08-13-2016, 11:31 PM
Mami died. And then Beto knew. When Papi died, when Nico died, he felt...nothing. But they were not his Mami. They had not been the center of his world. So he could tell himself excuses. Papi wasn't around much anyway. Nico had been an annoying older brother who had perpetuated all the usual older brother cruelties. But he had no excuse when Mami died. There was nothing he could say.
And so at 8 years old, Beto found the truth. He knew he was a monster. Because he felt nothing. Even when she was laid out and painted by the mortician and Abuelita cried and cried, seizing the lifeless shoulders, hugging and kissing that grotesque waxy face, all he wondered was what was wrong with him. He touched her face all he felt was a cold piece of meat. He felt nothing. He should miss her. He tried to miss her. He was supposed to miss her. The smell of her hair when she leaned over and woke him up from sleep; the sight her cooking platanos when he came home from school; the sound of her voice helping him with his homework. He remembered it all. So...why didn't that mean anything to him in here, in his heart?
He didn't know. And he didn't miss her now that she was gone. He did not wake up crying at her memory. The smells that reminded him of her did not cause him to pause and reflect, to feel that aching emptiness everyone else said they felt. He remembered her. But remembering didn't do anything to him.
He was a monster. And that was the only thing that truly scared him, would be the only thing that ever scared him. Scared him somewhere deep inside, beyond words and feelings. The dizzying feeling of looking over the rail of the Brooklyn Bridge, the ground so far below and the magnitude of what could happen if he just climbed the rail, stood on the edge, the wind rifling his hair and the sounds of the street below, the lights of the city a sea of stars that surrounded him, and there is a part of him that feels like the universe isn’t real, it is all in his imagination, that the people, the places, the entire world are merely there for his amusement. Not real. And he feels as if he is leaning forward and will take his place in this world, the center of the world, and it is dizzying and terrifying and freeing and oppressive to him. Just one step, one decision. Just once is all it would take, and he would fall.
And that is what scares him. The realization that he is capable of anything. That he feels no empathy, no remorse, no pity, no nothing. He thought he felt nothing when Mami died. But it’s not true. He felt set free. Untethered. Lost. Adrift. Because he realized there was nothing holding him back now.
And he chooses to be different. He doesn’t know why. He cannot explain it. He is forever on that edge, ready to jump. And he clings to any and everything he can to stop from doing it, the smallest thread.
It is not surprising that Beto (short for Roberto) Josemaria AlvarezTrujillo was drawn to law. When he had been a teenager, it was the priesthood, in the hopes that the holiness and piety and forced contemplation would give him the strength to hold out. But the rituals held nothing for him, the Mysteries ridiculous to him, the Fathers and Reverends as venal as any in other professions. There was no God here. It had been his last hope, to find God, to meet him somewhere. But there was no god, no rules from on high, no higher power to cling to.
But what he sought and failed to find in the church, he found in the law. A messy convoluted system, an imperfect expression of humanity attempting to codify and impose conscience on society. Somehow, here, the contradictions, the abuses, the corruption and foolishness did not bother him the way the church had. Maybe because it acknowledged its imperfection. It never claimed to be anything other than it was.
And he could tie himself about with the strictures and rules, with the rituals and language, and could feel, for weeks or even months at a time, like he was off that bridge, that he wasn’t on the edge, ready to fall.
He enrolled at Fordham on a scholarship and graduated in 2030, at the age of 23 with his Juris Doctor and passed his bar the following year. He found himself working as a public defender, work he threw himself into. It was baptism by fire, as most public defenders worked an astonishing number of cases in such a short period of time. He was noticed very quickly. From there, he went on to private practice for a number of firms, working his way up and then into the Justice Department. He can fake emotion, enthusiasm, empathy, interest. But they are a mask. He is very good at wearing masks.
He had no wife, no children, no pets. Work was his life. So he excelled at it. No one guessed his secret. And he was good at it- excelled at it- because he felt nothing. He was not swayed by emotion. Tears and angry protests did not elicit feelings, nor was he afraid of going after high powered individuals. If they only knew what was in his head. It came down to what was legal and logical and what could be proved. And he used the law like a scalpel to cut away the detritus of emotion and chaos, of lies and deception, until the truth, as proved by law, remained.
He is now 38. He still stands on the edge of the bridge. He will stand there until he dies. But he has gotten practiced at staring into that maw of death and suffering that has been inside him since he was a child. He never relaxes. But he is content with the balance he has struck.
And now there is something new. Magic is real. It is irrefutable, now. He has seen the videos. He is intrigued at the challenge the world faces. An entire of body of law will have to be crafted all at once. The next few years will set precedents that will impact the country in a very real way, the way Marbury v. Madison did in shaping the country 250 years ago.
