Evil – a definition.

The first thing to note when trying to define the term ‘evil’ is that there can be no single definition - it is impossible to define one term as the single ‘right’ one since in opposite to predefined adjectives such as dead or alive, intact or broken, in or out, the difference between good and evil cannot be pointed out universally.

Most people consider those ‘evil’ who act morally wrong, roughly speaking, who do harm to other beings, may it be of physical or mental nature.

However, this definition –albeit being surprisingly widespread in our modern world- seems everything but satisfying to me, as it is more than vague. For instance, our society –or the moral values, for that matter- are way too diverse for a universal definition of ‘doing harm to other people’ – actions that are frowned upon in western countries seem to be a part of the everyday life in eastern cultures, and vice versa.

With that said, it is little surprising that none of the persons we consider ‘evil’ nowadays –may it be terrorist leaders, deceased dictators, or even antagonists in fictional works- would ever consider themselves evil. Much more, they would see themselves as visionaries; people who fight for a better world.

As for me, I do not think that there are ‘evil’ individuals. While some people most definitely deserve to be charged with a fee, arrested, or even locked up for the rest of their lives, I cannot name one person of whom I could say that he or she is thoroughly evil; that he or she aims at harming other beings without any ulterior motives.

The sound of the classroom door getting opened makes me look up from my paper: my Social Studies teacher has just entered the room and now shuffles over to his desk. After placing his heavy leather bag on the table with a loud thud, he turns towards his students and huffs, “Good morning, class.” His voice literally drips with disparaging sarcasm as he eyes his students with the same idle glance he shows nearly every morning.

I can’t hold back an amused smirk: being in his late fifties and still single, he definitely doesn’t have too many reasons to jump for joy, but the way he looks at us –big pouches hang under his dull turquoise eyes; his bleached, blonde toupee could use an adjustment, and his ancient, unironed corduroy suit tops his ‘I don’t give a flying shit’-look off- just takes the cake – he looks like the antagonist of a sixties crime movie, and doesn’t behave much different.

“Got anything to say, Mister Henning?” the old man snaps at me upon noticing the broad grin on my face.

I hastily shake my head and reply, “No, Mister Crank. Of course not.”

“Well then,” he mutters, leans against his desk and sighs, “I guess you should know that we have a new student from today on.” He turns his head and focuses a corner in the classroom opposite to his desk, “Say hello to, erm…” he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a crumpled-up piece of paper, narrowing his eyes to get a better view of the scribbled name on it, “What the hell does that P stand for?”  he mumbles but then shakes his head and looks up, “Anyway, say hello to your new classmate, Diane Pie.”

My look wanders over to the corner: he’s right - there appears to be a new face in the row of students. A girl, apparently, not older than eighteen years. Her face, half-hidden by her straight, shoulder-length hair that appears to have a dark shade of pink, reveals a pair of cold, crystal blue eyes that look the teacher over, as well as an emotionless mouth that seems to consist of nothing but a pair of narrowed, almost colorless lips.

“Please,” the girl replies with a conspicuous slowness; her weak, slightly trembling voice is barely audible from my seat, “just call me Pinkamena.”

My look wanders over her body and I notice her odd outfit: instead of wearing a pair of tight jeans or a short skirt like most girls in my class do, the new girl appears to prefer rather simple fashion: her whole body, from knees to shoulders, is covered by a plain, black dress; shiny black shoes with a barely noticeable heel rest underneath her table.

Mister Crank hesitates for a second, eyeing the girl skeptically, probably confused by her uncommon request. Then, with a weak smile that emphasizes the many wrinkles etched into his face, he replies. “Well, Diane,” he makes sure to lay special stress on her name, “Why don’t you go tell us a little something about you? That’s what the new kids usually do.”

“Well, why don’t you go die in a hole?” the girl retorts dryly, keeping her emotionless, straight face, “You’re my teacher, not my boss. My life’s got all shit to do with you”.

