Because You Love to Hate Me(56)
FAVORITE CHARACTER:
Mei Feng, aka Mei Du. Throughout the whole story, my heart really went out to Mei Feng. First she is being practically sold off to the emperor by her family. Mum and dad, get it together! Then she stumbles across this “evil” presence that is almost stalking her. Then the evil presence steals her innocence, and she is blamed for his actions. I mean, come on. I couldn’t help but feel that this story is a reflection of modern views of rape: blaming the victim instead of prosecuting the villain. Hmmmm, a very raw and honest representation, something I am really glad has been brought up in this young adult story, as it is we young adults who must take on this situation and talk about it.
MOST MEMORABLE MOMENT:
The conversation between Mei Feng and the Goddess of Purity. You would expect a goddess to be good and trustworthy. But Cindy completely flipped this. The way the Goddess of Purity deals with what Mei Feng had just been through is shocking. It really goes to show that although you are in a position of authority and are looked at as a “good person,” actions speak louder than words. And trust me, the Goddess of Purity has a lot to say. She is filled with bitterness and jealousy and portrays herself in the most perfect way, as the evil b . . . eing she is.
HERO TWIST:
At first, when we meet Hai Xin, I thought he was going to be the hero of the story. He came in, pulsing with power, and took Mei’s breath away. I was like, “Oh yeah, hot love interest—you go, Mei.” Then I carried on reading! And boy, I did not see him being the God of the Sea. To be honest with you all, he was more than a god—he was a jerk! I mean, hello! It makes perfect sense! This take on Medusa with an Asian twist was just perfect.
ISSUES THAT ARE LEFT OPEN-ENDED AND HOW I FEEL ABOUT THAT:
The important issue that Cindy has highlighted so brilliantly is the way victims of rape are treated. In the story, Mei Feng is blamed and scolded for “catching the eye” of Hai Xin. The Goddess of Purity blames Mei Feng for Hai Xin’s actions, but she is the victim. It is sad to say, but even in today’s world, people have the same views as the Goddess of Purity when it comes to rape. Questions such as “What were you wearing?” and “Did you say no?” and “What did you do to provoke it?” are asked to the victims of rape, instead of focusing on the criminal behind the act. Cindy deals with this in a sensitive yet honest and raw way. Her story highlights the issue perfectly, presenting it to young readers. I hope you, as a reader, interpret this story in your own way, but still come together and talk about this issue. We must not ignore it.
IN CONCLUSION:
As a reader, I was able to fall into this story . . . if only it were a hundred thousand words longer! I am a huge lover of twists in stories, and the ending of Mei Feng’s story defiantly quenched my thirst for twists.
I almost wish I could speak to Mei Feng, or write her a letter. I would start off by saying, “You’re not alone.” I would tell her she was not in the wrong and that there are people who would listen and believe her. It is important that victims of such events know they are not alone and they are not to blame.
Mei Feng taught me that villains have stories, too. Seeing their perspective gives me a better understanding of the characters, which helps me understand their actions. It takes the dark to see the light and the bad to see the good.
But what drives both is a whole other story.
DEATH KNELL
BY VICTORIA SCHWAB
I.
Death is a boy with brown eyes.
A boy with bare feet and worn knees and a shirt missing a button.
A boy with copper hair and lashes that part like clouds.
It is raining when he wakes at the bottom of the well.
He is curled on his side, tucked in like a withered rose, and his body rustles in a papery way as he unfolds, back coming to rest against the mossy stone side of the well. He inhales, the air stale in his waking lungs, his pulse a low tap-tap beneath the storm as he holds out his hands to catch the drops of rain. Death has lovely hands—one smooth, the other skeletal—and water beads against his fingers; it drips between his bones.
He looks up with those eyes the color of wet earth.
He has seen them reflected—not in the well, for the well is empty—but in the places where water gathers after rain. They do not seem to belong to him, those eyes, though of course they do, set into his face like knots in an old tree.
Young face.
Old eyes.
Overhead, the rain slows, stops, turns to mist as he gets to his feet. He does not know how long he’s been asleep—hours? days? weeks?—but now he is awake, and he is cold, and he is hungry.
Not a stew-and-potatoes kind of hunger—that is a thing he knows but doesn’t know—but a purposeful hunger, a marrow-missing-from-your-bones, no-blood-in-your-veins, heart-dragging-itself-along kind of need.
Death is awake, and so he is hungry.
He is hungry, and so he is awake.
He climbs slowly, steadily, out of the deep hole, fingers finding the holds. He swings a thin leg over the side of the well, sits for a drowsy moment on the stone lip.
It is nice to be awake.
Beyond the well, the world has changed again.
It is always changing. One day he climbs out of the well to find the leaves green, and the next they are beginning to turn. He wakes more often in winter, sees bare trees, bare trees, bare trees for days on end. The summers are long and sleepy.