BY JONATHAN BERGLIND
Hate is such a hard thing. I feel cut off from it. I can’t express it when I need to. It seeps out at the wrong time. So, to put hate in its rightful place, here is an open letter to the people I hate.
To the ex, to the person I hate most, and to the evil spirit that manifests itself only on the streets of Massachusetts; the one we call “Masshole”: Fuck you. Since that applies to all of you, I felt I didn’t need to say it more than once.
To the ex:
You cut us off? What we had was beautiful and you cut it off. You cheated, and then you made my decision for me. It was hard to be cut off.
I know it mustn’t have been easy for you to cut it off, but it’s probably harder to be cut off. And that should have been your role; to be in my position and be told that it’s over. You deserve a lot worse than you got. You deserve to be the one in tears. You deserved to be the one kicking yourself. But you pushed that on me; you let me think it was my fault until you told me who really destroyed what we had; that you’re a cheater.
I hope you find someone that treats you well; a lot better than I did, because I have to admit I’m not perfect. I hope he dies and leaves you alone the way you left me. Then I hope you meet his other girlfriend at the funeral.
To the person I hate most:
I hope for you to be loved. I hope you marry and have a son and know what it feels like to have a boy you’re proud of. I hope your wife runs around on you and breaks your heart and divorces you and takes everything you own. I hope your son sees you for the ass you are. I hope your dog runs away, tired of being abused. He’ll find a family that loves him, and I hope you never find out. I hope every time you see road kill, you remember him. I hope your cigarettes start a fire, and that your son dies in his sleep But you survive.
I hope you’re stuck in the hospital for weeks. The doctors give you grief counseling, but it’s hard because the smoke in your vocal chords makes it difficult for words to come out. The doctors give you speech therapists and you work for weeks to just say one word, and the word is “pain”, because I hope that is the only thing you know. But there’s hope in that word. It’s the first thing you’ve said since the fire. The doctors are happy and they let you go. They send you home.
You open the door to your house; to the harsh stench of smoke; to the charred black walls; to the water-damaged furniture. Your empty house, barely standing, uninhabited by your dead son and the divorced wife that hates you and didn’t even come to the hospital, doesn’t feel like home.
You go into the basement and hang yourself from a rope tied around a pipe that brings water up to your shower. The pipe breaks and you fall. Your back strikes the chair you knocked out from beneath your feet and you’re paralyzed. You bounce from the chair to the cold concrete floor, face-down. The water gushing from the shower pipe slowly fills the basement, and in four minutes you drown agonizingly in less than once inch of water.
I hope karma doesn’t exist. I want it to just happen to you. You don’t get to know why you’re being punished. That would be too fair.
You’ll never understand the pain you caused, because I did nothing to deserve it. I wish not for equity or fairness; for that, you would only receive the pain you gave me. That’s not satisfying, because you’d only get what you deserve.
You deserve to be hurt in ways you don’t deserve.
I hope by the grace of the vengeful lottery it’s by chance.
I am an atheist. But when I remember you, I wish there were a God. Because after all the pain I could imagine for you, I want Him to send you to Hell to endure the pain He’s imagined for a rapist.
To the Masshole:
You cut me off? Me? In that tiny thing? It’s barely a car! I hope there’s a fire and you die last. I hope you have a family and a fulfilling life and everything you could ever ask for and the American Dream. And I hope there’s a fire.
I hope you and your family get cut off from the door; stuck in a corner of the house, huddled together in fear. The smoke is filling your lungs. Your little son has a burn on his arm and he weeps and chokes on his tears. Your daughter tries to comfort him.
He’s the first to slip away.
You watch as your son dies in your daughter’s arms and starts to weep herself. It’s harder and harder for her to breathe.
You watch as you daughter dies in your wife’s arms.
You see your wife’s chest rise and fall for the last time, clutching your children’s lifeless bodies.
And you die last.
Don’t fucking cut me off.