My teacher’s smile vanishes instantly; his eyes narrow, and the muffled sounds of his grinding teeth escape his mouth. “Watch out, kid.” He snaps at her after a few seconds of silence; the muscles in his slender arms begin to tense, “Don’t wanna get in trouble, do you?”

A sly grin appears on the new girl’s face as she replies, “What do you know about trouble, old fart? I can assure you, if there’s one thing I’m not afraid of, then it’s what you call ‘trouble’.”

He stares at her, she stares back; his eyes widened with built-up rage, hers narrowed in condescending amusement. Their little power play lasts for a few more moments, but ends as Mr. Crank shakes his head and turns away with a mumbled curse.

I see a satisfied smile appear on Diane’s face as she leans back on her chair, resting her head against the wall behind her, and closes her eyes.

Raising an eyebrow, I lower my pen and turn towards the new girl. Needless to say that she has managed to awaken my interest: not only that she has the courage –or much more the audacity- to stand up to our teacher, her aura -her appearance, her style, her way of speaking- has prompted some questions inside my head that I’m eager to answer: why does she want to get called ‘Pinkamena’? What kind of a name is that anyway? Why the uncommon hair color? Why does she wear a dress at school – a black one at that. And why does she react that dismissively? Certainly, the times of verbose speeches on one’s family and hobbies are over now that we’re in high school, but never before have I seen somebody give that kind of reply.

Ceasing from my essay about evil, I pull out a small note pad and start taking notes about my latest encounter.

Being a textbook example for a maverick –an undersized nerd with more pimples on his face than friends in his life- it is kind of self-explanatory that I have a lot of free time. Time I –contrary to most of my classmates- spend mostly with writing – essays, stories, sometimes even treatises; there is next to no topic I have not yet explored.

So I decide to miss hearing my teacher’s lessons about inspirations and things that influence our social behavior and instead work on a character profile about the new girl, determined to get to know her better.

P. (“Pinkamena”?) Diane Pie – first impressions: dressed in black; uncommon hair color; rather harsh tone when speaking. I would take her for a simple punk or emo if it weren’t for the well-groomed appearance and the comparably ordinary haircut.

I notice that she hasn’t left her relaxed position, still leaning her head back with her eyes closed.

Takes a nap in class, regardless of the teacher watching her. Defiant or simply naïve behavior? Tired or simply bored by the –admittedly unspectacular- lessons? Perhaps she ha

“Mister Henning!” the admonishing voice of my teacher interrupts my thoughts and makes my head shoot up, “If you could stop fluttering your eyes at your classmates for a second and give another example!?”

“E-example?” I stutter, caught off-guard buy his sudden interruption, “Yeah … sure.”

“Well then,” he says with a weak, emotionless smirk on his face, “Please name an example for an inspirational or heroic person from the last centuries.”

I give the old man an unbelieving stare. “…what!?” I finally manage to produce, “In what way is discussing a topic like that supposed to help us find a-”

“Shut it.” He dryly puts me off, “I asked for an example, not for your opinion on our teaching subject. I don’t know why they teach you stuff like that anyway. You ain’t no grade schoolers anymore, so-” He hastily shakes his head, noticing how he got carried away, and addresses the rest of the class, “Anyway, can anyone else think of a good example? Maybe one that’s not a damn commie or peacenik?”

As both of us seem to have expected, the class is as silent as always; none of my classmates seems to care about inspirational people on a Monday morning. However, Mister Crank and me both raise an eyebrow as of all people, the new girl slowly raises her hand.

“Yes, Diane?” he asks her after a few seconds, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. A weak grin forms on his face as he, with a noticeable amount of condescension in his voice adds, “Please tell us about the great souls that you find inspiring.”

The girl’s eyes narrow, staring daggers at him, yet her mouth forms a weak, superior smile. “Adolf Hitler.” She says with an incisive slowness, seemingly enjoying every single syllable.

Our teacher’s eyes widen; his wrinkled hand drops the piece of chalk he used to write on the board. All of a sudden, everybody in the whole classroom -including me- seems to be wide awake, and staring at the new girl with disbelief.

