Hatred

The air in Dr. Ariti’s office hung thick and still, smelling faintly of old paper, dust trapped in velvet, and the cloying sweetness of the therapist’s bergamot cologne. Eduardo “Lalo” Mendez Garcia sat rigidly on the brown chesterfield sofa, its plush velvet texture doing nothing to soften the hard line of his spine or the perpetual scowl etched onto his face. His light brown eyes, usually simmering coals, were fixed on a point somewhere beyond the heavy drapes, avoiding the earnest gaze of Dr. Bronte Ariti, who occupied the brown button-tufted club chair opposite him.

Dr. Ariti, a man whose weathered face and heavy Greek accent spoke of decades lived elsewhere, leaned forward slightly, his hands steepled. “And this dream, Eduardo,” he prompted, his voice a gravelly baritone softened by the accent, “it returned last night? The same one?”

A grunt. That was Eduardo’s primary currency in these sessions – grunts, monosyllables, and the oppressive weight of his silent fury. He shifted, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice unused, the word tasting sour like the candy he craved. “Same fuckin’ thing.”

“Describe it once more, if you please. For the record.” Dr. Ariti gestured towards his ever-present notepad.

Eduardo’s jaw tightened. He hated the repetition, hated the feeling of peeling back layers he’d spent years calcifying. “Dark. Pitch black. Not like a room. Like... nothing. Empty.” He spoke slowly, each word dragged out as if physically painful. “Then... in the distance. A thing. Wood pedestal. Round top. Like for a statue. But no statue.” He paused, his brow furrowing deeper, the familiar heat prickling under his skin just remembering. “A flame. Red. Floatin’ right above it. Just... hangin’ there.”

“And you move towards it?” Dr. Ariti asked gently.

“Try to.” Eduardo’s knuckles whitened where they gripped his knee. “Every time. Feel like I gotta. But... the closer I get...” He swallowed, his throat already feeling parched. “Angrier. Like... fuckin’ furious. Worse than usual. And hot. Burning. Starts in my chest, spreads out. Like my skin’s gonna peel off.” He mimicked the sensation with a flick of his fingers radiating outwards. “Then... boom. Wake up. Sweatin’. Heart tryna jump outta my chest. Can’t breathe right. Throat’s sandpaper. Every damn time.”

Dr. Ariti nodded slowly, making a note. “For a week now, yes? Every night this... visitation.”

“Visitation?” Eduardo snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. “Feels more like bein’ fuckin’ microwaved.”

The therapist offered a small, sympathetic smile that Eduardo met with a stony glare. “Understandable. Dreams, nightmares especially, can feel profoundly physical. Now, this flame... this burning... We have spoken before, Eduardo, about the deep void within you. The coldness stemming from childhood abandonment, the lack of consistent warmth, of safety. Could this flame... be a manifestation of that longing? A symbol of the warmth you were denied?”

Eduardo rolled his eyes so hard it was almost audible. He leaned back against the stifling velvet, crossing his arms defensively. “Longin’? Doc, I don’t long for shit. I survive.”

“Perhaps subconsciously,” Dr. Ariti pressed on, undeterred. “The anger you feel approaching it... could it be fear? Fear that this warmth, this potential comfort, is an illusion? Like the conditional affection from your mother, Yareli? Offered, then withdrawn? Used as a weapon?” He leaned further forward, his voice dropping slightly. “You wake just as the heat becomes intense, unbearable. Could that be your psyche’s defense? Rejecting the vulnerability of embracing that warmth before it can inevitably... reject you? The physical symptoms – the sweat, the racing heart, the dry throat – echoes of that primal fear of abandonment, manifesting even in sleep.”

At the mention of his mother’s name –Yareli– Eduardo’s head snapped towards the doctor. His scowl deepened into something venomous, a raw flash of hatred tightening his features. He didn’t speak, but the air crackled with the unspoken violence of that look.

