I hate everything about today. I hate coming home to an eerily empty house. I hate finding mom's cell phone absentmindedly left behind. I hate scrolling through text after text begging my brother to come home, to man up, to stay clean for the kids. I hate that burdensome feeling of guilt when I think it would be easier if he were dead. I hate that I think that. I hate even more that it's true. I hate hurting for my parents, people so good they were willing to believe this time would be different. I hate the "what if" game and the "what the fuck is he thinking?" game and the "how could he play me?" game. I hate that he is a sinker, not a swimmer. I hate that his son shares this trait. I hate talking to his ex-wife because she is trying so valiantly to move on. I hate watching my mother question EVERY. FUCKING. ACT. OF. LOVE. she offered. I hate knowing that my brother has robbed my dad of a son, a companion, a friend. I hate that locks and garage door codes had to be changed, that guns had to be retrieved. I hate that Facebook facilitates friendship and drug deals. I hate the cumbersome nature of the criminal justice system. I hate that in a fucking cruel twist of fate what has torn our family apart has also brought us together.
I hate meth.
I hate always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I hate being right.