I was arguing with Tibetan independence movement people again, as I do. Here’s one of two threads. This one is in reply to this article.

Personally speaking, I don’t think I’m hating on them at all. I might come across as a little bit hostile, but that’s because I really do not agree with what they stand for and I’m putting my alternative views across.

This is the second thread that I posted on, in reply to this article:

This is their reply to my last post, which got deleted by them; I hope you can read it.

After this reply, I said something along the lines of how we should all be multicultural societies, that race should no longer be a boundary between people and how China should represent all the different ethnicities within its geographical and political borders instead of just the race of Han. I can’t give you the exact reply because I was late in screencapping, as this happened: (This is the thread about ‘What is Tibet’s Cause’)

All my griping about censorship got deleted too.

I then sent them a couple of vitriolic messages about how if they want to advocate a cause, they should debate better and let people see both sides of the argument, and how they’re no better than the Chinese Communist Party when it comes to censorship.

The same thing happened on the thread about ‘China’s Cultural Zoo’.

If you go to the original articles here and here you will not find my comments there anymore. On the first link, it will be as if I didn’t dare to argue with their terrific reasoning after they replied.

Do I need to say anymore on the topic? Not really, except that censorship isn’t just a Chinese thing. This group of people obviously couldn’t deal with opposing ideas and so had to get rid of them. If these are the people who will run Tibet after independence…I will leave you to judge whether it’s a good or bad thing.

Luckily, not all Tibetans agree with this stance. I was messaging someone on YouTube and they said they had no problem with Tibet being counted within the borders of a truly democratic China (if that ever happened) if Tibet had cultural autonomy. He was polite and didn’t tell me I was a propagandist.

I am still open to persuasion. If you support Tibetan independence, you’re welcome to try and convince me that I’m wrong.

Anyway, I read the first sample chapter, and I have to say that I found many parallels to my life, at least from what I’ve read. More traditional Chinese families tend to have a tendency to push their children to the point of insanity to make them succeed academically. I’m not going to say whether that’s good or bad –of course I have my opinions on it, but I’ll leave you to make your own judgements for now. I just want to share my experience of living under that style of parenting.

I have always been a rebellious child. I don’t follow the norms. I don’t like norms. I don’t like conformity. I veer towards right-brain thinking, which might make me see the world in a different way to the majority of people. Whilst growing up in Hong Kong, I would always refuse to do the set homework. It would be a huge battle of wills. My reasoning for not doing the homework: My hand hurt from holding the pencil and trying to control it so I could form those Chinese characters. I still can’t form Chinese characters well.

After my family moved to New Zealand, things let up for a bit. My mother used to make me remember English phrases from school and make me repeat them back to her when I got home. She quickly gave up when I started making up my own phrases. Clearly, the English language was not going to be a problem for me if I could start forming sentences after two months.

However, when I was eight, she discovered that I had no idea what decimal numbers were. Prior to that, my dad had always been the one who taught me maths. My dad is pretty good at maths, but he’s an awful teacher. He thinks that everyone should be a mathematical genius and automatically understand complicated concepts. Mum took over after I only got half the questions right in a maths competition.

From then on, it was war. I resented having extra work. Why did I need to be three or four years ahead than everyone else at maths? Why did I have to do all those stupid questions after school? Why couldn’t she leave me alone to read my books? Sure, I enjoyed getting the prizes for maths competitions. It made me feel like I was worth something. The rest of the time, I resented being called stupid or useless for not being able to grasp certain mathematical concepts. My excellence in mathematics alienated me from my peers. I was never the popular kid –I was too shy and too weird– but this just made it worse. I think I’m a bit socially awkward today because of what I experienced back then. I didn’t want to be noticed –and sometimes I still don’t want to be noticed– because the attention I got was hardly ever friendly.

When it came to maths, I had to get all Excellences (the New Zealand equivalent of straight A’s). Anything less was not good enough. I felt pressured into performing well. I felt like my parents’ show pony. They loved being able to say how good at maths I was, but I felt as if they loved my mathematical achievements instead of the person that I was. I was much more than just a bunch of mathematical formulae and Distinction certificates. They didn’t care that I loved to write. They didn’t care that I liked dancing. They didn’t care so much when I got Excellence in English or French. They cared when I failed a mock history essay. Failure was not acceptable in my family back then.

The resentment grew. Even the Excellences in Mathematics failed to boost my mood. I was not a mass of numerical formulae. I didn’t feel any sense of achievement because hey, I was only this good because it got drilled into my head every day for the past ten years. I was sick of it. Maths took up most of my time, leaving me little time to concentrate on subjects that I enjoyed and naturally were good at, such as French and English and…well, not so much history. My history grades in high school were hit and miss. But I liked history and I felt that if I had more time to spend on it, I’d be better. I just didn’t have the time.

This excellence in mathematics led to me being pushed into taking Physics in Year Twelve (twelfth grade in American and sixth form for some other nations). I slept a lot in class because of the heater. All of the theories went right over my head. My boat for my practical went backwards so its speed was in the negatives and there was a burnt plastic smell when I tried to construct a circuit for the electricity topic. To put it simply, I sucked at it.

That year was my last stand. The pressure was too much. I hated Physics and I hated Maths. What if I didn’t get an excellence for a maths paper? That would be the equivalent of failure. Besides, I wanted to prove something; I wanted to prove that I had talent all on my own and that I was right about myself all along. I was not a mathematical person. My talents lay in the arts and other more creative subjects.

My parents wanted me to take Year Thirteen Calculus. Dad wanted me to get a maths scholarship in university, then a maths degree, and then he wanted me to go and teach maths. Mum wanted me to do it because why would I not do it? I was good at it.

