Lonesome HatredThe audio recorded clicked and whirred; a soft voice crackled from the speaker.
Her voice was chilling... yet, soothing in a way.
She spoke... and I listened, clutching the mechanical box.
Words I'd soon not forget:
'I've never learned to hate.
For years and years, people have tried to teach me.
"It's easy," they say. For them, it's commonplace.
Flaunting this... this pride in how they resent others.
I never understood.
Is it truly this difficult to look upon someone
with utter discontent?
Perhaps... perhaps people posses some talent
that I do not.
Something they've been born or trained to do:
A tick that makes them... see.
I suppose I wish I wasn't blind... to hatred.
Then I could truly say that I could hate,
that I can hate... that I will hate.
For me, I don't have it.
That aura... or skill.
I'm not like you. Being different has marred my very existence.
Perhaps, one day, I'll learn.
To hate... like you.
But for now, these eyes