Mustapha Mond: A Short Story

Mustapha Mond paused in his typing, as he once again cast his gaze upon the plain cream folder that sits precariously upon the corner of his desk. It’s insignificant, really, compared to the rest of the organised clutter that covers every other square inch of the desk. No one would guess the horror that lies inside, of a man driven by blind grief and rage to not only hang himself but to whip a poor young lady to death beforehand. Lenina Crowne.
Mond sighs, resting his face against his hands. When had things gotten this complicated? Oh, yes, he thinks sarcastically, two years ago. Abruptly, Our Fordship glances up at the clock and, muttering a curse that he’s read in one of Shakespeare’s books, rises. He smooths his suit and grabs his briefcase.

This meeting was completely last minute, something that doesn’t occur often. Somethings happened, Mond pesters himself. He sighs and looks out the window, at the clear blue sky and bright sun. It calms him, though slightly, and allows him to think more rationally. It’s his favourite view for that exact reason, not that he’d volunteer this information. Doing so would invite questions such as, what do you think about? It’s not that difficult to get out of responding with actual answers, especially with the lower castes. “I am the Controller; what do you believe I think about? Work, of course,” he’d answer with a roll of his

While the idea of viviparous families still makes my stomach churn, it is nothing compared to how I feel about this society.” Lenina sighs, setting her chin in her hand. “Henry left me to die at the hands of a madman,” she continues almost reflectively. “How could I live in a world where they’d leave someone to die like that while they cheered? It makes my skin crawl.” Henry Forster. It doesn’t take His Fordship long to put the pieces together; he had read the file, after all. “So, you joined the revolution?”
“I did. I may have been happy with my life then but after that…No. I decided then that I am more than a piece of society; I am an individual and I matter,” stated Lenina with belief. “You wouldn’t have talked like that two years ago,” Mond says quietly. While he respects her decision, it is his duty as their leader to ensure that all proper measures are taken for the Revolution’s secrecy and its members’ safety. “True,” she agrees, taking a sip of the wineglass sitting in front of her. That’s when he catches it; a ring on her left hand, sparkling beautifully on her delicate