Learning to Hate

I never realized the power behind words until I learned the true meaning of the word 'hate'.

I thought I hated my mom. I was ten years old when I thought I knew everything there was to know about life and love. I knew I loved to play Pokemon on my Gameboy so that's how I would spend my waking moments. Anything that would get in between me and my game time would be met with the absolute wrath of my ten-year-old rage. I associated this blinding anger with hate. If my mom asked me to clean my room or take out the garbage I would belt out the loudest groan before shutting myself in my room and resume playing. Rarely were there consequences for my transgressions. My mother tried to be the best mother she could be, but lacked the assertiveness to discipline a little shit like me.

When my little sister came into the picture I thought I hated her, too. On top of enduring her constant crying and screaming, my parents thought it would be a good idea to assign me some small brotherly duties to develop a sense of responsibility. To me this was just another way for them to interfere with my enjoyment of life. So I did what any other spiteful demon would do. I would pinch and slap my infant sister until she cried, then act surprised when my mom would ask me what happened. "I don't know. She just started crying," was my mantra. Any moment alone with my sister was another opportunity for revenge.

One Saturday I dreamt that my mom took us to the bank. I was already irritated because I had to take care of my sister early in the morning while my mom cleaned the house. I told my mom I would stay in the car and play games while she did whatever adults do at banks. She asked if my sister could stay with me in the car since it would only be a few minutes. "Be a good son and help your mother, please?"

I wasn't having any of it. I protested with unabashed shittiness until my mom left with my sister in a huff of disappointment. Seeing the hurt in my mom's face did bring on a sense of guilt but my hate easily overcame it as I angrily went back to my game.

Then, out of nowhere, my fingertips became sweaty and cold. I was struck with an intense fear that I've never felt before. Every instinct in my body told me to look outside. There was a man jogging towards the bank. I was immediately afraid. It was obvious that his thick moustache and big curly hair were fake. He had on sunglasses, a large tan coat, and black boots. When he stopped just outside he turned around to see if anyone was watching. That's when I saw he was carrying the biggest gun I had ever seen. I ducked down to hide, praying that he didn't see me. I was terrified. I wanted my mom. My mom. My sister.

Just as their images formed in my head, the powerful staccato of gunshots blasted inside the bank. Even though I was still balled up in the car with my eyes closed, I knew right then that I would never see my mom and sister again. And it was all my fault.

I woke up from this nightmare with a sour taste in my mouth. This was my first taste of true hate: hate for myself.