The Hate List

THE HATE LIST


This starts young, maybe at birth for the hyper conscious. Or maybe it was the drug induced recall coaxed by counselors, emerging as if from a comma. This reeks of violence production, like choking a lover during sex for pleasure brings pregnancy. Perfection mongers who awaken this sycophant, this suffocated lover, provoke this list, solidify his injustice. In time law becomes this thing unto itself whose lawyers rape storied truth. Following, the law enforcers who for our own protection but only after the fact, maim, misalign, unfairly treat kind murders, protecting us as much from others as themselves.

This particular hate is strong and runs deep in familial relations but this is not about gangs and underworld marketers offering rapturous otherworld experiences. No, this is like petty individual resolve for the misunderstanding that blazons inhuman attitudes, more an overblown sense of justice at the mercy of hate, more Hatfield and McCoy than Gangland wars and Mafia. It is with this inhuman experience that Sal watched his mother wither under knee bending blows, while his attempts to assuage his Father's wrath darkened seeing eyes.

Directly across from the two room mining shack Sal called home for his entire life is where Mr. Hill and son, Ronnie, his best friend throughout, lived in sharp contrast to the stark poverty that's comes from dysfunction on a grand scale. He walked over talking to his list. The first step is the smallest and the hardest so the counselors advised that if taken the momentum would see things get accomplished. One in front of the other, he thought he heard his mother.

Frightened about everything, Sal flinched at his overwhelmed desire to cry and laugh at another mans deep purple beaut. Mr. Hill was slow at healing because of his diabetes and his thigh had a grapefruit size wallop.

Can I come in Mr. Hill?

Sal's mother's fear misplaced purpose in neighbor concern over her affectionately referred to love taps. She covered them with masking tape and tons of makeup, but Mr. Hill served no purpose after he listened to the tape recording and no longer needed a disguise.

Will you listen to that Mr. Hill that plays in my head every day?

Sal switched the old Panasonic cassette recorder off and asked Mr. Hill for a glass of water. While Mr. Hill stood at the sink and filled Sal's glass, he cut with a Black and Decker battery powered saw kept charged in the laundry room, the rubber tips on the bottom and the pads on the top of Mr. Hills crutches and pulled a kitchen knife from his back pocket to cut the long tubes coming out of Mr. Hills nose that brought fresh oxygen to his depreciating lungs.

Son, he always called me, feining with the cut to his tubes, I had no idea they were going at it like that and if I knew I would have called the police. What's this all about?

Yeah, and what good do you think they would do?

Well, they would have pulled your Dad off your mom and took you away to a safe place. You're doing alright now, got the house, a job down at family video, pays the bills right.

And how does that help?

They would know your Dad was abusing your mom and put a stop to it.

And why didn't you know about the fights? You could hear it.

Mr. Hill hesitated and left the room looking for his phone but fell, his crutch poking through the back of his pajama shirt.

Sal continued his line of questioning, Mr. Hill, not wanting to show any disrespect, let me tell you why you didn't call the police while you catch your breathe.

Help me Son, call an ambulance, his weasing and shakes suggested he punctured a lung.

Mr. Hill you lived across from my house and knew our family was suffering, that my mom was screaming at the top of her lungs for my Dad to get out. You heard the tape and I could tell from the look on your face that it all came back to you. Mr., Hill, you were afraid. You were afraid to get involved because it would mean that you would have to give a shit for someone besides yourself. Now I want you to see it from my scared little eyes and so you'll be my mom and I'll be my Dad and me. I wish your Son was here to play me. You know how to pretend, don't you?

He struggled to watch lying on his side. Sal took a kitchen chair the old metal frame spotted with rust overhead and rammed it into his back pushing the crutch back out the other side. Then amidst the screams Sal kicked Mr. Hill hard enough to crack something.

When Mr. Hill came to he played the recording back, is that you screaming Mr. Hill? Can you hear that cracking sound, that's your tailbone I think but I'm no doctor. Mr. Hill moaned and motioned with his head. Sal reported cold as a journalist, being my Dad is the easy part. Now I'm going to be me at 10, remember I'm the boy who mowed your lawn picked your dandelion weeds when you took your son to baseball practice.

Immediately he was 10, Dad don't hit mommy, you love her. Don't hit her Dad hit me. Sal took the crutch and hit himself in the forehead. Hit me again Dad if it makes you feel better, I love you Dad. With this Mr. Hill cried out with his last breathe, Stop Son don't hit yourself, haven't you suffered enough?

I can't hear you, he smiled. I'm to afraid to help you Mr. Hill. I don't know what to do. If I call the police I'll have to get involved, God have mercy on you Mr. Hill.