I laid down an ultimatum. If they made me take Calculus, I was simply going to fail it, there it was. The word ‘fail’ scared them. My mother tried to threaten me. If I failed Calculus, she was going to rip up my in-progress novel. I, in turn, told her that if she did it, I was going to leave home and never look back. I would change my name and cut off all contact with the family.

I’m not whether she took me seriously, but I think she was a bit afraid. She didn’t really know what I was capable of.

The lesson here? Raising a child goes both ways. The child trains the parent too. I started early. It’s not easy, but if you’re lucky, eventually your parents might learn. Parents have to learn that their children are not putty to be moulded any way they please. Children have minds of their own, personalities, their own inherent talents and flaws. Children can be quite different from their parents. A child is not their parents’ doll or tool or show pony. The child is a little person who deserves to be loved for who they are, not for what they achieve. Achievement should be encouraged, but don’t force the child to do something that they really don’t want to. Guide them when they are small, but as they grow, let them choose their lives. After all, in the end, the parent is not the child. The parent actually doesn’t know what’s best for their children.

I always say this; “I’m the one who knows what’s best for me. You’re not me so you can’t know.” I truly believe that.

On Palm Sunday:

When Jesus was praying in the garden of Gethsemane, he was supposedly alone, so how did anyone find out what he said in prayer? Same with the forty days in the desert. He was alone, wasn’t he?

If Jesus was preaching day in and day out in the temple, the Pharisees should have recognize him and they should not have needed Judas to identify him. That is, of course, the Pharisees were really dumb.

Pilate probably knew what was going on with the Pharisees and the elders, and he didn’t want Jesus to live because he was afraid of a rebellion, so he went along with it and pretended he was reluctant to kill an
innocent man.

On the Tibetan independence movement:

Fact: There are six million Tibetans and 1.6 billion Chinese.

Fact: Most of that 1.6 billion Chinese do not want China to disintegrate.

Fact: A lot of that 1.6 billion Chinese want freedom of expression and democracy.

Fact: Tibet is landlocked.

Therefore, we should not let ethnic boundaries divide us. Instead, we should work together to create a new China. A better China. Not the Communist Party’s China, but a democratic people’s China that encompasses all
ethnic groups. China should not just mean the nation of the Han. It is the nation of the Manchurians, the Mongols, the Uyghurs and the Tibetans, as well as the fifty six other ethnic minorities out there. The government should reflect that.

1.6 billion Chinese working together would do a lot more than just six million Tibetans. By demanding complete independence, the Tibetan liberation movement is alienating Chinese who would otherwise think that what they want (democracy, freedom of expression etc.) is reasonable. It’s certainly alienated me. From my earlier discussion, my feeling is that the Tibetan liberation movement hates China because it is Chinese and not solely Tibetan.

And independent Tibet would most likely be cut off by China. China would not trade with it or give aid to it. Export requires sea ports and there are none in Tibet, unless India would grant it access to the sea. Does that seem likely? Man cannot survive on bread alone, but he cannot survive on spirituality and dignity alone either.

On China:

Right now, ‘Chinese’ is synonymous with Han. It shouldn’t be. The Han people make up a great part of China, but China is comprised of many different cultures. There needs to be more education about all these other cultures that we don’ hear about. Han culture is not the pinnacle of civilization and should not be treated as such. No culture is the pinnacle of civilization. Cultures only grow when they take the better things from other cultures and evolve.

Other general thoughts:

Ethnicity should not be a boundary. There needs to be more connections between different ethnic groups. There should be cultural exchange, respect, understanding, acceptance of differences.

First tweet from them when they saw this post linked on my twitter.

@F_Le_Rulz China’s achievements:52 yrs of Brutality,52 yrs of  killing & continue,result 1.2 milliom Tibetans being Killed in occupied Tibet

And then the conversation took off:

@TIBETANS Can you tell me of the situation in the past ten years? Has anything changed since 1979 when China opened up?

@TIBETANS Also, what is the source for the statistics?

@F_Le_Rulz Tibet opened to bolster population transfer, big lost 4 Tibetans & means more China brutality http://www.tibet.net/en/index.php

@TIBETANS Can you be a little more specific? What sort of losses has Tibet suffered in the past ten years? What sort of brutalities?

@TIBETANS Also, are Tibetans treated differently than Han Chinese?

@F_Le_Rulz China is deeply afraid of Tibet & its people, fearful of the truth-Tibet is an independent Nation.”Facts”: http://t.co/OBuzMru

@TIBETANS You haven’t answered my question. What has Chinese govt done to the Tibetan people in the past decade?

@TIBETANS The article you linked me to did not talk about history before the twentieth century, which is central to China’s claim on Tibet.

(This is in reference to the Emperor Qianlong’s military campaigns in Tibet during the 18th century, when rebels were quashed by the Manchurian army and the Dalai Lama was re-instated but as a vassal of the Qing dynasty. Whenever Chinese talk about Tibet being part of China, they cite this event as proof that Tibet is part of China. The article in the tweet, which you can read for yourselves, only talks about Sino-Tibetan relations after 1911. I want the Tibetan take on Qianlong’s campaigns, but that is not addressed.)

@F_Le_Rulz As I said what we counting is not material development. In past China brought alot suffering result 1.2 milliom Killed in Tibet.

@F_Le_Rulz We’ll never thnx China unless China ends brutality & leaves from occupied Tibet,History with Tibetan,not with China, so pls leave

@TIBETANS Ur doing wht China’s doing; trying to stop ppl from xpressing their views. U hvn’t given me any specific evdnce. I’m not convinced

@F_Le_Rulz Yes Ppl can express their views in truth way but we not allowing propagate Chinese propaganda on Tibet,we’ll challenge those lies

@Peace0310 I’m asking questions. You haven’t given me real answers with real evidence. I want historical events, dates and credible sources.

