences are hereby annulled. I wish you a fruitful academic career!”

The gavel tapped feebly and, at the same time, with fierce desperation, like the hasty retreat of a routed army.

And like that, it was over, without the slightest resemblance of a closing procedure, only a collective escape of people pouring out of the room, that brought to mind a rout.

With no one to stop him, Donovan turned to exit the room, his face set in a grimace even darker than before.

“Donovan.”

A voice cold as ice called after him.

Never so simple, eh?

Turning, he saw a tall woman in a blue-black suit. Her long strides made loud and harsh clatters of high heels in the courtroom. The speed of her approach belied her rigid dignity. 

In appearances, she was neat and groomed to perfection: haircut shorter than her nape, makeup light and austere, gait straight as a parading soldier. \

In her striking green eyes, there was a cold and cruel look. 

“Yes, mother,” Donovan answered wearily.

Almost everything about the woman was reflected in Donovan the young English professor: the jet black hair, the deep green eyes, the high and proud cheekbones, the sharp features. Only his shoulders drooped. And while his face was exhausted of life, hers was almost devoid of emotions.

Almost, save for a hint of annoyance.

“That just now was a shameful display,” she declared, each syllable sounding clear and precise. “Did you have any intention, any at all, to defend yourself? How are you so pathetic as one of our family?”

“Well, what’s the point?” he spat, hardly able to keep his voice from being so forceful, “Suppose I managed to beg a few months off of my sentences, you would still intervene to void it all anyway. So what’s the point, really?”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“The point lies in trying and proving--both seem a tall task for someone like you,” she said mercilessly. “Yet is that the full extent of your conviction? Does Estella’s last wish mean only so much to you? Does it really not merit a fight out of your lousy attitude?”

Way too merciless. 

But what could he say, Donovan actually preferred this mercilessness, this unrestrained cruelty, over sage advice from self-assured old men.

They were that kind of family.

It was something he knew, and could deal with.

“But still,” he sighed, scratching his head while averting his eyes awkwardly, “isn’t talking about my sister like that now a bit too cruel?”

She could have afforded to be a little more motherly, if nothing else, when it comes to her late daughter at least. But that, for her, would be a tall task.

Even as they talked, people were still pouring out of the room. Most of the audience had been his family’s employees, so these were faces he knew. The court officials gave them a wide berth, regarding his mother with a wary look. 

He wanted to laugh. What amounted to a normal conversation between him and his mother must have appeared like a debate with the outcome of life and death to those people.

“Well, I guess that’s it then?” he said, only half-asking, as he already knew full well the answer.

“Naturally,” his mother’s eyes narrowed, as though in suspicion he was having the gall to think otherwise. “Listen, Donovan, your brooding time is over. You’ll quit the academy at once. And despite your sentence, or the lack thereof, I will talk to the board and ensure you will never set foot on campus again. Understood?”

“Aye, mother,” he shrugged, “time for the prodigal son to come home, I guess.”

Her eyes thinned even more, now like a hawk’s on a squawking prey. “Do anything stupid and I will make sure you’ll have plenty more to regret, you hear?”

“Whatever could give you the idea?” he answered with a shrug, “I’ve never regretted a thing in my life.”

All lies, of course.

Well, what was she going to do about it?

But Estella’s last wish, huh? The cruel woman sure knew to hit where it hurt.

Not that she cared, of course. The damage having been neatly inflicted, his mother turned on her heel, and left like a silent storm.

At length, he stared after the woman, almost the same way the old judge had stared at her before. Her departure at once lifted a heavy pang from the empty room.

What does it feel like to be so uncaring of what others think about you, to be able to exert a dominating aura just by existing?

Well, he might never know.

Donovan did not immediately follow after her, but dallied around a bit more in the empty courtroom, just to be sure his mother had left the building before leaving himself.

Not that he hated his mother, it was only a natural thing, even for her son, to stay clear of that woman. 

Only common sense.

But what now? He thought idly.

