Hatred

It was almost four o'clock. The passing of time was only evidenced by the sounds of the sewer pipes flowing. Somewhere in the corner of the room, a small copper watch timidly ticked. It was more a ticking out of habit, perhaps a sense of duty, quiet enough not to attract the attention of its owner, not to trigger another bout of madness.

Despite the early hour, the man—let's call him He—was sitting on the couch. Early or late, actually—it was all a matter of interpretation. He was staring at some invisible point on the wall; perhaps a shape. His face reflected the strong emotions swirling within him. He was young, his sharp features betraying a rather strong character: prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, the line of his eyebrows merging above the nose, and his pursed lips spoke of determination.

It was almost five o'clock. The sounds of a normal day beginning could be heard throughout the building. He was sitting on the couch. He was staring at his vision on the wall. He didn't really know how long it had been. The passage of time could be measured by the growing contents of the ashtray. The only change was the smile that had recently appeared on his lips. A deeply sarcastic, slightly mocking one. Yet it spoke of some life within him. And of some decision he had made. Meanwhile, his pinched eyebrows and the vertical wrinkle that seemed to extend his nose spoke of the cruel nature of that decision.

Six o'clock. Shoes running down the stairwell. The sounds of car engines starting. The nervous rush of the morning. He smiled. Today he was beyond this. In fact, he had been beyond this grotesque running around for some time now. Pathetic and ultimately inevitable, he thought. He got up. He had to get up. He was out of cigarettes. He felt a little dizzy. A little clumsily, on legs numb from sitting all night, he reached the kitchen. He still had a pack left. "What luck, I don't have to leave the house today," he said sincerely. He took a cigarette from the pack. He put it in his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply. His lungs ached sharply. He smiled again.

"Yes," he said loudly, "it hurts like hell," meaning he's still alive.

Actually, some time ago, he'd considered suicide. But each time, he'd decided he was too brave for that kind of end. "

It's for wimps," he often told himself. "

Before I go, I'll take care of all my outstanding business here." Another smile. "

And I'm definitely not going there alone." If he could see his face now, he'd probably be terrified.

He saw Her in every detail of his home. In every thing. Everything had its own story, in which She was the main character. And each thing mournfully uttered Her name... or perhaps that was how his tired brain interpreted it. Actually, he saw Her. It was like a lasting image somewhere behind his closed eyelids. Sometimes he felt Her presence. Well, habit takes its toll. Sometimes, among thousands of thoughts, he would pick out a few whose meanings were similar. Do I still love Her?... Is it my pride that tears me apart, my humiliated male pride... hmm... maybe he sees this as a favorite toy taken from me? I don't know, he thought feverishly. These were rare moments when emotions subsided and his brain worked. Usually, though, they didn't last very long. One impulse was enough, one remembered scent, an association, and thoughts, like a train passing through a switch, returned to the old tracks. How well he remembered the scent of Her naked body. It came to mind as he looked at the untidy bed. He remembered their first, intoxicating nights. Successive fulfillments follow one another. The taste of her breasts... another change... his brain kicks in.

Maybe it's only passion that's pushing me into this abyss? He pondered this for a moment.

Pure sexuality, simple attraction... it's natural... after all, I'm an ordinary young guy, he immediately found an explanation.

But why don't I feel anything with other women? He resumed his polemic again. This time without an answer. After all, since the breakup, he had regularly brought women he had met here. After all, he had regularly, coldly and deliberately seduced them. After all, he always got what he wanted. With interest. Always one night. Never longer.

After all, it was probably passion, he told himself.

No, he admitted honestly. It was only sex. With a strong emphasis on "only."

He saw a part of her in each of them.

In truth, he had just realized, by giving them pleasure, I was using her body map. So why did I do it? Another question.

In truth, it was pure sadism, he admitted. Calculation. A desire to toy with people. A miserable play on emotions. A kiss on the cheek in the morning. I'll call you—a promise. An empty word. An empty smile. Next time, please.

Revenge. He was taking revenge. For being toyed with so cruelly. Misfortunes bring about certain changes. Two. They ennoble. Or they degrade. They force you to become a son of a bitch. They force you to focus on your pain. With joyful, sadistic euphoria, you distribute your pain, your resentment, piece by piece to the whole world. Until everyone gets theirs. Then there will be solace. And the next infected ones distribute it. Few can win the first path. Perhaps few are simply given it.

It was no longer enough for him. He was suffocating in this ersatz world, one he had practically created for himself, in accordance with Her image. Time for a change. Any change. Just to end what was.

He was tired of it.

He met Him. His Enemy. The one who stole his most precious possession.

It's a shame I only realized it now, he sneered at himself.

He involuntarily looked into his eyes. They weren't much different from his own, really. The alley they were walking in opposite directions was quite narrow. The Enemy bumped his shoulder. They both staggered. A burst of rage. Growing red under his eyelids. Hatred. A

shutdown of his brain.

The Enemy smiled ironically. He made some kind of grimace like this. It's a shame his brain had already shut down. He would probably have suggested it was a loser's reflex. Losers only get ironic smiles. He punched the Enemy in the face. His fist clenched on its way to its destination. Unconsciously. By itself. Then he got hit. He felt the swelling on his left cheekbone grow.

It only intensified his aggression. He became engrossed in it. To this day, he doesn't know how the knife ended up in his hand. It was probably the Enemy's knife. He stabbed him with it.

He was surprised it had been so easy. The knife in his hand had sunk into the Enemy's chest.

Deeply. He felt the blade slide across the bone. Instinctively, he yanked out the weapon he'd acquired. He looked into the Enemy's eyes again. The hated Third One. Actually, now the First One. The one who had taken his place. He saw the surprise bordering on madness. He looked away. He wondered if he had won... if he had just lost, ultimately...

The Enemy fell.

He pocketed the knife. He had carefully wrapped it in a plastic bag earlier. "

There's no murder weapon," he consoled himself. He promised himself he would throw it away. No one would ever find it.

He walked away a few dozen meters. He stopped. He turned around. The Enemy was lying there. He stopped moving. He wondered for a moment if he could call 911... with just a small movement of his hand. The phone waited obediently in his pocket. Ready to immediately obey its owner's command. He made his decision.

He turned and walked away.

He didn't look back anymore.

Conscience? Yes, I had one once... but that was a long time ago... he thought.