Part 54: The Hatred

If you were to slice me open with a scalpel, sharpened pen-knife or similar (not that I’m advising you try it – my silken skin is quite delectable intact, ta) instead of jets of scarlet, passion coloured blood, I reckon a sticky treacle of steaming tar would flow from the wound. And if you cut deep enough and poked around for a bit you’d probably prick your finger on some thorns or rusting barbed wire tucked away in there, just behind my ribcage.

Which would serve you right. What the fuck were you thinking cutting me in the first place? Did no one explain to you who I am?

I’m aware from a series of conversations I’ve had with readers I know personally that some of you are literal in your interpretation of the words I write here – so just to clarify: there’s not really sticky tar coursing through my veins. I know because I cut myself once when I was chopping carrots and I bled just like anybody else (yes, it was disappointing for me too).

I don’t know what it feels like to be you, but on the inside of me there burns a vicious hatred. It slithers its serpent body around my heart and spews forth in venomous (but rarely violent) outbursts of spiteful rage aimed at siblings who forget the way to the school they attended for seven years while I’m walking there with them to collect exam results, in high heels, bus drivers with no change, double duvet covers that are a bit too small for a double duvet, people who look over my shoulder for someone more influential at social events.

Is this normal? I’m fairly sure from conversing with others that it isn’t – but then I’ve always felt like this, so I’ve got no frame of reference.

To avoid tedious responses from amateur psychologists, yes, I’m prepared to acknowledge that there are deep-seated childhood traumas that underpin the tarry texture of my mortal soul. Like the fact my mother never bought me a Mr Frosty, or let me make use of the mould-your-own-candle craft set I got for my ninth birthday.

But that’s not totally it, the darkness doesn’t infect me – it’s not an alien force attacking from somewhere beyond what dwells inside already.

My serpent heart was alive and vindictive aged three, when I dug my fingernails very deliberately into my baby cousin’s hand and marvelled at the crescent moon indentation they left behind. And aged six, when I stretched my big blue eyes into innocent circles, used my hand to hide the tight smile playing about my lips, and told my beautiful but deeply insecure aunty that her moustache was very noticeable, and needed removing. At once.

It’s not pretty is it, my soul? Even though it is encased in a porcelain skin of crimson talloned, wide-eyed, elvish beauty.

And that’s a problem, romance-wise, because I’m fairly sure that twisted hatred isn’t the number one quality most stable, solvent – or indeed flaky, broke – men look for in a life partner. Although I would like to point out that the black-hearted are almost certainly guaranteed to provide a more interesting landscape of love than your common or garden variety sugar-coated sweetheart.

I’ve come to understand – from reading novels, listening to pop music and browsing online dating profiles – that people it would be a good idea to form a love match with are fairly simple (if somewhat dull) in terms of their emotional needs. They want sensitivity, soft kisses, and kindness. They want a lover who can swallow pain and transform it into liquid candy-floss, who will forgive sins and betrayals of the heart with tears and eventually with cuddles and tender make-up sex.

Sorry babe. That’s not me.

I’m vengeful and prickly, loud and unyielding, blonde and dangerous. I’m calculating, ambitious, witty, impulsive and bitter. I’m Louise after she shoots that rapist in Thelma and Louise, I’m Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, I’m Janice from the Sopranos – only better looking.

I’m not going to apologise either – I’ve learned to love what lies within, even if I’ve decided that, on the whole, it’s not a good idea to share my darker qualities with potential lovers.

The Hatred is a cherished and precious part of who I am, yet it is also reason to remain single – for the good of mankind and his sanity – at least until I can find the right breed of strong, brooding alpha-male to tangle inside my love nest of pleasure-pain.

If you know anyone who might be up for that, chuck them my way will you? And tell them it’s not all darkness – I do sometimes cry about orphaned puppies.

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