His mother had made it plenty clear enough. No more playing around, back to the family estate, be nice and obedient. By this time next year he would have been integrated into the family business, morphed into another cog in its chain of commands, another pawn in his mother’s ruthless regime.

Not that he had any qualms about it, such had always been the inevitable conclusion for his adulthood since the day he was born. Estella, his sister, had always been just a backup plan--a fragile and sickly plan that had not outlasted her sixteen birthday.

In two words, his family business was organized crime.

Although these days people prefer to call it by a more polite title--a mega-conglomerate. 

Such a mouthful phrase that was further from the truth than the shorter version. But that’s the way of this age.

All in the phrasing, apparently.

His family’s business was one that held much sway in the country, in more ways than one. One with a dead grip over its politics and economy from the shadow.

For someone who was born a scion to that conglomerate owner, and who had been lauded as a prodigy, a gifted mathematician, with flattery and genuine praises alike, there had been precious few paths allowed him since the beginning. His future had long been destined, long decided.

But if all this sounded like lamenting, he actually wasn’t.

He didn’t have anything else in particular he wanted to do.

Even the teaching gig he had been doing this last year hadn’t been his own idea. He was never that passionate about literature in the first place.

And putting it as his “sister’s last wish”, as his mother had done, makes it sound so much more dramatic than it actually was. It all started with an incredibly mundane conversation. A silly conversation, to boost, between him and his sister over a year before.

To summarize...

“I’m worried about you, Donovan,” Estella had said something to that effect one day, “I mean, knowing my conditions, I might just go ‘owie’ after dinner or something--it’s been like that for a long time, so it’s totally a possibility--then you will be left with no one to play with. Wouldn’t that be sad? Wouldn’t that be so sad?”

“Firstly, no human dies with that stupid a sound effect,” he had said flatly in response, “secondly, don’t say it like you have anyone to play with other than me either. You don’t get to pity me. And I do have friends.”

“You mean the snobs who sometimes come over to discuss equations with you, who sometimes look at me like I’m a dying puppy? You really consider them friends? Ew!”

“Who the hell discusses equations... is that what you think we were talking about? Don’t make it sound like doing math is my entire personality.”

And she did look like a dying puppy at times, even if it was mostly out of boredom from being imprisoned in her own home, so the look of pity was more than justified.

“I mean those are not people you hang out with,” she persisted, “it’s like hanging out with only co-workers after work. It’s sad.”

“What do you even know about work and co-workers, you have been lying around in that bed playing video games and reading comics all your life...”

“It’s not like you do either. So how about this, you like reading, don’t you? Why don’t you try to connect with other people and make friends through your hobby? It should be better than hanging out with your math punks at any rate.”

Putting aside whether math punks were even a real category of people, she might be making a good point, actually.

Donovan nodded noncommittally. “Except reading isn’t a social activity, you know. And as far as book clubs go, those are stupid, people there prefer to talk about their lives or even hook up more than actually discussing the books. And I doubt anyone would go along with my taste.”

“Well true,” she tapped her chin with the hand not holding the controller, “How about a professional setting then? You can try to be a professor and seek out students who are passionate about literature that way. They would be more or less around your age too, unlike the math punks. Sounds perfect, isn’t it? There’s that college mother just bought a seat on the board for another tax evasion scheme. Just ask her to make you a lecturer.”

The outrageous bit of information she had included so casually in their conversation aside, that was yet another sensible suggestion.

Even if a year later it had turned out disastrously.

“Well, I really hope you give it a try, Donovan,” she said conclusively before unpausing the game. Gunshots and loud groans of shredded zombies once again filled the room. “At least let me smile down upon you from heaven, okay? The last thing I want is to catch second-hand embarrassment from you even in the afterlife. It would be a pain, totally.”

“Assuming you’re even going to heaven with that attitude.”

It had been a moronic conversation, the kind he would have with her literally every single day. Nothing more, nothing less.

Even his decision to actually follow up with that half-hearted “last wish” to act as a lecturer for an entire year was mostly out of anger, a sort of protest partly to annoy his mother, rather than out of any desire to avoid giving Estella second-hand embarrassment in the afterlife.