(All of a sudden, a different account is answering me. I don’t think they want me asking questions on their official twitter feed. I can’t let them foil me, therefore…)

@TIBETANS I’m asking questions. You haven’t given me real answers with real evidence. I want historical events, dates and credible sources.

@F_Le_Rulz Appeal by Dalai Lama regarding situation in #Tibet. #China must stop this brutality, force is not solution!

@Peace0310 Unfortunately, the Dalai Lama is not a neutral party. Anything from the UN or Amnesty International?

What I am most interested in, however, is why Tibetans have so much antagonism towards Han Chinese. Many peoples have been conquered and incorporated into foreign kingdoms in the past. Many of those conquered peoples accepted foreign rule and didn’t really care as long as they could live their lives. A recent example is New Zealand, which was colonized by the British. The Maori now live in harmony with all the other racial groups, and the government seems to be predominantly caucasian. Another example is England, which was conquered by the Normans in 1066. The only people who did care and tried to revolt were the privileged minority. However, from what I can see in the media, it seems that all of Tibet has something against
the Chinese, from peasant to Lama. I want to know what the reasons are.

Would Tibetans still oppose Chinese rule if China became a real democracy? Would they still oppose Chinese rule if religious persecution stopped? Are they against the Chinese because of their policies or because of their race?

Also, another important question must be asked: What sort of government would be established if Tibet did gain independence? Who would be the head of state? And would this government be better than the Chinese?

China has many flaws; I will admit that. The Chinese government is an oligarchy and thinks it can rule as the emperors of old did. Chinese people are not well informed about other cultures and so come across as being disrespectful a lot of the time. However, it is extremely inaccurate to portray Tibet before Chinese rule as being some sort of utopia. It wasn’t. There were gross violations of human rights, all the same. Peasants suffered and were forced to work for the Lamas as serfs. If they disobeyed, they were mutilated and left to die of exposure. I’m not saying that it makes the persecution carried out by the Communist party okay. It isn’t. All I’m saying is that we should be realistic here. Tibet was not a perfect society before the Chinese came.

I would really like answers to my questions, especially from people who have a) been to Tibet or b) are Tibetan. If you’ve been to Tibet or lived in Tibet recently, as in the past decade or so, I would be really interested in your perspective and your experiences. All I want is a bit of clarification about the situation from real people, not governments and their PR machines.

But, but, BUT…

Are donations really reaching the people of Japan, or are we merely paying a government who doesn’t give a damn about their people or the environment? Reports say that when aid (in the form of food and clean drinking water) reaches Japan, the countries who donated the supplies also have to distribute the supplies themselves because the Japanese government doesn’t care enough to allocate human resources to the distribution of basic necessities amongst those affected by the disaster.

As for the nuclear crisis, they’re dumping the contaminated water that’s been leaking from the power plants into the ocean. I guess I won’t be eating seafood for the next sixty years until all the Caesium’s decayed.

Sure, I feel bad for the regular people of Japan, the ones who are truly suffering, but as for the Japanese government, I have no sympathy for them at all. Those politicians are sitting comfortable in their own homes whilst the survivors of the disaster are freezing and starving to death in a developed country.

Disasters often reveal the true nature of a nation. When the earthquake struck Christchurch on February 22, people from all over the nation rallied to help, driving their own cars down to deliver home baking and forming clean up armies to clear out liquefaction. The emergency services’ efforts must also be mentioned, because a lot of these people focused on saving the people trapped beneath collapsed buildings even though many of them were really worried about their loved ones in other parts of the city.

In Japan, people are left to their own devices. No help is given. Some went back to their homes within the area affected by radiation rather than stay in government operated shelters. Japan has often been touted as a very advanced and sophisticated country, and yet no help is reaching the people who need it.

I feel bad for all the people who are suffering. I want them to get the help they need. I will pray for them. However, I am not going to donate money as I don’t know where it’s going to go. I don’t want to feed an unworthy government.

That’s what’s most disturbing. I think that it’s still there at the back of our consciousness, but no one is talking about it. No one is talking about Japan’s refusal to take responsibility and apologize for what was done sixty six years ago. As we all know, anti-semitism and holocaust denial brings in a lot of backlash, but what about denying this other holocaust that happened in the east, in China, Taiwan, Korea, the Philippines and other places in South East Asia? What about those women in these countries that were forced to serve Japanese soldiers as sex slaves? They occasionally make the news, but it’s more like once every three years. Whenever the Chinese complain about this injustice, some people argue that we have no right to complain because the Communist regime killed a lot more Chinese than the Japanese did.

Although it’s true, it’s completely beside the point. Does the fact that someone else killed more people negate the fact that the Japanese murdered millions in cold blood and treated these women in an unspeakable manner? Of course it doesn’t.

I don’t want to hate Japan. Hate is such a tiring emotion. I don’t want to punish them either. I’ll leave the punishing to God (gods, whatever), and at any rate, most of the individuals who deserve punishment are already dead. However, these women deserve justice. The fact that they’re being denied an apology is an outrage and an insult towards women everywhere, because by doing so, the Japanese government is condoning rape as an appropriate weapon and activity in war, which is most definitely is not. I just want them to admit that what was done was wrong, and stop honouring their war criminals, which they still do. It’s like the equivalent of the German government honouring Hitler, which it does not do. Should this be tolerated? I can’t decide for you, but I certainly won’t stand for it.

As an individual, there is not much I can do except speak out, both with my words and with my wallet. I am boycotting Japanese goods, and I have been since 2005. I refuse to buy Japanese cars and I won’t watch Japanese shows. I would rather pay more for a European or American car than let my money help fund a government that refuses to admit that mass gang rapes are atrocities.