Dr. Ariti, perhaps sensing he’d struck a nerve but misinterpreting its depth, continued his monologue, linking the dream imagery to Eduardo’s history of maternal betrayal, emotional manipulation, and the sterile wasteland of his familial relationships. He spoke of defenses, of fear masquerading as rage.

When he finally paused, Eduardo’s voice cut through the clinical air like a rusty blade. “Warmth from her?” The words were low, guttural. “Doc, that flame could be the actual gates of Hell openin’ up, and I wouldn’t put it past that bitch to crawl out just to fuck with me. Dead or alive. Dream or no dream. She’d find a way.”

Dr. Ariti blinked, momentarily taken aback by the ferocity. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Ah. Well. The intensity of the physical reaction... the dehydration symptom... it could also be your body’s literal signal. Perhaps unrelated to the psychological symbolism. I would strongly recommend seeing a general practitioner. Rule out any physiological causes for the night sweats and dry throat.”

Before Eduardo could unleash another corrosive retort, a gentle but insistent chime emanated from Dr. Ariti’s phone on the side table. The session was over.

Eduardo was on his feet before the final note faded, the movement sharp, almost predatory. He didn’t offer a goodbye, just a curt nod as he shouldered his way out of the suffocating office.

The cool, antiseptic air of the reception area offered little relief. The front desk was manned by Keesha, a young woman with rich brown skin and dark, observant eyes. She offered him a small, professional smile that didn’t reach them as she slid a small appointment card across the polished surface.

“Next session is next week, November 28th, Mr. Garcia. 3 PM.”

Eduardo snatched the card without a word, crumpling it slightly in his fist. He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge the date. He just turned and pushed through the heavy clinic doors, escaping into the indifferent sprawl of the city. The lingering phantom heat from the dream seemed to cling to him, mingling with the ever-present furnace of his own wrath. The sour taste of candy was the only comfort he sought now.

The late afternoon sun, filtered through city smog, felt harsh and accusing. He took a deep drag of the cigarette he’d already lit, the acrid smoke a familiar shield against the world.

“173 days to go,” he muttered, the words scraping out like gravel. The countdown was etched into his bones. One year, six months of court-ordered anger management therapy – a sentence handed down after the incident at the nursing home and then a week later the dive bar fight. The memory flashed: Mrs. Henderson, the “cranky hag” of Wing B, deliberately spilling lukewarm soup on his scrubs for the third time that week, her rheumy eyes gleaming with spite. Then the bar fight – some loudmouth bastard bumping him, spilling his drink, then laughing, which added the extra 6 months. The rage had been a white-hot geyser, impossible to cap. The charges were dropped, barely, but the judge hadn’t been amused. Therapy was the price of his freedom, a slow torture worse than any fine.

He walked, the rhythm of his worn boots on cracked pavement a counterpoint to the thrum of anger in his veins. The neighborhood shifted quickly from the therapist’s blandly respectable block to his own territory: barred windows, faded gang tags layered over each other like scars, the occasional huddled figure watching from a shadowed doorway. Home. A squat, beige stucco box with a rusted chain-link fence. The promised “three bedrooms” were cramped, the “pool” out back a concrete pit filled with murky green water, surrounded by the skeletal remains of a Honda Civic and several disemboweled bicycles. Cheap. Disposable. Like him.

He slammed the front door, the flimsy lock engaging with a cheap click. The familiar smell of stale cigarette smoke, dust, and something vaguely metallic greeted him. He sank onto the worn couch, springs groaning in protest, and lit another cigarette. The first deep inhale was almost medicinal. Then the screaming started next door. High-pitched, ragged – could be passion, could be terror. He closed his eyes, exhaling a plume of smoke towards the water-stained ceiling. He’d called the cops anonymously half a dozen times. Nothing changed. Now? He just let the noise wash over him, another layer of the city’s background static.

