2006 Paper 1 , Question B "Hours later ….the boy’s soul raged …”
2006 Paper 1 , Question B
“Hours later ….the boy’s soul raged …”
Imagine that , in an attempt to control his feelings , the boy writes into is diary an account of the incident and his reactions to it . Write out his diary entry .
Dear Diary , I have to ask you to excuse my handwriting , I know this is probably illegible . My hands are shaking so violently but I feel like if I don’t write this down and get it out of my head that I will explode like a bomb .
I have been mad before , I have been angry and I have experienced emotions of hatred but never like this . My soul ,my very being is so full of pure rage . It goes beyond the most destructive kind of anger , goes way past pure hatred . It is red hot fiery rage . I could spiel off a million different adjectives each more powerful than the next and it still would not be enough to describe how I am feeling . I think .No , I’m certain that a part of my soul died today . The part of me that believes that deep down there is an innate sense of good in all people . The part of me that believed my dad was a good person .This part of my soul has died , in its place rage soars.
I can’t escape the picture of his wicked smile , my own father . His disgusting cruel smile . That mocking face .He took pleasure in breaking that poor woman’s heart . What kind of a twisted person does that ? Has he no conscience , not fibre of mortality ? I am haunted by the memory . I have been trying for hours to banish it , to make myself forget . The harder I try the more vivid it becomes and each time it feels like I’m forcing myself to re-live that abdominal moment again and again .I can see it .I can actually still see her heart breaking before my eyes , the cold wet tears that ran down her fragile vunerable face .The sadness , the pain . My father derived pleasure from her sadness . It gave him joy . No empathy , no sympathy . Joy . He knew what he was doing , she knew it , I knew it , everyone knew it - it’s
“Hours later ….the boy’s soul raged …”
Imagine that , in an attempt to control his feelings , the boy writes into is diary an account of the incident and his reactions to it . Write out his diary entry .
Dear Diary , I have to ask you to excuse my handwriting , I know this is probably illegible . My hands are shaking so violently but I feel like if I don’t write this down and get it out of my head that I will explode like a bomb .
I have been mad before , I have been angry and I have experienced emotions of hatred but never like this . My soul ,my very being is so full of pure rage . It goes beyond the most destructive kind of anger , goes way past pure hatred . It is red hot fiery rage . I could spiel off a million different adjectives each more powerful than the next and it still would not be enough to describe how I am feeling . I think .No , I’m certain that a part of my soul died today . The part of me that believes that deep down there is an innate sense of good in all people . The part of me that believed my dad was a good person .This part of my soul has died , in its place rage soars.
I can’t escape the picture of his wicked smile , my own father . His disgusting cruel smile . That mocking face .He took pleasure in breaking that poor woman’s heart . What kind of a twisted person does that ? Has he no conscience , not fibre of mortality ? I am haunted by the memory . I have been trying for hours to banish it , to make myself forget . The harder I try the more vivid it becomes and each time it feels like I’m forcing myself to re-live that abdominal moment again and again .I can see it .I can actually still see her heart breaking before my eyes , the cold wet tears that ran down her fragile vunerable face .The sadness , the pain . My father derived pleasure from her sadness . It gave him joy . No empathy , no sympathy . Joy . He knew what he was doing , she knew it , I knew it , everyone knew it - it’s