Passion to Hate
I see the way you look at her.
Those devilish black eyes suck the life out of her, making us all secretly despair over what was once there. She thinks you’re perfect, but she’s Satan’s mistress now. I would choke back how I felt before – your strange power compelled me to mute – but now I’m not afraid.
When you slammed your body weight against me, there was no strength behind it. You are a feeble, pathetic excuse of a man. She could do so much better. Her father would be turning in his grave right now, God bless his soul.
There is nothing remarkable or striking about you. I have heard the story a million times.
You tried throwing the TV at her in front of everyone. What kind of man would do that? My insides deal wit a burning rage, a fury that makes me lose sense of this warped reality and focusing on protecting her because she is everything to me and more.
Yelling at her mother was the final straw. Picking on an old aged pensioner brought back the antagonistic anger, the temper that could not flare so easily. No one is allowed to shout in that house, except her. It is an unspoken rule that all adhere to.
He would stand there and watch us burn. I fear for his son, who is already picking inappropriate and mirroring his father at such an early age.
And no matter what, she would stand by him. Above her mother. Above her own children. Her second eldest walked out after his assault. Her life improved; the monstrosity continued there.
The pain’s not even there anymore.
He may still case the mess, but he is not the victor. The passion to hate him until his dying breath never ends. If anything, the pain is numb. The damage has been delivered. He cannot hurt physically, but mentally.
I will dance on his grave when it comes to pass. He will be the one that receives the backlash of all the evil he has committed over the years. Until then, there is the christening of his son – my half brother – and to hope he drinks himself to oblivion.
For they say that a sober man’s thoughts are a drunk man’s actions.
As the eldest of the children?
Bring it on.
Let him make the first move.