I sit staring at this unsent email, can in hand, tears streaming down my face in hot, steamy abandon. I don’t want to hate him. But he’s always there: tearing me apart, cursing me, hurting me with his lies and his venom.

Blood drips from my knuckles where they slammed into the wall. Why does he get me this way? I am never angry. Not with anyone else in my life, so much as I am with him. An email from him sends my blood boiling, pulsing around my body at a mile a minute.

I throw back another swig from the can and wince at it’s bitter taste in my mouth. Wait, not bitter, so much as sour. I want him to leave, but can he ever leave? Will, even, this reasonably worded yet immeasurably flammable letter trigger him to blow up and fuck off out of my life?

I rub my forehead with an open palm, pinching at my temples with my thumb and little finger. This is wrong. This is not how a normal person feels.

No one should hate him enough to end their life just to send a message.
No one should to hate their own father.