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Where: The second-floor bedroom in the manor on the Davidson estate
When: 12:37 AM; three years ago, on Echo’s fifteenth birthday
She loves him.
She’s in love with him. And he’s in love with her.
What the fuck is love?
What does it mean, to be in love?
Does it mean that she’s it for him? That he’ll stay with her for the rest of his fucking life? And that he’ll die for her, kill for her? Does it mean that he’ll do anything to see her smile at him or have her light brown eyes light up when she looks at him?
What the fuck does it mean?
I wanted to ask him that when he told me the joyous news. I also wanted to do a million other things that I’ve been increasingly thinking about ever since he started going out with her.
The usual, you know.
Punch him in the face. Break a few ribs. Put him in the hospital.
Kill him.
But I didn’t.
Even when he told me to behave.
To fucking rein myself in when she’s around because as it turns out, she’s going to be around for a long, long time. He wants me to be his best friend and support him, and make it less obvious that I hate her.
Hate.
Now that I know something about.
I know what it feels like to hate. To loathe, to detest, abhor, abominate and fucking despise.
It’s like you’re burning up.
It’s like you’re being slashed open, constantly bleeding.
Every second of every hour. Of every day.
And since you’re in constant agony, you want others to be in agony too.
You want others to suffer as well.
You want her to suffer.
Because she’s the one, isn’t she?
She’s the one who has managed to ruin the one good thing in my life. She’s the one who makes me want to kill my best friend every time she smiles at him, every time she gets close to him, laughs with him, talks to him, touches him.
It’s because of her that I can’t stand my best friend’s happiness. I can’t stand to be around him.
I can’t stand to be his friend anymore.
So yeah, I know about hate. I know how sick it makes me.
How sick she makes me.