“What?” she defends herself, returning the look to her classmates and teacher.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, kid.” Mister Crank snarls at her, “You can’t tell me that a homicidal, racist, anti-semitic fascist is your source of inspiration!”

The faint grin on her face slowly widens as her look focuses back on the teacher, “Well, at the risk of unsettling you, I do find it quite amazing how he managed to bring an entire country under his control; how he turned from a local joke into an idolized, acclaimed national hero in less than a decade.”

“…No way, kid.” Our teacher puts her off, “I’m not going to take that … that human scum as an inspiration for my students.”

The new girl shrugs innocently, “Well, I thought this was a free country we’re living in, but…” she crosses her arms again; the superior, almost teasing smile constantly remains on her face, “If you don’t like Germans, how about Benito Mussolini? He was quite fascinating as well if you ask me.”

Our teacher’s eyes narrow; furious snorts escape his nose as his indignant look drills into the new girl; the dreadful sound of his teeth grinding against each other makes me cringe once again.

Visibly amused about the man’s anger, Pinkamena keeps on riling him up, “Not a fan of Italians either I see. Well, to be all honest, Josef Stalin was a quite amazing man as well.”

That was the final straw – Mister Crank’s facial features contort to an unnatural grimace as he smashes his fist onto his desk and roars, “Josef fucking Stalin!? Are you fucking kidding me, kid!? Do you even know what this man has-“

He silences abruptly as his look wanders back to the girl: leaning her head forward and resting her chin on her chest, she laughs – weakly, not outstandingly loud, but still loud enough for everybody in the class to hear thanks to the dead silence around her.

“Isn’t it funny how everyone instantly loses their mind when it’s about things like dictators or genocide?” she mumbles, mostly to herself, but making sure our teacher hears her, “I wonder how long it’s going to take for those topics to be completely banned from public schools if teachers like you keep on going wild like that.”

Mister Crank hesitates; it takes him a few moments to realize that he has just been played a trick on. His eyes narrow once again, “That’s not funny, you little jester.” He snaps at her, “Those people are responsible for the death of millions of people, that’s no joking matter!”

She shrugs innocently without replying anything; a faint smirk remains on her face though.

“Now name a real hero or I’m gonna send you to the principal!” he commands her grimly.

The pink-haired girl remains silent for a second, then gives him an angry glare and says, “Well, if you’re too ignorant to accept my real heroes,” she replies sharply, “How about Dr. Holmes? His story is quite interesting as well.”

Our teacher contorts his face to a disgusted frown, “Well, Sherlock Holmes never had a doctorate, and I didn’t mean to take any fictional characters, but…” he rolls his eyes, turning towards the board where several other names are already noted down, “Whatever. I’ll let that pass.”

Again, the new girl chuckles weakly. “Sherlock Holmes…” she mutters to herself and slowly shakes her head, “Naïve idiot has no idea of who the real Dr. Holmes was.”

The old man freezes in his movement; his head spins around, staring daggers at his newest student, “What did you just say!?”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing.” She replies calmly, “I would never dare to insult my highly honored teacher.”

He grunts and mutters a curse into his beard, but continues writing the name of the famous detective on the board.

“Wow…” I silently comment the heated confrontation I have just witnessed. Still barely able to follow what has just happened, I pick up my pen and lean over my notepad.

Has her … own way of dealing with people - to say the least. Her behavior and humor is kind of condescending, which will probably make most people mark her down as obnoxious and avoid meeting her. I bet she’s going to have a hard time making friends here. Maybe I should talk to her – nobody likes to be alone after all.

Though I wonder: was she serious when she said that she finds people like Hitler and Stalin inspiring? Of course, the context leads to the conclusion that she said all that just to rile up Mr. Crank (and so get him back for teasing her earlier), but the way she said it –her voice showed no sign of irony, and her face was next to dead serious- makes me doubt it.

But what should I do to find out? Just go and ask her about it? ‘Hey baby, I was wondering, do you like, you know, possessed dictators?’ Ha. Ha. No. That’s not going to happen.

