Try though he might to hold his memories at bay, they flooded down on him.
He scowled as he recalled how his father had abandoned him, and of how his mother had left him a victim. Momentarily nauseous at the thought, he drew his hand to his mouth, choking back his bile.
When an act of violence against his person robbed him of his childhood innocence, following which the violator manipulated him—convinced him that he had himself to blame—hatred was born. Initially, it was a hatred of himself that sat dormant for a time. But eventually, when confronted with yet another rejection, his burning self-loathing produced its inevitable byproduct: the detestation of others.
Well, Mother had been right about one thing. To hate someone was to wish death upon him. But wishes are flighty, ethereal sorts of things. To come to pass, they oft require a helping hand.
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