And All the Titans Fall

By Linh Nguyen

In her second year of college, her philosophy professor went missing. It was odd, but not unexpected. His mind had been deteriorating for years, and he wasn’t quite as sharp as he had been. Some reports even said that the content of his lectures began to warp as well, becoming more sporadic, outlandish, and hysterical. He threaded the recesses of her memory in webs, a specter of coffee and burnt wood. She never could quite recall the tilt of his eyes, the timbre of his voice. All she had of him was this:

Him pacing behind his desk, hands tangled in his hair. The board scrubbed clean. Her fingers, sore from writing all day. His voice, a stampede in her head.

“Despite what many say, I’ve always thought that the human drive was based on hope,” he said, thumping a hand against his desk. Dark mahogany. He did always seem the wild child, unkempt and disheveled, like a changeling. He went on, “I have never met one person who did not at first believe that they could change the world. That every small act of theirs could amount to something. Perhaps it did, perhaps it didn’t. And you know what I asked them? I said, ‘Well, why do you think so highly of yourself?’ Their response, every time, contained the line, ‘Because I believe I can be someone memorable.’”

The class traded matching incredulous looks, sniggering under their breaths. “But sir,” her seatmate said slowly, “There are countless people out there who do acts that are not motivated by hope.”

“Is desire not hope in grimmer light? The belief that you, too, can be capable of change? Isn’t that something lovely? I want you all to know: not once have I met someone who did not matter. They were all gorgeous in their own right, so full of want to shape the world. I think, even the simple core belief that you may be important is enough for one to go on. Is that not hope in itself?”

She wrote those words on a paper napkin from Starbucks, gazing down at the letters, her pen making indentations in the wood. She never did forget, years later. Some days, she wondered. He had been brilliant. Mad, but brilliant. She wondered if all that love he carried had led him astray.

. . . 

She’s an award-winning playwright, lauded for her accurate depictions of complex female protagonists. She’s alternately despised and adored. The public weeps over her work, and she sits behind her desk, wringing her hands. Publications criticize the pitiful girls in her writings and the lecherous men who chase them, begging her to write kinder, happier stories. No one asks where the characters come from. She feebly attempts to put her pen to paper. 

The worst secret of Daphne O’Hara’s life launched her to stardom, and now she’s lost. 

Nothing turned out the way she meant it to. 

. . . 

She had been 14 years old, still a bleeding heart, nurturing her anger towards the world with both hands, kissing strangers in parks, and boiling lipstick in the kitchen. He had been 25, the youngest Drama teacher at Yale, and he’d sat in the front row of her school’s production, and when they caught each other’s eyes, he’d grinned and leaned forward like he’d planned it all along. Afterward, he’d approached her backstage, still in costume, and pressed a business card in her hand. “If you want to be a star,” he’d said and winked. She flipped the thick cream stock over. Alexander DeSalvo, it read.

If she could turn back time, she would tell herself to run. 

. . . 

“They’re turning against you,” her assistant, Noah, says, gnashing his teeth together. “You can’t expect them to keep supporting you when all you write are the same damn stories! They’re calling you a one-trick pony in the papers, you know that?”

She studies the new script curled on her desk, pretty as anything. The sunlight pours in thick through the windows, and she brushes off a stray crumb from the cover page. 

“Whatever’s happened to you— it’s over! You can’t keep living in the past, Daphne. It’s done, and however hard you try, it’s not going to change.”

It’s a beautiful day. 

“Is this still about him? All of this, it’s— it’s always been about him, hasn’t it? God, it’s almost like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“I don’t need you to,” Daphne snaps, her tongue flitting quickly through her teeth, that same temper rising from her gut. It’s refreshing, and sick, because she can almost feel his phantom voice in her ear, that low baritone that pleased and horrified her in equal spasms, and you’re just like me, aren’t you? “You don’t get to judge me. Don’t you dare.”

Noah looks at her so sadly then, so filled with pity, that Daphne’s stomach churns itself nauseous, her breaths coming out quick. “He’s gone, Daphne. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

You have no idea, she thinks, what I fear.

. . . 

[Excerpt from D. Hara’s “Persephone In Her Garden”]:

Persephone:  Mother, I want to go home. I miss the suns, the hills, and the flowers where the children sing my name.

