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The mere mention of his name would send an involuntary shudder through me, culminating in clenched teeth and tense shoulders, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. The depth of my hatred frightened me and yet I stoked it. I allowed my brain to play out endless scenarios with him as a participant, fanning the heat of the disgust and revulsion. Uncontrollable and barely suppressed under the veneer of forced politeness, the hatred was forever bubbling under the surface, ready to spew forth as so much pus from a festering wound. I couldn't stand to be in the same room with him. I couldn't bear the sound of his voice. Every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to scream at him to shut up; scream until I was hoarse just to drown the sound of his voice.
Avoiding him became a grim game of wills, but for each success, there were numerous failures and the hatred ballooned inside me. When I had to endure his presence, I tried removing myself mentally, pretending that he wasn't there, but his presence filled the rooms. I would catch a glimpse of him and the bile would rise in my throat, poisonous fumes of loathing pulsing through my blood. When he invaded my personal space, my skin would crawl. The enormous effort I had to expend to not recoil, to not lash out and hit him, when he got too close made me resent and hate him even more.
I wanted him gone. Not just from my presence, but obliterated. In my happiest fantasies, he was gone from my life; not just the present, but wiped from my memory. I wanted my life washed clean from the residue of his existence. What I wouldn't have given for our paths to never have crossed. It's too late for that, but one can hope. And hate.
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Disclaimer: This piece was written purely as a writing exercise. It is not based on any specific person, past or present.
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