What it's like to hate someone

I think it should actually take a little effort on the part of the offender to be forgiven for something, call me crazy or ridiculous or whatever. I'm told all the time, forgive your father, call your father, he's your father, etc. I'm treated like a child because my form of punishment is cutting off communication. I'm not running away. I'm just doing the one thing I know that can hurt him as much as he's hurt me. He loves me, I'm not oblivious to that fact; that's exactly why I know not talking to him will hurt him.

Now, let me straighten my thoughts out. You see, he made my life a living hell. He threatened me and called me an idiot, lazy, practically a disappointment. He treated me like a lesser being and demanded respect without ever actually earning it. He always told me you have to earn respect, but only in a ways that informed me that he didn't respect me. He's the one who said “If you hate it here so much, why don't you just leave?!” He said that so many times, and I finally left.

And, I'm the bad guy.

He emotionally abused me to the point of torture, where physical pain was a relief and escapism was my way of life—drugs, video games, girlfriends, anything that wasn't home. I loved going to work and dreaded coming home.

What's it feel like to have your dad tell you that you're stupid?

Anyway, I'm the bad guy, because I refuse to forgive him.

When I left, my stepmom called at the number that I left on the table along with where I was going and why I was leaving. She called saying that I should come back and that she understood that my dad hurt my feelings and I explained to her that I was not coming back.

He hurt my feelings. Like how a child gets his feelings hurt and runs away. I didn't get my feelings hurt—I was being abused and I left the abusive environment. That's a pretty mature reaction, I believe. Nobody I know sees it that way.

After we hung up, she called back with my four year old brother on the phone saying he missed me. I never believed he fully understood the situation and I don't think he does even now. He's young. Also, dick move on her part. Part of the continued emotional abuse, I'll add. See, in that move, she let me know that she believed that I was the one at fault. Not once during our conversation did she apologize that I felt like I had no choice but to leave. Wouldn't a caring parent do that?

“Where did we go wrong?” they never asked themselves.

It's been over a year and I still get messages through family members: “They wanted me to tell you that Allen (my little brother) misses you.”

Oh, really? Do they feel at all bad for driving me away? Do they really want to talk to me that bad? They have my number. Still. Only called it once. They also know the people I'm around and have not once asked them how to get in contact with me.

Wouldn't a caring parent do that? Wouldn't someone who actually wanted me to come back do anything to get me back? That's what I want. Is it so much to ask that my parents love me enough to ask somebody what my phone number is and then call it? It has to be, because I'm the bad guy, remember?

“Why doesn't he have to call me? Why do I have to be the one to call?” I asked reasonably.

“Because he's your father.” was the response.

Right. Wouldn't a caring father call? He loves me. Just not enough that he would do anything to get in contact with me. Just not enough that he would regret pushing me away. Just not enough to apologize and not expect one back, or even to be forgiven. Just not enough to reexamine how he treated me. Just not enough to want to make me happy. His love is selfish. He wants me around so he can feel good about himself and nothing more.

Let's see.

Hmm.

I have to call.

Even though, I was pushed away and let them know that I felt I had no other choice.

Even though, I left my number which they called the night I left and never again.

Even though, they know how to get in contact with me through other people which they've done by passing on guilt-laced messages. Again, blaming me for leaving.

Listen, dad. If you fucking miss me so fucking much, then why haven't you fucking called me to apologize for pushing me away? Huh? What the fuck did I do to you to make you blame me? If you fucking care about how much Allen misses me, then why don't you goddamn call me and let him talk to me?

I won't forgive him until he actually regrets pushing me away. You see, the goal is to make him feel like he'll never see me again. I want him to feel so bad that he can't forgive himself, then he'll know how I feel. Maybe, he'll apologize at that point, and if he doesn't, too fucking bad for him, I guess.

But what if something happens? I'm asked.

Well, the goal is to make him feel like he'll never see me again, so at this point it doesn't matter much if he dies without seeing me again or if I die without him ever seeing me again. At this point, he deserves either one of those. He deserves to die without me. He deserves for me to die without forgiving him. He deserves to feel that for how he treated me.