[Demeter turns]

Demeter: Why are you unable to leave, dear Daughter?

Persephone: Mother, I fear I have forgotten how to.

. . . 

She would have preferred to spin the story in another direction, one where she shuddered when Alexander touched her, tripping over her feet in her haste to run, skirt catching at her kneecaps. The shame would still linger either way, but perhaps the guilt would have been less palpable, not as tinged by regret. Here’s the unvarnished truth: she’d given as much as she’d taken, and her fingers would close the distance between them, tugging him by his lapels. He’d looked so boyish then, younger than his years, face tainted by surprise. It was a discreet business, tucked behind classroom doors and drawn curtains. 

She never questioned it when he bent down to kiss her, or when he ran a palm along the lines of her cheek, or when he crowded her against the wall, ankles touching.

She should have. She should have done a lot of things.

They’ve only been together for a year when he asks her to move in with him. By then, her parents stopped talking to her, and her sister never returned any of her calls. So of course she followed him. 

It wasn’t like she had a choice. 

. . . 

Daphne taps at her phone, reading her mother’s last text message. Dated from two months ago, on New Year’s: Happy 2023. She ignores how her heart clenches at the words, so carefully removed, like a distant ghost, not a person she calls Mom. She opts to recline back in her seat. Leather and vinyl, smelling faintly of old vomit. She’s pretty certain there’s a piss stain by her shoes. The subway is different at night; she’s just another tired passenger wanting to go home, and the dark presses in like a living thing. She misses her family. 

There’s a tap on Daphne’s shoulder, and she flinches despite herself, her heart already pounding in her chest. She turns and catches soft blue eyes and an amused smile. She tries not to stare. 

Daphne isn’t quite sure how she managed to miss this specific commuter, because, impossibly enough, she seems to glow, lit up by the fluorescent lights. Dark hair and a colorful sundress, heels clicking to an unheard beat. 

“Hey, um,” the lady attempts, biting her lip, “I know this might seem random but… You don’t happen to be listening to June & The Ghouls, right?”

Daphne dares a glance down at her phone; she hadn’t been paying much attention to the music, preoccupied as she was. Euphoria, the song’s title reads. And beside it, the credits: June & The Ghouls.

She doesn’t know who this woman is. She could very well be dangerous, hoping to lure in innocent civilians through vanilla perfume and dark pink lipstick, and oddly white teeth. Maybe it’s Daphne’s paranoia speaking. All she knows is, she hasn’t had a proper night’s rest in days, she’s cold, and this is perhaps the kindest person she’s met in years, so she blurts out, “Yeah, I am. I— They’re my favorite group.”

The woman visibly brightens, leaning forward. “Oh my god, that’s such a funny coincidence! I mean, I probably look different from the music videos, but, ah… well, I’m the lead singer for June & The Ghouls, actually!”

“Wait, you’re June?”

“Yup, right in the flesh! We’re pretty new, so I was just happy to hear that someone liked our songs. Sorry if I came on too strong.”

Daphne swallows and attempts a small smile. “Not at all.” She holds out a hand. “My name’s Daphne.”

June takes it. “Nice meeting you. And hey, if you’re ever free, we perform down at Big Mama’s, you know, that diner near Central Park. I’d love to see you there sometime.”

Daphne pauses, then nods. “I’ll be there.”

. . . 

Things took a turn for the worse when Alexander lost his job. He’d explained that it was a temporary leave, simply a long-awaited vacation, but she’d suspected there’d been more to it. It’s only much later in the night when she catches him drinking that she understands; by then, though, he’s too far gone, and day finds her as a puddle on the floor, blood crusting her mouth. His ring had caught her cheek and torn the skin. 

The apologies were profuse, littered with “I hadn’t been in my right mind,” and, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll never do it again.” 

Looking back, even if she had lashed out like he’d expected her to, it wouldn’t have mattered either way. She’d always come running back to him. He’d known that. She’d been too young, too easy, too gullible. 

(Maybe if she loved him enough, he would change.)

. . . 

[Excerpt from D. Hara’s “Inside Pandora’s Box”]:

Pandora: The world is suffering because of what I have done. Is this my eternal penance?