Video by koreanblog.

An update:

For those of you who are longtime readers of my blog, I guess you’d know that I’m one of those people who have to debate. I left a comment on the video under TelcontarRulz, and here’s the ensuing discussion:

Needless to say, I am beyond disgusted by the attitude of this other person.

From May, I will be blogging at The Style Tangent . I felt it was time for me to combine my many interests into one single blog. I’ll leave this one up, but from now on, Surreality won’t be updated. Thanks for the years of support, and I hope to see you guys over at ‘Tangent’!

This is a blog where the line between reality and fiction blurs. It is a writer’s blog after all. Here, I will practise writing descriptive passages that lead nowhere. I might post a couple of chapters of my fanfiction and then get bored and leave you to read the rest of it here instead. I’ll rant, and I’ll wonder, I’ll rave and I’ll gush. Basically, anything goes. It doesn’t even have to make sense.

I turned twenty one last year, and people have started telling me about what I should expect ‘when I get married’ and all that stuff. It’s like it’s expected that I will get married. Bear in mind that I’m a girl who hasn’t even dated yet, and the last time I was interested in dating was when I was sixteen and having a crush on one of my classmates. Ah, yes, I was so young back then.

I remember there was a time when I was terrified I wouldn’t find a guy (excuse my unenlightened fourteen year old self). That coincided with a time when I wasn’t very confident about my own abilities and under the belief that the ideal life for a woman was one in the home. Stereotypes really influenced me back then.

However, I’ve changed. As I grew older, I read about strong women –successful women– who were happier single than married. I’m not saying that raising kids who can contribute to society is not a success in itself, but I’ve been thinking that perhaps this is not the type of success I want to have.

Not every woman is well-suited to being a mother. Some probably shouldn’t have had children because they clearly don’t like what being a mother entails. I’m not naming anyone here, but I’m just saying I have met women like that, and their kids suffer for it. It’s not about bossing people around, being a mother. It’s about learning about this person you’ve created, who might be fundamentally different from you and might even have opposing viewpoints, and learning to compromise with and love this person unconditionally. It’s about learning that you’re wrong about some things and totally right about others. It’s about sacrifice and being content with the consequences of having children.

When I think about my own mother, I think about how she gave up a career she loved and flourished in to become a housewife after moving thousands of miles away from her entire family just so that her kids and her husband might have better opportunities. I think about a woman who made herself learn maths (even though she didn’t like it at all at school) so that she could tutor her children and make maths class easier for them. I think about a woman who cooks everyday even though she hates cooking, and picks up after three messy people without complaining–much, anyway. I just don’t think I can do that. I can’t see myself giving up everything and dedicating myself to a man. I can’t see myself sacrificing so much for my –thankfully non-existent– kids.

But does that mean I’m not a proper woman? No. I simply want different things, and the modern world and its infrastructure allows a woman to do what she wants. Sure, a woman can’t have everything. I read in a magazine that the most successful women, career wise, are mostly divorced or never been married. You gotta choose, but does choosing my career make me any less of a woman?

I’ve reached the age when people always ask me whether I have a boyfriend or not, and when my grandmother starts nagging me about finding a boyfriend or else I’ll end up old and single and lonely, because older women have more difficulties finding husband and bla bla bla. I’ve actually been tempted to tell her that I prefer girls just to get her to stop (there isn’t anything wrong with girls liking girls; I just don’t happen to be one of those girls).  

Even a friend of mine, who is younger than me, told me that I am emotionally immature for not wanting to settle down with a mate. I am not fundamentally opposed to the idea of marrying, as long as I’ve found the right guy who’s worthy of such devotion. However, marrying for the sake of marrying? No thanks. I don’t need a man to complete me, and I’d rather be single and devoted to my career than trapped by a lukewarm marriage. Luckily, my other grandmother is busy nagging my older cousins, so I’m way too far down the line in terms of age for her to get to me in the next five years.

When it comes down to it, being a woman doesn’t mean that you are destined to settle down with a guy, marry him whether you like him or not, pop out a couple of kids and raise them. There should not be a definition for what being a proper woman means these days, and as far as I am concerned, there isn’t. As a woman, I can have a high powered career that can rival any man’s. I can choose to stay single and not raise a family, just like any man. I can choose to have a kid without man. I can dress in whatever I like however I like –short of indecent exposure, that is– and I can think and act in ways that are not considered to be proper for a traditional woman. However, as long as I feel like a woman, I am a proper woman. Feminity is not a limitation. It is a something that I was born with, and that I’m going to relish.

A tribute to Balian using a Chinese song with strangely fitting lyrics (It’s meant to be a theme song for a serial about the Emperor Wu of Han, but it seems to fit this –fictional– Balian much better).

English translation of lyrics:

In the great river,
You are a wave crest.
Amongst the mountains,
You are the highest peak.

You hide your loneliness in dark clouds
And write your dreams on the sky and plains.
You set yourself ablaze to warm the earth,
Letting yourself become ash.
You let the flames leap high in dance;
That is your last outpouring.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything that you recognize. They belong to Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball.

WARNING: ADULT CONTENT

Chapter 5: Goodbye Is All We Have

Medical personnel rush past me. They got here ten minutes after Eric made the call. I was too hysterical to do it. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Against all odds, Gran still had a pulse when we found her lying there on the kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood. We may have cheated death when Eric fed her some of his blood, but only a little. We didn’t know how badly she was hurt, and I don’t think she would have wanted to become a vampire, which could have happened if Eric gave her too much blood.

