“If I told you I hate you, what would you do?”
Hate. They weren’t lying when they said hate was the strongest word. More than love, more than any term of adoration. Love, you could disbelieve. Hate had to come from the deepest, darkest place in the heart. And for it to claw its way out, ugly and raw, there was no way it couldn’t be true. But the more sickening realization--the one that tore this girl’s gut to shreds--was that his love, too, had to be true. For wasn’t hate just love, inverted? Upside down and backwards? Could you hate someone you never loved? No, it had to be the same love, just bruised and ruined. Hurt and betrayed. Dismembered; just looking for a sweet release.
He hated her. It had to be true. And it was her that did it. But her eyes, sad and glossy with tears, couldn’t tear away from his. What would she do, he asks. Would her heart still beat in her hollow chest? Would her lungs still gasp for air? The truth is, yes. Nothing would cease. And nothing would change. Except for, perhaps, her desire. Her will. Is a person still a person without those things? She didn’t know. Could she still be herself without him? She didn’t think so.
So, with a smile, matching the sadness in her eyes, she shakes her head at him. “Whatever you want me to do.” Because, alas, he couldn’t possibly hate her more than she hated herself.