Epimetheus: Curiosity is human nature. Is this blame truly yours to carry?

Pandora:  It is what I deserve.

. . . 

“So, were you ever planning to tell me I’ve been hanging out with a celebrity?”

Daphne looks up sharply and catches the teasing line of June’s grin, her easy posture. Not accusing, simply interested. “Well, it never really came up,” she manages.

June throws her head back and laughs. “You’re very mysterious, you know that? It’s all good, though. My sister happened to see one of your plays and came home raving about it. I searched up the playwright and bam! Here we are.”

“Oh. Well, uh, what did you think of my work?”

“You’re, like, a genius. I’m not even kidding, don’t try to deny it.” 

Daphne ducked, so she could hide her blush, a smile growing despite herself. God, what was wrong with her? 

“Though, I do have to ask… are your plays always like this?”

“Like what?”

“You know, the main characters suffer the entire way through, and at the end, they die. It’s like, all the pain they went through has no meaning.”

“I guess.”

“Are those the kind of stories you want to tell?”

She thinks of the girl she’d once been. Brimming with fire. She recalls Alexander and his rough fingers. Unbidden, she says, “No, not really.”

“Then why tell them?”

Because I want him to suffer. I want him to feel at least half of the pain I’ve experienced.

. . .

Daphne wears heavy parkas in the summer, and the pull of skin on her arms from the time Alexander took a knife on her only strengthens her fear. There is no place she can run to where she can escape him. He’s the elusive specter on the streets, the phantom in the windows. Daphne ducks her head and refuses to look up. 

She still dreams of those 3 years with him.  

. . .

“You have to let him go,” Noah begged, as she carefully dabbed at the gash on her arm with a tissue. He was kneeling on the floor, digging through his First-Aid kit, producing gauze and cream and ointment. “He can’t change, Daphne! He won’t. Please. Leave, before he kills you.”

“I can’t give up on him.”

“Then at least save yourself.”

. . . 

It’s late summer in their friendship of almost 9 months when Daphne finally rolls up the sleeves of her jacket and asks, “Do you know where these scars came from?”

June looks up from her novel, brow creasing. “I don’t think so. You never told, so I never asked.”

“Have you heard of a man named Alexander DeSalvo?”

June sits up. “Oh, yeah! He was that Yale professor who got fired because of a huge scandal, right? I always wondered what happened to him.”

If June knew the truth, it would change everything. To be laid bare before her, a terrible undoing of Daphne’s highest walls: a primal fear she keeps tucked beneath her ribcage, But Daphne trusts June, despite it all. And so she says, taking a deep breath, “And did you hear of the 14-year-old girl he loved?”

. . . 

There was nothing Daphne craved more than to be loved by him, to be desired. It was a ceaseless hunger that clawed at her nerves. She despised it, shoved it in the box where she kept all her most gruesome secrets; and still it persisted, a ringing tune from which she listened to by ear. Desire was humbling, awful to put to name, and mortifyingly human. She wanted to be loved so badly, that she thought she might die from it. 

There wasn’t anyone to pick up the pieces for her. She had to do it herself. There was no Prince Charming. All she had was second-hand bravery she wore like a cloak, bundled in the need to breathe free for once. After spending so many years under Alexander’s thumb, she comes up with a plan of escape.

And by god, despite the insurmountable odds stacked against her: it works. 

. . . 

“Everything I did, it was for him,” Daphne admits now, her eyes dull. “I built an entire career for one man. God, it sounds stupid now, but I was so angry back then. I wanted to make him suffer.”

She and June are reclined on the couch in Daphne’s apartment, a news channel blaring from the TV screen. After Daphne had spilled her guts to her, June had been silent for the barest, most heart-wrenching seconds of Daphne’s life, before bundling her into a tight hug. Daphne hadn’t realized how much she missed intimacy like this. The air between them is tense and slow, pounding but not uncomfortable. Just layered. 

“It’s not stupid,” June chides gently, laying a warm hand on Daphne’s arm. “It’s righteous. You deserve to feel rage for what he’s done to you.”