Dr. Ariti’s voice wormed its way back into his skull. Longing for warmth... fear of rejection... vulnerability...Bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit. He scowled at the ceiling, tracing a crack that resembled a jagged lightning bolt. That flame in the dream wasn’t comfort; it was a threat. A lure. It burned. Just like the fury it stoked in him as he approached. Like the fury he felt right now, thinking about his mother, his uncle, his whole goddamn—

Thud.

Something small hit the linoleum near the TV stand. Eduardo flinched, the unexpected sound slicing through his brooding. He frowned, stubbing out the cigarette. Probably just a roach dislodging something. He leaned over the arm of the couch, peering into the dim space behind the stand.

There, on the floor, lay a small, garish object he’d never seen before. It was a toy hand, barely two inches long, molded from cheap, glossy red plastic. Its fingers were unnaturally long and thin, tipped with pointed, jet-black plastic nails. It looked cheap, tawdry, like something from a dime-store Halloween bin. Utterly out of place amidst his sparse, utilitarian belongings. He didn’t collect crap like this. Hadn’t bought it. Hadn’t seen it.

Curiosity warred with unease. He reached down and picked it up.

The moment his fingertips touched the smooth red plastic, it ignited.

Not literally – no visible flame – but an intense, searing heat erupted from the tiny object, hotter than a stove coil. Eduardo gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound, and dropped it instantly. It clattered back onto the linoleum. He stared at his fingers, expecting blisters, seeing only angry red marks already fading. The pain, however, lingered – a deep, throbbing burn.

“What the hell...?” he hissed. Heart pounding, he grabbed a dishtowel from the kitchen counter, ran it under the cold tap until it was soaked, then cautiously used it to scoop up the offending hand. It felt cool through the wet fabric. He carried it like live ordnance straight out the front door, across the patchy lawn, and dumped it deep into the city-issued trash bin, slamming the lid shut with unnecessary force.

He turned back towards his house, wiping his damp hand on his jeans. He pushed the front door open and stepped inside.

The wall of heat hit him like a physical blow. It wasn’t just warm; it was oven-like, a dry, suffocating desert heat that stole his breath. He gasped, staggering back a step. Sweat instantly beaded on his forehead and upper lip. The air felt thick, shimmering almost.

“Jesus Christ!” he choked out. His eyes flew to the digital thermostat mounted on the wall near the hallway. The display glowed:145°F.

Panic, cold and sharp despite the heat, sliced through him. 90°F? That’s what it was supposedly set to? He always kept it at 70. And it was locked – required a four-digit code to change anything. He punched the code in with trembling fingers, jabbing at the down arrow until it read 70°F. The AC unit outside kicked on with a labored groan he’d never heard before, a sound more like metal screaming than a compressor humming.

But the heat didn’t relent. If anything, standing still made it worse. His skin was flushing crimson, his breath coming in shallow pants. The air felt unbreathable. He couldn’t stay inside.

He bolted back out the door, leaving it wide open. The comparatively cool outside air felt like ice water. He stumbled to the side of the house, fumbling with the garden hose nozzle. He twisted it on full blast and shoved his head, then his arms, then his chest under the icy spray. The shock of the cold water was a blessed relief, momentarily overriding the burning sensation on his skin and the frantic hammering of his heart. He gasped, water streaming down his face, soaking his shirt.

“What the fuck?” he rasped, the words barely audible over the rush of the hose and the frantic thudding in his ears. This wasn’t a glitch. This wasn’t normal.

He stayed outside for hours. Long after the initial panic subsided, replaced by a cold dread that settled in his gut. He sat on the cracked concrete step, damp and shivering slightly now in the evening air, watching the open doorway like it was the mouth of a beast. The AC unit continued its strained, unnatural whine.

Finally, when the sun dipped low and the streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows, he ventured back in. The temperature had dropped significantly, but it was still unnaturally warm – maybe 85°F – and carried a new, acrid stench. The smell of overheated plastic, sharp and chemical.