But whatever, I honestly have to admit, there are few people out there who have made me as curious as this girl. What’s with this classy dress? The peculiar haircolor? And the fact that she seems to have nothing better to do than messing with a bad-tempered old man?

Maybe, maybe I should really approach her. Perhaps talking to someone who didn’t piss her off with the first word he said will lighten her mood.

The rest of Social Studies passed surprisingly quick: after finishing my text and reading through it again, I put my pen down and leaned back on my chair, deciding to wait for the end of the first lesson to approach the new girl, and listened to my teacher’s lengthy speech about the importance of inspiration and ambition in our modern society.

As the thrilling sound of the bell finally releases the students from their lessons, I quickly grab my bag and hurry out the door, positioning myself in a corner in order to wait for the new girl to come out of the room. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds until she steps through the door, holding her black schoolbag pressed to her body and stoically looking to the ground.

Though she looks up as she sees my legs; our eyes meet for a split second.

Trying my best to make a good first impression, I nod my head and put on the friendliest, warmest smile I have put on in a while.

But my gesture seems to miss its aim, as Pinkamena, after giving me an angry glare and letting out a hissed curse, looks back to the ground and walks past me – apparently she isn’t as interested in me as I am in her.

But a lack of returned interest is the last thing that would cast a damp on my enthusiasm. Making an effort to keep the friendly smile on my face, I walk towards her and say, “Hey, Diane! How you doing? I was wondering if-“

I can’t finish the sentence. In the blink of an eye, the before then silent girl spins around, seizes me by my collar, smashes me against the opposite wall and gives me a look that could make ice melt. “I’ll give you a final warning!” she hisses through her clenched teeth, “Call me Diane one more time and I’m going to make you feel a kind of pain you’ve never felt before!”

Without leaving me time to reply, she gives me a strong shove, smashing me against the wall, and furiously trudges off.

Leaning against a nearby pillar and caressing my aching shoulder, I watch her step trough the brightly enlightened hallway until she finally disappears behind a large exit door.

It is undeniable that the new girl has managed to surprise me several times, but that move really topped it off - being angry about one’s name is one thing, releasing one’s frustration at a classmate something entirely different.

“Damn.” I mumble to myself as the rest of my class begins to leave the room, “Talk about impulsiveness.”

The muscles in my body suddenly tense as I feel the cold grip of a hand on my shoulder. Suppressing the urge to let out a horrified squeal, I spin around: the hand belongs to Mister Crank who seems to have sneaked up on me and now gives me a pervasive glare. “You’ve been talking to that new girl, right?” he asks me with a disturbing seriousness in his voice.

“Y-yeah.” I reply, still startled by his sudden approach, “Why do you ask?”

He looks into my eyes, giving me a thrilling stare, “Watch out, Brian.” He growls at me, “That girl might look like a cheeky sophomore, but trust me: she’s dangerous.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, freeing my shoulder from his grip.

“That name she’s calling herself; Pinkamina or whatever.” His tongue runs over his lined lips, wetting the parched skin, “I think I’ve heard it before. … There was an article in the papers a couple of months ago.” He hesitates, biting his under lip, “I … I would avoid her if I was you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him, starting to get annoyed by his secretiveness.

“Just be careful with her, alright?” he says and claps my shoulder, ”According to what I’ve read, that girl must be a loose cannon.”

It takes me a couple of seconds to figure out what he is aiming at. With an annoyed sigh, I turn towards him and say, “Oh come on! Just because you’re assblasted because that girl winded you up doesn’t mean she’s possessed by the devil.” I snarl at him and shove him aside, trudging off.

“I just thought I’d warn you.” He calls after me, “That girl’s back-story is darker than a night of new moon!”

“Yeah yeah.” I mutter and put him off with a sway of my hand, “Admit it, you’re just a bad loser.”

“Ignorant fool.” He growls after me, “You’re going to see what you’re getting yourself into!”