#hatred;

“Both of them were victims of the single-minded obsession and unreasoning hatred of another.”

   “Hmph.” Like that was surprising? Everyone hates someone, despite how vehement one’s protest may be. She always played herself upright, righteous, unable to have a single slight of the enemies who hate her; all because she is a countess, with money, status, and unparalleled repute. It’s no surprise when she admits to him there is a flaw in her statuesque demeanor; a very human hatred for one whom she loves.

      Her mother.

  “So you do have emotions.” Like a relishing victory, he places the flaw before her, taunting her with it. A flash of regret spears through her eyes. He knows now she wishes she had not told him.

  “Don’t tease me.” It is a simply spoken request, but she utters with the dignity she wraps around herself like a blanket to hide from the boogieman. Him particularly. “Why do you have to be so cold about it?” There in the uppity twitch of her nose is a ghost of a snarl, a small taper of the darkness he so greedily found.

  “You think I care?” What a hilarious notion; to him, really. He found himself to have found his own blanket, one called ‘carelessness’. The only funny thing is, he does care. He’s cared since he first met her, tried to find one simple chink in her over-dignified honor. He cared about being right. “Everyone has a bit of humanity to them! You, for example.” He gestures to the countess by the whiskers of his chin.

  “Why not you?” She turns her head, posture unbending even when her voice coats so thickly with disappointment.

  “I’m an obvious case, my lady. I hate everything. I hate the sun, I hate the night, I hate children, families, the homeless, the rich! Hell, I’ll gladly admit I even hate you!” Muscles tighten is his jaw when she makes no reaction, her face turned away; like he’s not even worth her sight. “Look at me!”

  A small victory for him when she flinches, and when she finally turns her head, the irritating mask of an emotionless countess. He’ll give it to her, she knows how to hold her own. When she speaks, even her voice is as void as a machine. “What does looking at you solve anything? A small victory? Do you think if I turn to you completely, you will have won?” Anger bulks at the base of his throat, talked down to like a dog. “How miserable do you have to be to gain the smallest happiness by one’s misery? You already know what lies in my heart. Let that be enough.”

  But he can’t! He needs to see her cry; he needs to see her grovel. He barks a laugh, his crooked teeth brim white. “It’s never enough. Do you know what I can do to you? I could tell the world! I may be full of hatred, little girl, but I’m no liar. Anyone who hears me speak knows I am nothing if honest.”

She turns away again, but he won’t allow her escape. He takes her white chin, which is softer than the silk curtains he makes for these damned lords and ladies! What he does find should have made him leap for joy, for he makes his ultimate victory.

  What instead fills his stomach is the sickest regret when her tears begin to spill over, and she shuts her eyes tightly. “There! You have your victory! Flaunt them if you wish! Call me foolish! I don’t regret it! I’m at last honest with someone, and myself! I don’t care if you hate me!”

  He’s taken aback by her confession, allows his hand drop from her face as though it burns him. He has no scathe to return.