The damage was visible. A plastic laundry basket near the hallway had slumped inward, its shape warped slightly. The casing on the remote control looked bubbled and distorted. On the floor, near the baseboards, lay dozens of dead roaches – large, dark ones – some curled, some splayed. A few crispy crickets dotted the linoleum. Near the sliding glass door to the filthy backyard, a small, desiccated lizard lay on its side, tongue protruding.

“Fucking hell,” Eduardo breathed, the disgust thick in his throat. They’d cooked alive in the walls. The sheer speed of it… seconds outside, and the house became a kiln.

The cleanup took three grueling hours. He swept and vacuumed the insect corpses with grim efficiency, gagging occasionally. He threw the warped plastic items into the trash. He sprayed bottle after bottle of lavender air freshener until the cloying sweetness battled the lingering stench of heated plastic, creating a nauseating cocktail. His fingers ached where the red hand had burned him, a constant, dull reminder.

He called the HVAC company. The technician who arrived an hour later, a bored-looking guy named Dave, scratched his head, checked wires, gauges, and the thermostat itself.

“Gotta be a glitch in the control board, man,” Dave announced, wiping grease from his hands. “Never seen it spike like that, but the sensors are reading fine now. Freon levels are good. Unit’s old, but it shouldn’t do that. Weird.” He shrugged. “Warranty covers it. We can replace the whole outdoor unit and the thermostat next week. Tuesday work?”

“Yeah. Tuesday,” Eduardo agreed numbly. He signed the work order. Dave left, leaving behind the faint smell of refrigerant and the profound sense that his explanation was utterly inadequate.

Eduardo looked around the small, damaged living room. The smell of lavender and burnt plastic was overwhelming. The image of the bloated roaches was seared into his mind. Cooking here? Not a chance.

He grabbed his car keys and house keys, a sour candy already unwrapped and shoved into his mouth, the intense tang a grounding shock to his system. He needed food, noise, lights – anything not this overheated box. He locked the front door firmly behind him, the click of the deadbolt loud in the sudden quiet of the porch.

Inside the now-empty house, unseen by Eduardo, the small red plastic hand sat upright on his nightstand. Its long, black-nailed fingers pointed rigidly towards the ceiling. The cheap plastic seemed to gleam faintly in the gloom, radiating a silent, malevolent heat.

As Eduardo drove, the neon glare of the city blurred past his windshield, a smear of garish light against the deepening twilight. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the phantom heat from his living room still clinging to his skin like a bad sunburn. The technician’s words echoed uselessly: glitch, control board, warranty. Bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit. That heat… that speed… and that fucking hand. Where did it come from? He mentally ransacked his sparse belongings – cheap furniture, clothes, work scrubs, a few tools scattered in the disastrous backyard. Nothing. No kid’s toys, no forgotten knick-knacks. It was like it had materialized just to burn him.

He scoffed aloud, the sound harsh in the quiet car. Superstition? Religion? He’d chucked that useless crutch years ago, right around the time he realized prayers went as unheard as his childhood tears. God was just another absentee parent. The universe was chaos, ruled by assholes and bad luck. Simple.

He stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers impatiently. Then he saw them. Walking along the cracked sidewalk under a flickering streetlamp: his mother, Yareli, her heavy-set form unmistakable, and beside her, his sister Ana, glued to her phone as usual. A fresh wave of corrosive fury, hotter than the phantom heat in his house, washed over him. Not today. Fuck you, not today. The light turned green. He slammed the gas pedal, the tires chirping slightly as he sped past, refusing to even glance in their direction. Two more fucking problems he didn’t need. The sight of his mother was enough to drag the therapist’s words back to the forefront: longing for warmth… fear of rejection… vulnerability…Each word felt like a lit match tossed onto the dry tinder of his memories.

He needed a drink. Now.