They rush her to the hospital. I ride in the back of the ambulance with her, willing her to live. Eric is going to meet us there. He volunteered to stay behind to answer what questions the detectives may have. It’s going to be a long night. Gran is rushed into the operating theatre. I sit outside in one of the hard plastic chairs, waiting, and waiting. The sharp smell of antiseptic surrounds me. I’m not very familiar with it as I’ve never had any reason to visit the hospital. The only time I can recall being in a hospital is when Jason broke his arm when he was seven.

I call Jason, but he doesn’t answer his phone. I call Tara, who’s spent more time with us than in her own house. Gran’s like her grandmother too. She promises to come over immediately. Then I stare at the phone and realize that there isn’t anyone else to call.

Eric arrives at the hospital. He doesn’t say anything, but he does hand me a hot cup of coffee and watches me to make sure that I drink all of it. I don’t really taste anything, but the warmth is comforting. I’ve been feeling cold tonight. He waits with me in the hospital waiting room until it’s almost dawn. His presence is soothing, and I seek solace in his mental silence. I am extremely grateful. He doesn’t have to do this. This isn’t what he signed up for when he agreed to help me. He tells me not to worry.

Tara arrives just before Eric has to leave. He’s stayed as long as he possibly can. “Oh my God, Sook,” she says as she rushes over to hug me. “How is she?” I shake my head. I have no idea. I’m not sure if I want to know the diagnosis.

“Take care of her,” Eric says to Tara. “Make sure she eats something.” Tara nods. She’s thinking that maybe he’s not so bad for me after all.

It’s seven in the morning when I find out that Gran sustained a serious head injury from blunt-force trauma. They’re surprised that she survived long enough for medical aid to arrive. The doctors take me aside to explain that it’s unlikely she’ll ever wake up. I have to make the decision. Do I put Gran on life support and let her continue her existence, neither dead nor alive, or do I simply let her pass on?

What sort of question is that to ask someone’s granddaughter? But I can see that the doctors are feeling awful about it too. It’s not their fault. Medical science might have advanced in leaps and bounds since the nineteenth century, but doctors are doctors, not miracle workers. I decide to put Gran on life support. Miracles do happen, right? I’ve read about people in vegetative states suddenly waking up years later.

Gran looks so small in the hospital bed, with all the tubes and electrodes attached to her. An oxygen mask covers most of her face and her head is wrapped up in bandages. They’ve cut her hair away so they can operate. I sense nothing from her. Nothing at all. It’s as if she’s not there. She doesn’t even look like Gran.

Tara manages to pry me away from Gran’s bedside and drag me to the hospital cafeteria. I feel sick at the thought of food, but she makes sure that I get something in my stomach. I haven’t eaten since lunch the day before. The food does make me feel a little better physically.

Louis arrives to take me home. At first, I adamantly refuse. However, Tara’s even more stubborn than me, and she’s not half as nice. She makes me go home to shower and sleep, promising to keep watch over Gran whilst I’m away. She also promises to keep calling Jason until he answers his phone.

I must have fallen asleep inside the car, because the next thing I know, I’m in my bed. Someone’s removed my shoes, although I’m still dressed. My mouth tastes like three day old dirty socks and my face is so dry that I can almost imagine it cracking like the surface of a dried lake bed during a drought. I barely feel human.

The thought of Gran makes me drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I brush my teeth for five minutes to get rid of the taste and then wash away yesterday’s dirt and grime. Gran always said that a lady must look respectable no matter what she’s feeling, so even if I feel like crap, I can’t look like crap. Besides, looking like crap will only make me feel worse. I put on a cotton printed t-shirt, a pair of comfortable light grey, a charcoal grey Hugo Boss men’s blazer that I wear with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of chocolate quilted lace-up Chanel hiking boots with faux fur at the top and a low block heel. Maybe I don’t look a million dollars, but I’m presentable. I brush out my hair and tie it back in a messy ponytail. There, all done. I’m ready to go back to the hospital.

I find Eric waiting for me in the living room. Norma Jean is terrified of him and is keeping as far away from him as possible. I catch her thinking that it’s unnatural to want to sleep with someone dead, but I don’t care enough right now to do something about her. “Has there been any new developments?” I ask.

“Not that I know of,” he says.

I feel so awful. It’s my fault. I know it is. If only I hadn’t come up with this plan to lure out the murderer. If only I hadn’t underestimated the murderer. If only I had thought to hire protection for Gran. I burst into tears. It’s all too late now. Too late. I feel strong arms encircling me, and I find myself sobbing into a very nice silk cotton blend shirt. Eric’s chest is solid and cool, like a rock anchoring me to reality.

“It’s all because of me,” I sob. “I’m to blame.”

“Sookie, stop it,” he says. His voice vibrates in his chest in a pleasant way. “This is not your fault. You didn’t know that the murderer would come after your grandmother. He’s the only one to blame.”

I’m not convinced, but I don’t say anything. Eric gets me to the hospital in twenty five minutes. He’s using his grey BMW this time, knowing that I’d appreciate the anonymity. I’m not ready to confront the army of paparazzi just yet.

Gran still looks the same as she did yesterday. We relieve Tara of her bedside duty. She’s exhausted, and as she says goodbye, I catch her and Eric exchanging a look. They’re collaborating to keep me functional. I’m not sure whether I should be angry that they’re keeping things from me or just glad that they’re kind of getting along because of me. Eric waits outside as I go in to sit with Gran.

“Hey Gran,” I whisper. She’s in one of those shapeless mint green hospital gowns. If she could see herself right now, she’d have a fit. I reach out to take her hand, careful not to disturb the tube that’s attached to it. I talk to her even though she can’t hear me. It’s really strange to sit in silence. Talking is therapeutic. I apologize over and over again. Despite what Eric said to me earlier —he did make a lot of sense— I can’t stop blaming myself.

And then her eyes open without any warning, giving me a hell of a shock.

