The Finnish Fiasco, Chapter Twelve
When someone’s heart is broken, it is not a happy occasion. A heart can be broken by many things. If your parents were to die, assuming you do not have monstrous parents, I am sure your heart would be broken. If the poodle who had been your faithful companion for many years died one day, I am sure your heart would be broken as you dug a grave for him in your back garden and placed a nice marker and some yellow daffodils on top. If your best friend stole the love of your life and went to the Spring Fling high school dance with him and later married him, and they both became important government scientists who carried out secret government missions and they had an attractive and intelligent child together, I am sure your heart would be broken. But I do not think that you would wish your former best friend and the love of your life to be dead and buried in a double grave (with no yellow daffodils) next to your loyal poodle. At least I hope you would not wish for such a thing.
But some people, unlike you and me, do not manage their broken hearts very well. Especially when it involves the love of their life. They become angry and bitter and obsessed with thoughts of retribution. Especially when not only have they been betrayed by their best friend and the love of their life, but they have also suffered, as a direct consequence of that betrayal, the tragedy of terrible facial burns. Not to mention the horror of having things made worse when a student surgeon with poor hand-eye coordination badly botched their facial reconstruction surgery. You must admit that it is not altogether surprising that someone who had experienced these events might find herself seeking retribution.