Come to think of it, she probably had had her fill of it by now.

But back to the present, another way to look at it was that, since he had never been allowed a choice in the first place, he had never thought of wanting to do anything.

Forced to make one, he would probably choose a job to do with violence. Punching, kicking, wrestling. That sort. Because sometimes in life, you just want to punch things. The evil people, the smug people, the stupid people, are all more or less worthy of a punch. Combat sports are thus out of the question. You can’t just punch anyone in the ring. And he was the sort to punch the referee himself when the guy couldn’t do his job right.

But that was not the main problem--even if there had been some mythical profession in the modern age where he could just punch away without a care, like a rampant cowboy or a wandering ronin, he would still need a purpose to his wandering. In revenge for his mentor, or something similarly morally compelling. Or he would have to be exiled from his ancestral home, alleged of killing his master in a duel when in actuality framed by a rival. Something to that highly specific effect.

Such were the stupid thoughts that ran across the ex-English Professor’s head as he loitered in that empty courtroom.

After a while, he sighed, estimating that his mother must have left the building by then.

He exited the room, then walked down the hallway, and suddenly realized it was perfectly empty of people. All the doors were closed.

Had he accidentally spent too much time thinking that it was already lunchtime?

He glanced out of the window just to make sure of the sun’s position, and there, found an unfamiliar skyline.

Not a single highrise in sight, and he was fairly sure the building he was in had faced several at least. In fact, his line of sight was filled with unfamiliar structures, domes, and towers of exotic architecture. These were nothing he had seen in this city before, let alone before entering the courtroom.

Of course, it could simply be that he had made a wrong turn, and this window was overlooking a different angle of the building than he remembered. Except his memory wasn’t that bad, and no way such a queer portion of the city could have escaped his notice until this day.

The hallway, on the other hand, was as he remembered, except for the eerie emptiness, and all the closed doors. Even if it was lunchtime, there should have been plenty of people walking around in such a large building for civil services or, at the very least, some noise. On the contrary, there was only a dead silence.

This was enough to creep Donovan out, who’d never been bothered much by horror stories.

He slowly began to walk down the hallway. 

No use just standing there and wondering. His idea was that his mental state was currently in a shamble from those depressing thoughts of his late sister, and before long he would find out the obvious reason behind this silence.

But the longer he proceeded the hallway, which seemed far longer than he had remembered, the more the silence stretched. This went on until he finally heard the first human voice in a while. 

And yet what he heard was no common sounds, but more like quiet muttering, or monotonous chanting.

Had the hallway been dark as though in the middle of the night, it would have fit perfectly in most horror movies where eerie chanting heralds the coming of a demonic creature.

His skin crawled, but not for that horrific resemblance to such a cliche trope.

It was a voice he recognized.

And like a most exemplary character in a horror story, he went to investigate the voice. 

On his face there was a deep frown. 

He was angry. Really angry, even for a short-tempered man. For this seemed a cruel joke.

After a few long, deliberate strides he arrived at an innocuous door, which muffled the monotonously chanting voice beyond. Words that were like faithless prayers or a dreadful incantation.

He cracked the door open, wishing to confirm his premonition of a joke, that his hearing did deceive him.

Instead he found a small and well-furnished bedroom, one that had no business being found in a courthouse. There was a large canopy bed in one corner, several antique-looking pieces of furniture, a curtained window on the opposite wall, which should not be there since he had entered from a hallway that faced the front of the building.

But none of these were what had caught him off guard.

Sprawling disorderly on the carpeted floor were books, some open, some closed and stacked in skewed order on each other, some half-bent, all looked as though they had been tossed unceremoniously all over the place. Five burning candles formed a circle around the books. All enhanced the impression of an occult ritual going on.

But even these were not the true cause of his shock.

It was the person who sat in the middle of the circle, a girl bending over a large spreading tome. She was chanting the words he had heard. From where he stood, he could clearly see her profile.

Estella, his sister.

The one person in this world Donovan would never mistake for anybody else.