‘Sookie, what are you apologizing for?’

I start. Did I just…? I look at Gran. Her face hasn’t changed one bit, but… “Gran?” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”

‘Yes, sweetheart.’ She blinks.

For a moment, I can’t speak. My Gran is still here, no matter what they say. The monitor starts beeping. The electrodes attached to her head are sending signals to the machine. They’re detecting her thoughts too.

Doctors and nurses run in. They make note of the information on the monitors. They check Gran’s heart rate. They pry her eyes open and shine lights into them. “Your grandmother is conscious, Miss Stackhouse,” the head neurologist tells me. Yes, I knew that already.

“Is she going to recover?” I ask.

“It’s hard to tell at this stage,” says Doctor Hogan, “but it is a possibility. She is regaining some motor control, and her cognitive functions are fine.”

Gran’s getting annoyed with all the prodding and poking. She’s even more annoyed that she can’t move, and she can’t remember how she ended up this way. Everyone thinks Adele Stackhouse is just a lovely old woman, but very few know that she has a bit of a temper on her. I’m one of the few. Finally, the doctors leave her alone, and I explain the events of last night to her. She’s alarmed at what happened, but she’s relieved that it’s not me. Then she tells me to pull myself together and stop crying. It’s not my fault I fell in love with a vampire, now, is it?

I wonder whether I should come clean to her about our plan, but she reminds me that Eric has a meeting with her, and just because she has no motor control doesn’t mean he’s allowed to skip. Really, Gran with no motor control is scarier than Gran with motor control. I go outside to fetch Eric, and explain that Gran and I are communicating, and that she’s awake and she wants to see him.

He follows me inside.

“Gran,” I say, “This is Eric Northman. Eric, this is my Gran, Adele Hale-Stackhouse.”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you at last, Mrs. Stackhouse, although I do wish it were under better circumstances,” says Eric.

‘Well, I can see why you fell for him,’ Gran tells me. I don’t think I’m going to translate that for Eric. ‘Although, doesn’t he know about hairdressers?’

Eric laughs when I relay that to him. “My hair grows back in a night,” he says. “Vampires are forced to keep the same hairstyle forever.”

Gran continues to interrogate him —through me. She seems to have forgotten her real purpose for wanting to meet him, and keeps asking him about history. Eric, on his part, is charming the socks off Gran. She’s touched that he’s the one who saved her life by giving her blood, and also by the fact that he’s been making sure that I’m looking after myself —or rather, he’s been looking after me.

‘I approve,’ she tells me at last. ‘He’s a good man, Sookie.’ Well, that’s good to know, even though Eric isn’t actually my boyfriend. ‘I knew I was right to trust you, sweet girl. I’m so proud. Now, you two go off and enjoy yourselves. You don’t want to be keeping an old woman company, and I need to sleep anyway.’

She sounds just like herself. It’s as if none of this ever happened.

So when the doctor rings me after an hour to tell me that my Gran has passed, I just can’t believe it.

There’s a lot of grey and black in New York City, so it almost feels as if everyone is mourning to me. So many people turn up to Gran’s wake that I almost wonder if I should have hired a football stadium instead of hosting it in Gran’s old apartment. I don’t actually see how many people turn up because I’m hiding upstairs in my apartment. I can’t really get my mind around it. Gran can’t be gone. She’s always been here. When my parents left, Gran stayed. When Hadley left, Gran stayed. When Aunt Linda left, Gran stayed.

“Sookie,” says Tara. “Maybe you should come downstairs and thank everyone for coming.”

I glance at the clock. Four in the afternoon. The wake’s most likely to go on until seven. three hours is too long. I can’t in public right now. My shields are going haywire, and my mind is just…numb. If I go down there, there’s no knowing what I’ll do. Besides, I don’t want to put on a mask and play the gracious southern hostess the way I’ve been taught. I know that would disappoint Gran if she were here to see me…but she isn’t.

“I don’t feel well,” I say. I can’t believe that voice is mine. It’s so detached that it doesn’t sound like me.

“Sook, please don’t be like this,” Tara begs. “You’re scaring me. You can’t just sit here in your pyjamas and do nothing!”

They’re silk pyjamas, identical to the set that Gran loves. Loved. “My Gran’s dead, Tara,” I say. “What am I supposed to do? You tell me, because I really don’t know what you expect.”

“People cry when they lose their loved ones.”

“I can’t.” That’s the honest to God truth. I know I should be reacting in a more emotional manner, but it’s like it’s not happening to me at all. I know what’s going on in everyone else’s mind, but I have no idea what’s going on with mine. Sometimes, the mind that the telepath has no clue about is her own.

Tara finally coaxes me out of my silk pyjamas and into a black shirt dress—Celine. It’s tidy and sharp, the opposite of what I’m feeling right now. Still, clothing is armour behind which we hide our real selves when we are feeling emotionally vulnerable. I put on my foolproof Christian Louboutin black pumps in patent leather. Tara brushes my hair for me and twists it into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. It’s all I let her do.

Everyone turns to look at me when the elevator doors open. It’s like I’m a circus animal to be gawked at. I can hear them thinking it’s my fault that Gran’s gone. I brought disaster upon our family by daring to breach their social codes. I hold my head high. Maybe I do feel that I’m responsible, but who are they to judge? I know about each and every one of their illicit affairs, and there are a lot.

I thank them for coming and accept their condolences.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jason and—

He’s a lot older. His face is gaunter, his hair has receded, and his beady eyes are rheumy, but I would recognize him anywhere. “You!” I hiss. I remember all his thoughts as my innocent childish mind caught them. Gran is not here to protect me from him now. Sookie Stackhouse has to start looking out for herself. “What is he doing here?” I demand.