“He wasn’t… he wasn’t always like that. A monster. You know, he used to love dramas. Musicals, especially. On days when he was in a good mood, he’d drag me to the theater, and we’d watch those plays for hours. He always cried at the end, regardless of the genre. I wanted him to see my work and remember what he did to me. I didn’t want him to forget.”

June frowns and lowers her head. “But at the same time, neither will you. You’re always going to relive your life like this, stuck in the past. Don’t you want to be happy?”

“I don’t deserve it.” Daphne bristles. “I stayed with him for years. I let him play me however he wanted. I was the idiot for chasing him in the first place.”

“You weren’t an idiot. You were 14. He’s a fucking predator, Daphne. No matter how much you liked him, he should have known better. You were just a kid. Let yourself be the victim for once.”

Even when he beat her, she’d never let herself see him as anything other than Alexander, the eccentric, brilliant man that carried her from the dust when no one else had. She didn’t grant herself the privilege, because then she would have had to face the fact that he’d never really loved her, not in the way she deserved. 

“They all failed you, Daphne. Every last one of them. Someone could have helped you out of there, and no one did. You shouldn’t have to apologize to any of them, not now, not ever. And certainly not to Alexander.”

“But what will I do without him?” What would I do without all these ghosts on my shoulders?

“You go on, just as you are.” June’s hand comes up, parting the thick strands of Daphne’s hair. “And that will be enough.”

Daphne allows herself to do the one thing she hasn’t done in years, not even after she’d escaped Alexander: she lowers her face in her hands and cries. It’s vulnerable, something Alexander would have despised, but he’s not here anymore. It’s just June, an arm around her shoulders, June who has waited for her all this time without pushing, June who is the kind of daydream Daphne has always believed in. 

She deserves this. 

In the late hours of the morning, June dozing in the armchair beside Daphne, hand still clenched around hers, Daphne writes. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. 

She has a story to tell. 

. . . 

[Excerpt from D. Hara’s “And All The Titans Fall”]:

Bella:  Now it’s just us, at the end of the world. 

Ivory: Are you lost?

Bella: No. I’m right where I belong.

Ivory: And where’s that?

Bella: Here, with you. [takes Ivory’s hand] It’s beautiful outside. Let us live a little longer in the sun. 

. . . 

“So, tell us. Why the change of heart? You are, no offense, world-renowned for your innovative, yet dark spins on classic mythology. And yet, with the release of your new musical, ‘And All The Titans Fall’, you seemingly subvert every expectation placed upon you. Was there any specific motive behind your choice to tell this particular story?”

The talk show host is all down-home Southern charm, with laugh lines around his mouth and creases smoothed away by makeup. He leans forward in his chair as if he can’t wait to hear her response. So does half of the live audience. 

Daphne smiles, just a bit. “Well… I had someone tell me once that the stories we need most are often the ones we deny. This was something I’ve been wanting to share for a long time, and I finally gained the courage to do so.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell the special person, then, right here, right now?”

Daphne grins wide at the camera, knowing June will see her even miles away, and says, as warmly as she can manage, “Thank you for pulling me out of the dark.”

. . . 

“I’ll miss what could have been,” Daphne murmured as she bent to pick up her scarf, cradling the red fabric in her arms. “But I won’t miss you.” There was freedom to her now, detached from Alexander and his obsessive devotion, her scars a witness to his abuse. 

“What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” Alexander was screaming, flinging household items around like a child throwing a tantrum. 

Daphne laughed humorlessly. “Maybe. Probably. But anything else would be better than living under your roof. We’re done, Alex. This is over.”
“No one will understand you like I do!”

“You know I never asked for that, Alexander,” Daphne said gently, the only kindness she would grant him. “All I wanted was for you to love me. And you couldn’t even do that.”

“Nothing will be enough for you, will it?” Alexander spat. 

“I’m enough for me. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

Despite the blistering weather and the twinge of pain in her arms, Daphne couldn’t help smiling as she stepped out into the sun. For the first time in a long time, she could breathe. 

–

Linh Nguyen is a hopeful young writer who aspires to share the power of writing with the world. After moving to the US from Vietnam and adapting to a new life, she has come to recognize the impact language can have on one’s perspective on life as well as the experiences given to you. When she is not scribbling half-formed ideas in journals, she can be found agonizing over poetry.