Beauty and the Beast

Confession

Do you know what it's like to be tortured, Reinhard?

What do you think of when you hear the word "torture"?

You see, rhetorical questions like these make me wish that you were alive so I could hear your answer. Not because I care, but because I want to know, and I want you to know that nothing you could ever dream up will ever come close to the torture I had to go through, not just at your hands but at the hands of others because of what you had done to me.

Karel Curda would never have laid a finger on me if he hadn't known what I had been to you.

So why, then, Reinhard? Why did you do that to me? What did I ever do to deserve what you did to me? Can it be that my only crime was to exist? To revel in my youth and beauty?
It doesn't matter now. What's done is done. As much as everyone would like to turn back the wheel of time for their own personal reasons, backward is a direction it can't go.

They say to always look toward tomorrow, to focus on your present and not your past nor your future. But what was the point of focusing on the present when all of it was just one big bridge to a bleak future? What was the point of me even trying to live after you, of me trying to regain my life when I would always get knocked down in the worst of ways?

If your answer is "There isn't," give yourself a pat on the back. Try your best, although I know you can't. At least now you know now what it's like to be helpless, to be completely powerless against the circumstances surrounding your current existence.

Why did you sic Karel Curda on me? Yes, maybe you didn't physically or posthumously give him the order to rape me, but your actions in life towards me were just as much of a green light as anything else.
I'm sure that at least he had some goodness in him. Everyone does—even you, as much as you tried to smother it. I'm sure that had he not known who I was, he would have left me alone as he would have done any other Czech woman.

I can tell what you're thinking, Reinhard.

You're surprised to hear me say this.

Because it doesn't make sense to you, does it? I mean, isn't it logical that someone who has been shown some of the darkest, most evil facets of human nature at the hands of one who personified it would immediately become cynical and mistrustful of the world around them? Isn't it normal—expected, even—for someone who has gone through what I have to lead a life full of hatred and grudges?

In a way, I suppose you're right.

I don't look at people the same way anymore. In my eyes, anyone is capable of anything. I don't know how to tell friend from foe anymore. I don't keep anyone close to me, and those who used to be close to me have all been vehemently pushed into the shadows. Those that were left alive after the reprisals for your death, that is.
They all thought I hated them. Even Ata, although he never dared to voice his dissatisfaction, thought I wasn't happy to see him. I could see the sullen disgruntlement in his eyes whenever he looked at me, like he expected me to do more, say more. But when it became clear that I wouldn't, he didn't push me away; he tried to understand, to put himself in my shoes.
That was why I think I fell in love with Ata all those years ago, because behind all his flaws was a truly pure and gallant heart, one that loved people unconditionally.

But at the same time, you're wrong. Not everyone that has been tortured and abused will come out venting their rage on the world for all its injustice. Sometimes some of us are wired in such a way that our traumatic past becomes like a sort of deep, festering wound to which we keep applying plaster over plaster over plaster in an attempt to stop the bleeding. We layer ice packs on it to numb the pain, and hope and pray it doesn't get infected, and if it already is, that it doesn't spread to other parts of our body.