He left Mr. Hill and looking out across the street walked to Mrs. Walters, who still called him sonny boy because of his blonde locks.

He repeated the mantra the school counselor taught him. It's going to be alright once you get this done, you'll see it's going to be alright, once you get through this.

Fair enough, they can suffer for awhile and see how they like it. They all knew but didn't know what to do and instead turned a blind eye. Today this leaves him speechless, and then some thought him shy or even slow. He is traumatized you fucking idiots he overheard the shrink tell his mom, fear paralyzes are you that incompetent. More like incapable of interpreting the dull blank stare at batman cartoons on Saturday mornings as pre-adolescent boredom. This childish powerlessness simmers on the days his mother thought he was sick and stayed home from school watching the neighbors zombie around there houses. Mrs. Walters would hang her wash about 9 every other day. He would go over talk to her while he joked with her cup size, looks like a yamaka.

This new purpose is his life mission. He wrote it out for the counselor, watch those who knew bruise, bleed, and die like he dies each day. He always added, hypothetically, it's human to suffer I guess all of us suffer sometime or another. Those who knew must suffer similar offenses if only for a few moments of what he lugs around day in and day out. He questions as any healthy mind does why this new feeling of purpose looks like pleasure, but is this merely revenge? Is this pleasure like a passionate orgasm after dragging a beauty to his bed? A momentary experience not linked to the rest of his life, how can that release him of the painful memories and hate filled noise that rattles and shakes like columns of rock concert speakers? No, it's so much more he assures himself, it's balancing the huge scale back in his favor, like gravity puts planets in orbit after a sling shot birth. Besides that is how the whole world reacts when we reap and sow what we grow, thanks for that one Mrs. Walters.


He walks facing his home, salutes her like a good little Hitler follower, saying Mein Shack in the short lived celebration of Mr. Hills death. He veered to the right to the next store neighbor. The one whose daughter Trina played her Dad's x-rated eight tracks of incest while she fondled him on her bed for a few deep kisses. While she practiced her kisses on me she talked about Ronnie and how she loved him and whispered about how she let him touch her.

She had all the equipment that made us guys wack off dreaming about her. The day we listened to Three Dog Night sing about the loneliest number I was feeling guilty about my friend Ronnie who thought they were going out. What 13 year old guy would pass up a chance at a feel or two? Its normal I thought to get a hard on over your best friends girl when she asks you over. Who could have predicted she would marry the guy, not me that's for sure the way she was passing it around.

Oh Mrs. Walters you don't have to bring out the cookies. You remembered my favorite, chocolate chip.

Sonny Boy have another since my Husband died I eat too many.

Yes, I do see that you're having a harder time of it.

She gave me the exact look her daughter did when I said that Ronnie was my best friend and that there's know way I was touching her.

Getting around when your bones creak, it'll happen to you someday. Sit down tell what's on your mind. I always thought of you as my own son, especially after what happened. But that's behind us, isn't it, bygones are just that, bygones.

I don't think I'll ever be as old as you, Mrs. Walters.

Now Sonny Bu, she smiled don't you worry about that I see a long and prosperous life ahead of you. Do you think you can help me turn my mattress, my daughter moved away and I'm not strong enough to do it myself?

Sure. Walking up the stairs, she tripped and he didn't catch her in time, broke her hip he thought it a tragedy.

Since you're down there, he counted stairs like he did so many times before. I thought I'd bring something along to show you how my mom died.

Help me Sonny, she begged, call 911.

She was knifed right in the front yard. Remember the pictures of my Dad crying on the stand with the knife in the prosecuting attorney's hand, made the papers. She stabbed him with it first, I don't know if you knew. Dangling the knife over her broke hip he let it drop into her abdomen. He took his time coming down counting the thirteen stairs aloud like he had many times before moving summer/winter boxes and Christmas gifts she hid in the bedroom attic, and kneeling in close pushed the knife twisting it, down into her vagina.


He turned it around and around, insides gushing while she haplessly swatted. Nothing special about the knife typical vegetable butcher, he knew better than ask for the one held as evidence. Amidst her screams, Sal said, Dad kept yelling what a fucking cunt whore my mom was and this on mother's day. I came out the screen door, looked up and saw you move the curtain back. That was you wasn't it Mrs. Walters? The blood was every where now so he moved back to Mr. Walters's favorite sofa wiping blood on the arms.

At first, I blocked the horror scene from my memory but a kind practitioner said it would help me release the pain if I caused myself to remember it again. I quote, hypnosis is a powerful tool for releasing pain, and although I doubted it I trusted the professionals.