He pulled into the gravel lot of “The Rusty Anchor,” a dive bar whose flickering sign promised cold beer and dubious food. Inside was a time capsule of despair: sticky floors, nicotine-stained wood paneling, the cloying smell of stale beer and cheap disinfectant. A few grizzled regulars hunched over the bar, looking like they’d been pickled in bourbon since dawn. One, near the jukebox, was swaying dangerously, a dark stain spreading down his pants leg onto the floor. Before Eduardo could even process it, a hulking bouncer materialized, grabbed the man under the arms with a grunt, and unceremoniously hauled him towards the door, leaving a trail and muttered curses in his wake.

Eduardo didn’t flinch. Just another Tuesday. He slid onto a cracked vinyl barstool, the surface slightly tacky. He didn’t need a menu. “Double bourbon. Wells is fine. And the wings.” The bartender, a woman with tired eyes and faded tattoos snaking up her arms, nodded wordlessly.

As he waited, the cheap bourbon burning a welcome path down his throat, the images flooded back, fueled by the alcohol and the sight of his mother. Not warmth. Never warmth. The screaming matches that shook the flimsy walls of his grandmother’s house. The way Yareli’s face could shift from saccharine sweetness in front of others to venomous contempt the moment the door closed. The times she’d shoved him, the sharp crack of her hand against his face when he dared talk back. The suffocating guilt trips. The way she’d look good while making him feel like worthless shit. Dr. Ariti’s voice morphed into hers, taunting him: You’re so ungrateful. After all I’ve done. You’re just like your father. Worthless. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The familiar, comforting rage began to boil, hotter and hotter, pushing out the confusion about the red hand, the heat wave. This rage was real. This rage was his.

Thud.

The plate of wings slammed down in front of him, rattling the silverware and jolting him violently out of the toxic memory loop. He hadn’t even seen the bartender approach. He snapped his head up, his eyes blazing, meeting her impassive gaze. She didn’t apologize, just turned and walked away to the other end of the bar.

“Fuck you too,” Eduardo muttered under his breath, the words thick with venom. He grabbed a wing, tearing into the greasy flesh with savage bites. Another shitty day. Shitty therapist, shitty house trying to bake him alive, shitty mother sighting, shitty dive bar with pissing drunks and rude bartenders. Just another brick in the towering, crumbling shit-monument that was his life. He washed the wings down with the rest of the double bourbon, then signaled the bartender again. “Another double.”

The drive home was a blur of streetlights and simmering resentment. He parked haphazardly in his patchy front yard, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the sudden silence, the only sound the ticking of the cooling metal. Exhaustion, deeper than physical, settled over him like a lead blanket. He couldn’t face cleaning anything else, couldn’t face the lingering smell of lavender and scorched plastic, couldn’t face the mystery of the heat wave or the phantom hand.

He pushed open the front door, not bothering to turn on more than the dim hallway light. He didn’t look towards the TV stand. He didn’t glance at the nightstand. He moved through the oppressive quiet like a ghost, the events of the day – the therapy session, the impossible heat, the dive bar, the flood of poisoned memories – a heavy, toxic sludge in his veins. He just wanted oblivion.

He stumbled into his bedroom, shedding his jacket and kicking off his boots. He didn’t brush his teeth. He didn’t change. He just collapsed face-first onto the unmade bed, the springs groaning in protest. Sleep pulled at him instantly, a dark, welcoming tide promising escape.

His last conscious thought wasn’t about the scorched plastic smell, or the dead roaches swept into the trash, or the inexplicable heat. It wasn’t even about the small, red plastic hand currently standing upright on his nightstand, its long black nails pointing accusingly towards the ceiling. No, his last thought was a spike of pure, acidic dread piercing the fog of exhaustion:

Tomorrow. Mrs. Henderson’s back. That cranky bitch and her fucking lukewarm shit-soup, aiming for my dick again.

The darkness of sleep swallowed him whole. The red hand gleamed faintly in the gloom, a silent sentinel.