They hated him for suddenly growing up like a target spriging up on the firing range.
With the drowning mother falling into the whirling sea of rejection; with the bad tempered father having to face a self truth reflected in a sons eyes.
Mother had not foreseen this day of his growing up, but she became reconciled to loosing him and that one day he would run away and leave home. Her life seemed to hold no promise, no happiness. She’d found comfort in a loveless marriage in her only son even though they were never close. She was a doll in an unearthly joke shop. But her belief in the marriage vows and the way she honoured them was her glory.
Father hated him for his passive love; for his shiny reflective surface where his abuse came to nothing. At every opportunity he tested him out, searching for the violence that he felt in himself and that he fostered in him and he ended up punching at clouds. The son had built a defense of childlike love, not a wall of anger towards him.
But the son was angry none the less; he began to hate the world for what it had done to people like them – for how the echoes of war deafen with loud ringing bells down the generations of the poorest families. The branding that passes on down through the generations like an unlit fuse.