More than that, though, above that…something is here. For the first time, he senses a divine presence. He does not know what it means. But he wants to find out. He does not feel excitement. He tells himself that. Not excitement. Never excitement. But he is intrigued.
And so at 8 years old, Beto found the truth. He knew he was a monster. Because he felt nothing. Even when she was laid out and painted by the mortician and Abuelita cried and cried, seizing the lifeless shoulders, hugging and kissing that grotesque waxy face, all he wondered was what was wrong with him. He touched her face all he felt was a cold piece of meat. He felt nothing. He should miss her. He tried to miss her. He was supposed to miss her. The smell of her hair when she leaned over and woke him up from sleep; the sight her cooking platanos when he came home from school; the sound of her voice helping him with his homework. He remembered it all. So...why didn't that mean anything to him in here, in his heart?
He didn't know. And he didn't miss her now that she was gone. He did not wake up crying at her memory. The smells that reminded him of her did not cause him to pause and reflect, to feel that aching emptiness everyone else said they felt. He remembered her. But remembering didn't do anything to him.
He was a monster. And that was the only thing that truly scared him, would be the only thing that ever scared him. Scared him somewhere deep inside, beyond words and feelings. The dizzying feeling of looking over the rail of the Brooklyn Bridge, the ground so far below and the magnitude of what could happen if he just climbed the rail, stood on the edge, the wind rifling his hair and the sounds of the street below, the lights of the city a sea of stars that surrounded him, and there is a part of him that feels like the universe isn’t real, it is all in his imagination, that the people, the places, the entire world are merely there for his amusement. Not real. And he feels as if he is leaning forward and will take his place in this world, the center of the world, and it is dizzying and terrifying and freeing and oppressive to him. Just one step, one decision. Just once is all it would take, and he would fall.
And that is what scares him. The realization that he is capable of anything. That he feels no empathy, no remorse, no pity, no nothing. He thought he felt nothing when Mami died. But it’s not true. He felt set free. Untethered. Lost. Adrift. Because he realized there was nothing holding him back now.
And he chooses to be different. He doesn’t know why. He cannot explain it. He is forever on that edge, ready to jump. And he clings to any and everything he can to stop from doing it, the smallest thread.
It is not surprising that Beto (short for Roberto) Josemaria AlvarezTrujillo was drawn to law. When he had been a teenager, it was the priesthood, in the hopes that the holiness and piety and forced contemplation would give him the strength to hold out. But the rituals held nothing for him, the Mysteries ridiculous to him, the Fathers and Reverends as venal as any in other professions. There was no God here. It had been his last hope, to find God, to meet him somewhere. But there was no god, no rules from on high, no higher power to cling to.
But what he sought and failed to find in the church, he found in the law. A messy convoluted system, an imperfect expression of humanity attempting to codify and impose conscience on society. Somehow, here, the contradictions, the abuses, the corruption and foolishness did not bother him the way the church had. Maybe because it acknowledged its imperfection. It never claimed to be anything other than it was.
And he could tie himself about with the strictures and rules, with the rituals and language, and could feel, for weeks or even months at a time, like he was off that bridge, that he wasn’t on the edge, ready to fall.
He enrolled at Fordham on a scholarship and graduated in 2030, at the age of 23 with his Juris Doctor and passed his bar the following year. He found himself working as a public defender, work he threw himself into. It was baptism by fire, as most public defenders worked an astonishing number of cases in such a short period of time. He was noticed very quickly. From there, he went on to private practice for a number of firms, working his way up and then into the Justice Department. He can fake emotion, enthusiasm, empathy, interest. But they are a mask. He is very good at wearing masks.
He had no wife, no children, no pets. Work was his life. So he excelled at it. No one guessed his secret. And he was good at it- excelled at it- because he felt nothing. He was not swayed by emotion. Tears and angry protests did not elicit feelings, nor was he afraid of going after high powered individuals. If they only knew what was in his head. It came down to what was legal and logical and what could be proved. And he used the law like a scalpel to cut away the detritus of emotion and chaos, of lies and deception, until the truth, as proved by law, remained.
He is now 38. He still stands on the edge of the bridge. He will stand there until he dies. But he has gotten practiced at staring into that maw of death and suffering that has been inside him since he was a child. He never relaxes. But he is content with the balance he has struck.
And now there is something new. Magic is real. It is irrefutable, now. He has seen the videos. He is intrigued at the challenge the world faces. An entire of body of law will have to be crafted all at once. The next few years will set precedents that will impact the country in a very real way, the way Marbury v. Madison did in shaping the country 250 years ago.
More than that, though, above that…something is here. For the first time, he senses a divine presence. He does not know what it means. But he wants to find out. He does not feel excitement. He tells himself that. Not excitement. Never excitement. But he is intrigued.