She crawled toward the front door and screamed as the knife dislodged from her privates. A weak help she managed at the threshold, Sal held the door for her.

I have a confession to make. I opened your daughter's Easter gift and stole it for my mom. Remember, the pink sweater, I wondered why you never said anything when you saw my mom in it that day. She thought I bought it for her Mothers day gift, it sure was pretty, and that's what my Dad was so worked up about. He thought it was from a lover and got all jealous. He didn't believe me when I told him I stole it from you.

If only the blood stains had come out I would have given it back to you. Well they cut it open in the ambulance anyway. Don't worry about forgiving me, like I said I forgot about it once already. Weird thing is I happened to get the sweater back from the ambulance attendant, when they rushed my mom inside that was the coolest ride. I have it buried out in your yard, under the rock Mr. Walters used for a driveway marker. The one he made me push out of the way when I mowed the lawn. I showed it to Trina, she didn't want it anymore. I'll leave it there for now. The police never even asked for it as evidence. But you know why, don't you? Can I read from the court record what you said?

She listened breathing harder and fading in and out, half in half out of the house. Muttered, you're not like this Sonny not like this.

Stay with me he said, here's your big day in court, remember you wore a tight chiffon dress that flirted lace on your big bosom.
The court record states, Prosecuting attorney Chamberlain. Mrs. Walkers did you see Mr. Sal Victor stab his wife on the day in question?

Mrs. Walters. Oh no, I was in the house.

Prosecuting Attorney, The boy Sal Jr. says he saw you look out and the curtain move on said day.

Mrs. Walters. It must have been the wind, I didn't see anything.

Sal said do you want to clear that up for me Mrs. Walter's? It doesn't make any sense for you to lie now, your going to die in a few minutes. Why don't you just clear your conscience makes you feel better.

Sal if I had the strength I'd kill you, like I saw your dad kill your mom. What difference does it make now? Just a matter of time till one killed the other off.

She rolled of the concrete steps onto the front yard, and spit up red chunks of breakfast, your just like your ole man, I hope you both rot in , but already gone, Sal let the knife slide out on the edge of the lawn, next to the rock with the sweater remains.


Ronnie called Sheriff Shume worried something was wrong. Sheriff, I'm afraid something happened to my Dad. Would you mind going over to the house and checking on him. I already called Mrs. Walters she didn't pick up. Trina's out of town, I think. No I don't keep tabs since the divorce. Call me back, let me know he's okay. Okay send one of your deputies. Just let me know, he's getting up there.

One more salute to the Shack whose foreboding light shelters the two foot grass I refuse to mow and pay a fine for every year. Besides I've got a schedule to keep, work is pressing me into a mold that shapes my mission. Besides there is time and more thoughts and feeling to process than one human can muster and people are required to sort out the significance. Other real people not just the house ghosts that Shack can offer.

Emerging from the bedroom showered with keys in hand, there was a knock. Deputy Rooke it says on his badge has come to pay a visit. I explained that I was out riding my bike and that I need to get to work and know I haven't heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. Awful what happened, did someone call Ronnie let him know about his Dad?

The ongoing conversation argues with the spirits that temper the argument with appeasement and talk of acceptance in the moment. That the past is in the past and nothing can be done about it. So why try?

It's more than the absence of mother and the corrupting influence of completely powerless abusive Fathering, it's the total shut down of personality development. And to the extent myself is diminished by your lack of understanding of what needs be done, the more I hear that things are beyond our control, the more I hate, hate myself and the others. Do I hate Mrs. Walters and Mr. Hill? There dead and I crossed them off the list and yet I feel hate for them.

Laughing he begins the slippery slope of ignorance and masking that avoids risking commitment and planning for accomplishments. He can't cuckhole all of human existence like a Godzilla without turning on himself. He can't turn on anyone else without implicating himself. Who can do anything about the rash of dead school children from recent shootings and the vanishing kids in the lustful arms of child molesters? Its no different than the mutual using that's totally accepted as a means for sexual release and fulfillment in most marriages. So since at this moment I not killing anyone I'm not a killer, or since in this moment I'm conflicted I'm human. So all humans are conflicted and self mutilating and lustful and greedy, except for when there not. How much shit can one person or family endure. My father drinks dry Lake superior and dies of prostrate cancer knowing that money is for college and sportscamps that could push my level of play toward scholarships. The regret hate is the most meaningless and reminds me of the powerlessness of life. It's a wonder more people don't float through life like flounderers. Fishermen spear at night seeing only one foot in front of the next with a subsistence drive capable of sustaining enough for today.