I hate this, all of it, and even as I think that, I hear the echo of Sally's voice: "Hate is a bad word, Jimmy. Worse than swearing. Save it for something more deserving than broccoli."
And I did. I saved it for the evil I've dealt with for most of my adult life, for those who hurt and destroy. I kept the edge of my hatred sharp, rarely used; a tool, not a weight around my neck.
Now I'm looking down at Sandburg, the only color in his face from the bruises he's wearing, smelling the sour, lingering tang of his fear and pain and hoping he'll wake soon and know me.
Do I hate who did this to him?
Yes. And I'm not sure I can forgive myself either.
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