“He’s family, Sook,” says Jason defensively. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s on something, although I don’t know what. “He has a right to be here.”

“I don’t want him here. Don’t you remember what he’s done?” Jason doesn’t know about Hadley and me, but he knows about those other girls. “Look, I don’t care if you do or don’t. I want him out!”

“Who are you to judge?” Jason demands. “You’re the one who fucked a vampire and you’re the one who got Gran killed! It should be you in that coffin!”

My hand connects with his face. “Out!” I scream.

After that, people quickly leave. Well, that’s one way to clear the house. It’s not a way I would have opted for had I been in my right mind. But I’m not in my right mind.

“Sookie,” Tara begins.

“Just go, please,” I say. My fire is spent. “I need to be alone.”

I go back upstairs. I can’t stand to be in Gran’s apartment without her. Perhaps, one day…but it just feels strange right now.

“Should I go too?” asks a male voice. Eric. I didn’t even realize that the sun’s set.

I don’t know what came over me, but I find myself in his arms, and I’m holding onto him for dear life. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say. My voice cracks. Finally the tears come.

“Have you slept, Sookie?” he asks. I shake my head. Not really, even though I’ve been staying in bed ever since I got that fateful phone call. Perhaps that was why I had my public breakdown.

“You should rest,” he says.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask. He pauses. “No, don’t worry about it. I’m just being ridiculous. You’re a busy man. I get that.”

“No, I will stay if that is what you wish. Do you have a light tight space?”

When I wake up, I feel like a completely different Sookie. Gran’s funeral is today. This is my chance to say goodbye. Denial is unrealistic, and it never helped anybody. I take a deep breath. My room smells stale from the days I’ve been spending in here. I pull up the shades and open the windows to let some of the staleness dissipate. Later, I’ll have Norma Jean change my sheets.

Knowing that Eric is sleeping in the wardrobe for out of season clothes gives me strength. The door locks from both inside and out, and I’ve given him the key. Only I have the other one, and I’m not going to unlock that door during the day, so he’s safe there. At least, no matter who turns up, I have a friend backing me.

I put on a black Chanel skirt suit, sheer black tights and a pair of black Margiela ankle boots with wedge heels that are suitable for walking on grass. Stilettos tend to sink into the dirt unless the dirt has been baked hard in the sun. I put on black silk gloves. No proper lady ever attends a funeral without proper headgear; mine is a black cloche. My only jewellery is the platinum watch that Gran gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I choose a plain suede box clutch -black- by Anya Hindmarch Marano, and then I’m ready to face the world.

There are so many people at the funeral, even more than at the wake. I see members of the Board of Trustees. They come to give me their condolences. Some of them are genuinely sorry. Others are here because they want to present a good image to the public. Gran’s death has caused the price of Hale Industries’ shares to drop. People don’t know whether the company will survive without her, so they’re selling in bulk.

I shake hands with hundreds of people and thank them for coming. The skies are grey, and blackbirds perch on the branches of the chestnut trees that surround the cemetery. The Hale crypt is there. Gran’s going to be interred with the rest of her family. The Stackhouses don’t have a crypt of their own. Grandpa Stackhouse was the owner of a small bookstore and his family didn’t have the type of money that the Hales had, so he was interred in the Hale crypt too. Gran is going to be resting beside him for eternity.

After the funeral, the guests return to Gran’s apartment for luncheon. Sydney Lancaster, Gran’s lawyer, take Jason and me aside. He’s brought Gran’s will, and he wants to read it to us in private first before letting the Board of Trustees know of her wishes. We go to Gran’s study. I’m still not talking to Jason, and I can tell that he’s just fine with that. He’s more interested in what Gran’s left him anyway. He needs some money desperately. For what, I have no idea. I mean, his allowance is pretty huge.

Gran’s split the contents of her bank account fifty-fifty. She’s left Jason her apartment, but I got the company. When Sydney told us that, neither of us could believe it. I mean, me, take charge of Hale Industries? I don’t even know how the share market works! Granted, neither does Jason, but still…

“Mr. Nathan Laskin will head the Board of Trustees until you feel that you are ready to take over,” Sydney says. I’ve known him for…I don’t know. As long as I can remember. For a lawyer, he’s really honest, and he’s always been nice to me.

“But why Sookie?” Jason demands. “I’m the oldest and I’m the man of the family!”

“That is what your grandmother wished,” says Sydney. “We must respect that.” ‘As if the Board would ever accept Playboy Jason as the CEO,’ he adds in his mind.

“Sookie wouldn’t know what to do!” Jason protests, conveniently forgetting that he has no idea what to do either.

“Which is why Nathan Laskin is in charge,” explains Sydney. I know Nathan Laskin. He’s an honest man and very trustworthy, which is probably why Gran chose him. Jason storms out in a huff. His mind is full of swear words so I withdraw from it immediately.

“There’s also something else for you, Sookie,” says Sydney. He hands me an envelope. I feel something hard inside it, along with a few folded sheets of paper. The envelope’s been sealed with wax. The seal is a symbol that I’m not familiar with; it looks like a coiled serpentine creature. The detail is so intricate that I can make out individual scales, and that’s on a seal the size of a quarter.

Sydney leaves me alone to my own musings and rejoins the main group. I grab Gran’s letter opener from her desk and slide it under the wax seal. For some reason, I want to keep the seal intact. Later, I’ll know why.

Inside is a key and a letter from Gran. The date on it is my eighteenth birthday.

Dear Sookie, it reads.

By the time you read these words, I’ll no longer be with you. Just remember that I’ll always love you, no matter where I am, and I know you’ll make me proud.

I’ve done things in my life; things that I’m not proud of but things that I don’t regret. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, but the timing is never right. I am not ready to let these things come out into the open. I am not sure if I will ever be ready. I just hope that when you do find out, you’ll be able to forgive me.

