The Nature of Cruelty by L. H. Cosway Page A

wrote. I always read everything she writes, because I like to support her, but I also find it funny how different she comes across in her articles. It’s almost like she forces herself to put on a persona that fits the tone her readers will enjoy. Let’s just say it’s far bitchier and more judgmental than she’s ever been in real life.
    After scrolling down I find the one she threw together yesterday about that new pop star, who goes by the name of Molly Willis. The headline in bold blue font reads: New Girl on the Block Molly Spends a Wild Night in Camden Town . It’s accompanied by a photo of said pop star flinging her cigarette butt at a guy with a camera. The outfit she’s wearing is nuts, but I kind of appreciate the craziness of it. It consists of a bright purple wig, cut-off denim shorts, fishnets, cowboy boots, and a luminous pink bra. Well, I suppose she’s making the most of the hot weather while it lasts.
    After this I do a search for open-mic nights in London before writing down some of the dates and locations. Singing in front of an audience is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but up until now I’ve only ever had the nerve to do it in front of the mirror when the house is empty. I once signed up for an open-mic night back home, but when I got to the club I didn’t have the guts to see it through. Perhaps the anonymity of such a large city as London will be better for me and my timid little singing dream.
    Once I’m finished with my usual rounds of the Internet, I remember Robert adding me on Facebook last night. I’ve never been on his page before, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Normally I see him make the odd comment on Sasha’s wall, but that’s about it.
    When I log in, his friend request pops right up, and I don’t know what to do about it. I want to accept it so I can snoop on his page, but then that’ll have to go both ways and he’ll be able to snoop on mine. My life is nothing exciting. I mostly only talk to Sasha and my few friends from college. Feeling insecure that Robert will discover how dull my life is if I hit “accept,” I decide to play it safe and click on “decline.” I know I shouldn’t care about what he thinks of me, but I do. I can’t help it — I always have.
    A couple of minutes go by as I comment on a few of my friends’ statuses. Then I hear a door opening at the end of the hall and hard footsteps on the wooden floor, becoming louder as they get closer to my room. My door flies open, and Robert steps inside.
    I glance up from my laptop screen to take him in. His stylish haircut is dishevelled, but he’s dressed nicely in a shirt and expensive jeans. He drops down on the bed in front of me, scratching his hand across his day-old stubble.
    “You declined my request,” he states, vaguely annoyed.
    I pull out my earphones and laugh, then ask, “What were you doing, waiting eagerly online for me to accept it or something?”
    He rolls his eyes and smirks. “No, I was online just now when I saw your cruel rejection.” He stops and puts his hand dramatically to his heart. “How could you, Lana?”
    Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’ll get over it.”
    He reaches forward and tugs on the toe of my sock. “I’m going back to my room to add you again. This time don’t be a bitch and just accept it, will you?”
    I give him a considering look, then take great pleasure in replying, “Eh, let me see, that would be a no.”
    He grins. “Oh, my, are you enjoying this, little Lana?”
    I keep my face expressionless when I glance up at him and continuing typing. “Maybe.”
    He grabs my iPod, tearing it from the earphones, and begins scrolling through my music. He makes a face of disgust when he starts calling out the artists’ names: “Ani DiFranco, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Regina Spektor, Tori Amos. Good God, Lana, is there a single male to be found in this monstrosity of a music collection?”
    “Uh, yeah. Keep looking. But I do