I'm not gonna forgive him and let things go back to how they used to be. What's the point? Forgive him and what? Stay away like I'm doing now, or go back and be miserable and abused. How can you forgive somebody who isn't sorry?

Our Dance

In this room there's you and me. The black walls melt around us and the ceiling drips, smearing your lipstick running down your chin like cold blood running through veins on the pale moon—your eyes the burning stars that blind the world and tear my limbs apart, leaving me helpless calling your name.

We dance a lover's dance in silence with snake-like rhythm against a voodoo beat, the rhythm of our hearts. Drawn and crying, you sketch your hate on my lips as you bite them, a desperate attempt to steal my heart. And now, I can't feel you, just the taste of your lips and blood linger.

But, when we danced, I echo your words with mindless absence and float to your voice But, when we danced, I felt your tears fall on my cheeks and I smiled and I told you 'This will never end.' Where'd you go?

Our fingers wrap together and your cold, rosy fingers dig into my hands and tear away. And again, I smell nothing but blood and you. I'm here! I cry out, desperate to hear you again. It doesn't have to end. And, we dance.

And, the ceiling collapses and you're nothing but an empty feeling that haunts my dreams and wakes me up in a cold sweat in a room with black walls.

I can't forgive you, I echo your words with mindless absence and float away, trying to forget that time that we danced, but you left scars on my lips and I still taste the blood.

Forget it, I fall and accept the soft ground in a room with no walls or ceiling and I build a statue of myself and climb to the top. This is me! I yell. This is who I am! I never liked our dance anyway.

Victim of my Betrayal

The fire crackled and she screamed like a devil and the crowd chanted, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

I turned my eyes away and started back to my house; the chanting echoed in my ears long after I had entered my basement. I remembered my lover's glowing red hair before the fire torched it, long curls that bounced past her shoulders.

When she saw my lab for the first time and her eyes grew wide and started watering, my heart sank. The betrayal she must have felt threw her into a rage. I still have piles of swept-up glass from broken vials in the corners.

“You're not a witch!” she said. She held my hand and stroked my face. “This isn't yours!” She made excuses.

I had to be calm, but she couldn't be. She fell to the floor and clung to my dress pleading, “Please, no.” But the answer was yes. As cold as it must have felt to hear, “Yes.”

Our love was hard enough for us to keep a secret and I knew she couldn't handle the betrayal. When she left, she left full of hate and I filled with sadness. I knew what would come next, but I'd hoped it wasn't true.

With the remaining equipment I had after our fight, I concocted a potion to make my flesh clear and my footsteps silent and I followed her. Straight to the sheriff's home. It was out of my hands at that point. My work was vital to ending the witch hunts and I couldn't let it be lost. I had to act.

I had a precious advantage and the plan was formulated and put into motion. I beat her by a precious few minutes and silently slayed the sheriff and his family. I knew she would be in shock at the sight and I knew I'd have to to rush back home. I grabbed some vials and raw ingredients and placed them in a hidden place in her home and it was done. As soon as she reported the crime, she'd be the first suspect.

The rest was like walking through a dream. The search only lasted a few hours before the items I had planted were found. There was no trial, she was a witch and they had the proof.

It took only a few hours to get the fire set up for lighting. She never looked at me the entire time and she never spoke my name, not even to cast blame. I guess that's what hurt to most. I had just condemned her to be burned with fire and she wouldn't do the same to me.

—

I wiped tears from my cheeks as I prepared my final potion. The curves of the vials were her curves; the fires were her burning; the bubbles and fumes were her whispers. I put the potion to my lips, her lips to mine.

In the end, my work would be abandoned, unfinished. But, I couldn't forget the picture of her eyes locked on mine as her face became smothered in flame. I would love to imagine we'd be together in death, but I was to be cursed to oblivion.

My hand trembled as I tilted the potion and drank my bitter death.