Hate, you learn, does not make good company.
You stalk the streets without purpose. Like rolling grey waves, the sidewalk rises to meet your boots. You walk to one end of the city, stop, stare into nothing, then turn on your heel and walk to the other side.
You REGRESS—just barely. A second. Half a second. Here and there. Between steps. Between breaths. Between blinks. You bite down on your tongue, keep your eyes wide open. Force yourself back into a reality you detest.
Human bodies flow past you like grains of sand in an hourglass. You brush shoulders, knock elbows, but don't look back. Noise is but a dim vibration, lost somewhere in your inner ear.
You stop—why did you stop?— in the middle of a crosswalk, letting people stream past you. Then you're the last one in the street, horns honking, people shouting and cursing.
You turn, look through the windshields, look blankly at the angry faces.
You focus on one—a young man in a hatchback—and begin walking towards his car, jaw set.
His anger melts into consternation as you approach his door and rap your knuckles on the window.
He stares straight ahead, mouth a thin line, face schooled into neutrality.
You frown. The cars pass.
These people don't know anger. Not yet.
You grit your teeth, and REGRESS.
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A couple passes you on the sidewalk. You bump into the woman.
"Watch it," the man snaps, his masculinity at stake.
You can only beat his head three times against the concrete before rough hands pull you away.
You grit your teeth, and REGRESS.
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You go home. It is a mistake.
You sit in your shower, letting hot water run down your back. Close to scalding. How you always like it.
You stare at the space between your knees, at the white tiles of the shower.
The new calluses on your hands ache from the heat. You flex your fingers tentatively, feeling out the soreness.
Except you don't have any new calluses. When you found—
You take a shuddering breath. Some water gets in your mouth.
When you found him, you REGRESSED—you REGRESSED so fucking hard it was the previous morning and you were sitting in your car. You didn't need to find the place, not again; the exact location was burnt into the inner walls of your skull. You couldn't forget if you wanted to.
You look at your palm, finding it pristine, albeit wrinkled and apelike from the hot water. But... the pain is there, somewhere. In there.
Like phantom pain, he had said.
But you can't have phantom pain for something you never had.
You get out of the shower. The cold air makes your skin feel raw.
You look at the clock and realize you were sitting in the shower for a damn hour.
Water bills. You grit your teeth.
You REGRESS.
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At first you avoided people, because you thought you wanted to be alone.
Turns out being alone with your thoughts is the worst place to be right now.
You go to the café. You know, that café. Independent establishment, 'chic' and 'cool,' a little too Bohemian for your tastes, but right now you can't taste a damn thing anyway. You walk—you don't trust yourself in a car right now. It's late morning, and as such those with real jobs have left and only students or whoever else remains.
You move through the array of tables, past the pieces of questionable art hung next to posters declaring local events. You sit in a booth in the corner, as you've always preferred. You like having your back to a wall.
A waitress sashays up, slides you a menu, asks if you want anything to start with. You shake your head, and remembering that normal people usually speak to each other, you force out a strained "Not yet." Your eyes widen slightly—was that the right thing to say? Should you REGRESS? Should—
She gives you a bright "alright, ready when you are" and is already off tending to another table.
... Okay, then. So you sit and listen to the conversations. Listen to normal people talk. Listen to normalcy. You lower your head, open your ears, quiet your rampaging thoughts.
A term paper on something obscure.
The local sports team.
Two lovers speaking sweet nonsense.
Car is in the shop.
Coffee's pretty good, but there's this other place—
"Have you decided yet?"
You lift your head, blinking. The waitress is back, looking down at you with... apprehension? Concern? Her septum piercing makes it hard to tell. Throws off the facial read.
You swallow. Your throat is dry. "Not yet," you say again, just above a whisper.
She smiles, but it's strained. "You've been here for forty-five minutes," she says as politely as possible.
Your look of surprise must be obvious. "Are you okay?" she asks, concern eclipsing the apprehension.
"I will be," you utter, and REGRESS.
You lay your palms on the table. The wood is cool. The grain pleasant to the touch.
You take a deep breath.
"Can I get you anyth—"
"NOT YET!" you snarl, starting out of your seat. The waitress recoils, fists up; heads turn. Silence.
You look down. You've dragged your nails across the table, leaving long gouges; the splinters gathering blood.
You look at her apologetically, and REGRESS.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Just a coffee. Black."
She brings it. You hold it in your hands, unsure of what to do with it. Then you remember.
"You look pretty blue."
"A friend of mine died."
Sympathy. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
You drink. Bitter. You burn your tongue. "Don't be."
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You walk in.
"We close in an hour," the bartender says.
"I know."
"You want anything?"
You eye the bottles lining the back of the bar. "Whiskey."
He pours. You drink. You frown.
You smash the glass on the counter.
You REGRESS.
"You want anything?"
You look a little more carefully, this time. "That bourbon. That one."
He pours. You drink. You frown.
You smash the glass on the counter.
You REGRESS.
"You want anything?"
You shake your head, lick your lips. "You know... just a water, for now."
The bartender nods, unimpressed.
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Bars are closing.
You stand there, hands in pockets, humming tunelessly to the buzz of the streetlights.
A drunk man wanders over to you, and begins humming too.
You hum together for a little bit.
He fishes through his pockets. "Got a light?"
"No, sorry," you say.
"Then fuck you."
Your folding knife is out and you've stabbed him twice in the back. He stumbles and crumples to the sidewalk, too stunned to scream. You look down at him for a moment, then to your blood-speckled jeans, and to your red hands.
Then you REGRESS.
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You carry that hate, hot and sultry in your chest. But it's too much.
It was invigorating, at first. Your blood ran warmer, everything sharper in contrast.
As you cut through a park on the way home, you... deflate.
You stop, bracing yourself upon a nearby bench, breathing hard.
Cold.
You think back to the field. The holes. The unmarked grave. The face-down—
The flame catches. You narrow your eyes, look about you quickly, and continue on your way.