Natalie Haynes

I see you. I see all those who men call monsters.

And I see the men who call them that. Call themselves heroes, of course.

Enough to know that the hero isn’t the one who’s kind or brave or loyal. Sometimes – not always, but sometimes – he is monstrous.

And the monster? Who is she? She is what happens when someone cannot be saved.

As Zeus raped her, she thought of being an eagle.

exchanged without warning for a cold, gripping panic whenever a child stumbled or hid or cried.

This, she knew, was love. And she felt it even though she did not want it.

Hera and Zeus were ideally matched, at least in terms of their capacity to antagonize one another. There were days when she believed he could scarcely rise from his bed without seducing or raping someone.

He was there more than not, happiest alone making things.

Imagine being a god, she thought, and still needing to tell everyone how impressive you were.

smiled in a way which he intended to be enigmatic, but instead made him look like a small child struggling to keep a secret.

You are not. You’re not still sympathizing with him. Why? No one asked him to touch the eye or the tooth. He asked to have them. He tricked the Graiai into handing them over. You saw that, did you? I suppose you thought it was clever. Clever Perseus using his wits to defeat the disgusting old women? Your own eyes aren’t all that, you know. Oh, but at least they’re safe inside your head. Well, lucky you. Would it kill you to be sympathetic about someone who isn’t as fortunate as you are? Would it? No.