Gran’s words are cryptic, and I have no idea what they mean. She writes that the key is for a safe that contains the information I need if I still have no idea what she’s talking about by the time I read these words.

I tuck the letter and the key into my purse and then call for Louis.

The bank is an old fashioned marble building, like something you’d find in Europe. I have to prove that I am actually Sookie Stackhouse before I’m allowed to access the safe because apparently, apart from Gran, I’m the only one who’s allowed to see what’s inside. That’s what Gran wanted.

There are a lot of old photos inside the safe, along with birth certificates and Gran and Grandpa Stackhouse’s marriage certificate, and a bunch of old letters. Some of them are love letters from Grandpa to Gran. Others are from a mysterious other person who only signs his name with an ‘F’. I take it that it’s the first letter of his name. I recognize the people in all the photos —Gran, Grandpa Stackhouse, Aunt Linda, Dad, Bartlett— save for one. It is a portrait of an extremely beautiful man who can actually compete with Eric in terms of handsomeness. He has a cleft chin and clear blue eyes and his skin is so very fair. Blond hair flows over his shoulders and obscures the top of his ears, although I can see that he has detached earlobes. The back of the photo yields a lot of clues. Gran’s written the man’s name, and the date that the picture was taken. The man was called ‘Fintan’ —what sort of name is that?— and the picture was taken in March 1958. Dad was born in December that year.

Fintan looks slightly familiar now that I think about it. In fact, he looks a bit like Jason —only more handsome, of course— and Jason looks a lot like Dad. I find a picture of Dad and compare it to Grandpa Stackhouse. Grandpa Stackhouse has a widow’s peak. So does Gran. Dad, however, doesn’t. Neither does Aunt Linda. I remember from biology class that a widow’s peak is a recessive trait, meaning that if both parents exhibit that trait, then their children are bound to have it too.

So either Aunt Linda and Dad are adopted, or if they’re not, they’re still not Grandpa Stackhouse’s children.

I don’t tell anyone about what I’ve found and I put everything back in the safe, plus the letter. The key I take with me. There’s more that needs investigating, and right now, I just don’t have time.

I get home and get out of my funeral gear before hopping into the shower and scrubbing my skin so thoroughly that I feel a little bit raw when I get out. It’s good. It reminds me that I’m alive. It’s time to bring out the big guns. I select a khaki military style sleeveless shirtdress that’s cut like a trench coat and cinch the waist with a wide brown leather belt that has a gold buckle. I slip my new YSL magenta suede pumps onto my feet and then add stacks of gold bangles as well as a large onyx and gold cocktail ring. It’s I’m a woman on a mission; there’s a murderer that needs catching and this time, it’s personal.

It’s four thirty; still an hour or so until Eric wakes up. That’s enough time for me to go and pick the brains of the cops working on the case. If I’m going to solve this mystery, I’ll need evidence. They’re obviously not going to let me see the crime scene photos and the like, so I’ll just have to get what I need myself.

Andy’s in. He’s still dressed in his black suit from the funeral, and he’s surprised to see me. “Has the case gotten any new developments?” I ask.

“You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, Miss Stackhouse.”

I stall for as long as possible whilst viewing a slideshow of crime scene photos. Maudette lies on her rug, her glassy eyes wide open. The killer’s rearranged her body so that it’s in a sexually explicit pose. He’s trying to communicate something; he thinks she’s a whore. It’s the same with Dawn, except she’s on her bed, and she put up more of a fight. Both women are naked. I can’t be squeamish now. Those little details can mean the difference between defeat and victory. And then…

Sally Wentworth was Gran’s secretary slash personal assistant. She’s trying to put herself through journalism school and as a journalist in training, she’s pretty good at PR and marketing, which is why Gran hired her. That, and Gran really wanted to help a hopeful young woman like Sally set herself up as a career woman. Sal’s calling to remind me that there’s yet another fundraising gala in three days, and she wants to know whether I’m cancelling or not. Originally, I was going to go with Gran.

“No,” I say. “I’m not cancelling.” It’s very important for Hale Industries that I maintain a good public image. Of course, my little act with Eric is making the public think that I’m a very bad girl, but some people are praising my courage. Plus, Eric is a well-respected, if feared, businessman, so being seen with him doesn’t actually harm the company.

“Who are you taking as your plus one?” Sal asks. “I have to inform them so they have the name cards right.”

“Can I call you back tonight?” I ask. I have someone in mind; I just have to see whether he’s willing to go or not.

“A charity gala?” says Eric. Judging from his expression, you might have thought that I asked him to go on the wheel of agony instead.

“Business, image, publicity,” I remind him.

“I find these things rather odious,” he says.

“You just have to smile until your cheek muscles hurt, and then keep smiling,” I say. “Please? It might even be fun, coz you’re with me and all, and it’s for a blood bank.”

Eric laughs. “Don’t you think it’s ironic to invite a vampire to a fundraising event for a blood bank?” he asks.

“Perhaps a little, but imagine the media storm. They’re bound to pounce on it. That means more publicity, for us and for your club.”

“And for Hale Industries,” he adds. Yes, I told him about how Gran left the company to me. “I know you need to keep up a good public image, at least as a business woman, if not wife material.”

I make a face at that. “Even if I do marry, I don’t want to be defined as someone’s wife,” I say. “Not unless my future husband is a really really great guy who has the ability of Charlemagne and the heart of Gandhi. Then I’d expect to be overshadowed.”

“You’re going to be an old maid if that’s your expectation for your future husband,” says Eric. “Fine, I’ll go with you. It will be interesting to watch their reactions, at any rate, and it’s the first time that I’ve been a plus one.”