The Hate Complex

I - Harwin

1909 - After the Fall

The scarlet shone stark against the standard-issue white of the table, the tiniest droplet in a stern sea of bleached plastic. The blood pulsated with sickening vigour as they scanned it mercilessly, and it seemed to pale steadily beneath the artificial gaze of the light. They were searching for something within, something they had once scoffed at, but now had no choice but to rely upon; the inexplicable element that gives life to organic matter.

Harwin stood aside just like the rest of them, knitting his eyebrows and watching, waiting for something to happen. He did not know what he expected; was he to think that some beast would crawl from within the crimson fluid, or that an angel would be found in it's restless depths, writhing in the viscous substance with a halo above its head? The thought nearly made him laugh at the absurdity of it all. Nothing of the sort happened that day, as it turned out, just like every other time. They had been trying the same thing with different scanners for weeks now, but so far their attempts had proved fruitless; aside from extracting various unnamed substances from the samples, they had not found a definitive answer.

The scholar in charge had gathered them together one day, and told them of their mission. "If there is a substance which gives organisms life, a consciousness, we must find it", she had said, but Harwin knew this scheme was as futile as the others they had tried. Every time what they were searching for had eluded them, and he could tell the others were beginning to get desperate. They had grown into a haggard, unsightly bunch, and were gathered around the blood sample like vultures around a corpse. Harwin wrinkled his nose in silent derision; he knew better, he knew it was pointless. Nothing they tried would ever get them closer to solving the mystery of life; he was only here out of obligation.

The blood bubbled and boiled, tumbling over and over itself and reeling around the table. Harwin felt a fleck reach his cheek, and it burned him, but he did not flinch; pain was inevitable, there was no use trying to fight it, just as there was no use attempting the defeat the plague which encircled the world. The fifth time attempting this method they had abandoned the glass cover over the blood, to save time, and had even left their protective masks hanging solemnly in the cupboard a few rooms away. They had no time for such things anymore, which nobody voiced aloud, but was felt by everyone in equity.

That day had been similar to every other day they had seen for the past month, so few words were required for the head scholar, and within the hour they were going their separate ways. Freed, Harwin kicked the door open and kissed the cold winter air, glancing up to see the snow falling with languid ignorance from the heavens. He knew the theists would be pessimistic; God seemed to have forgotten them in his lovely velvet heaven.

The roof of Scarwyck, where they carried out their "research" stretched up and up, clawing into the black belly of the night, and Harwin drank deeply of the frostbitten air as he mounted his rusty 'Old Faithful'. It growled like some beast when he started the engine, and then he was free, sailing along the road like a bird along the skyline, with the wind whipping his bare face to shreds and his black hair flailing like a wild thing around his head. He liked riding without a helmet; it helped him remember that nothing mattered, not even his life. If he fell right then, he thought, he would be perfectly content to rot there; let the maggots infest his eyes and let the elements strip him bare. He'd had a good enough life, what was the harm in dying free as a bird?

He decided to leave the beaten path and ride out across the fields; they were free of livestock now anyway, it had been that way since before he had reached manhood. He would just have to watch for the bones. Harwin rejoiced as he flew across the grassy plains, which dusk had turned to honey, and he spotted a lone bull wandering ponderously between two skeletons. Harwin slowed, and watched it fall, attempting to nuzzle the bones of the largest of the two, but only managing to push them about and rearrange the skeleton. It tipped and moaned, and Harwin could almost hear anguish in the sole note it drew from its throat. Except bulls could not feel anguish, he knew. They could feel nothing. The creature simply wanted to mate. Harwin was proved right when the animal swayed languidly from its dead fellow and mounted a fence, pumping away in ignorance for a moment before giving up and sinking back to the ground.

Harwin circled the poor beast slowly. It was without a mate; it was without a purpose. The animal had sunk to its knees, and appeared to be sleeping, so Harwin drew up and dismounted, padding softly to where it lay. He drew his knife, which he kept on his person at all times apart from when sleeping, and silently opened the beast's throat, spilling its life blood for the earth to drink. He felt no regret; it was an animal, it could not feel; its entire purpose was to mate and its centre of control was a complex web of neurons designed for said purpose. Besides, its death was mercy; death was better than being alone. Harwin mounted once again, and sped back to his cabin, sobered considerably. When he arrived, Alice was waiting. She was leaning on the kitchen table when he entered, staring at her knuckles, and glanced up. Her lips stretched into a reluctant smile, but there was fear in her eyes, and they were blurred and red from weeping. It was a cold, hard world they lived in, Harwin reflected. Alice was not built for it. She wept everyday now, soft thing that she was, and even when she gave herself to him, he could tell her mind was elsewhere.

He crept over to her and started undressing her. Soon enough, she was naked from head to toe, the way he liked her, so he moved between her thighs and gave her his tongue. Her breathing came in monumental, shuddering waves, and soon they were on the bed and her head was bent over his crotch.

"D-does my tongue please you?" Her eyes were round and fearful, the reason for which reason Harwin could not guess. He answered her question with a contented sigh, and then turned her round and mounted her as a bull mounts a fence. When they were finished Harwin left her in the bedroom and went to cook. He felt within the cupboards for a moment and finally drew out a long, pale packet, ripped it open, and shook its contents into a metal pan. The flabby, watery mess that passed for food hit the pan and sizzled away, and soon enough Harwin had it separated into two portions and put into bowls.

The heat had turned it into a viscous, gloopy soup, but food was food, he supposed, regarding the slop glumly. He carried the plates into the bedroom hastily, spilling droplets of the stuff on the threadbare carpet. He would clean those later, he thought, as he stepped over various week-old patches of dried gloop and trod firmly over others. He found the bedroom empty, and laid the bowls on the bedside table. He spotted his knife there, where he had discarded it in his haste to make love, and scooped it up hastily, shoving it into his pocket, its home. The woman must have been in the bathroom, so he padded over to the door and knocked softly.

"It's out, come and-", he stopped suddenly. He heard sobbing, distinct against the subtle tapestry of sound outside the house. He listened, intrigued, and suddenly the tap came on, and a frantic scrubbing sound mingled with the sobbing. "What the hell are you doing?" The scrubbing stopped suddenly, and she gasped.

"Y-yes, I'm f-fine...d-d-dear... I-I'll be out in a moment." Then silence. What on earth was her problem?Harwin left the door, perplexed, and promptly heard the scrubbing begin again. He decided he would have to monitor Alice more closely; something might be going on. For now he put it down to a woman's problems, but he was troubled nonetheless. He retired to bed shortly after, and waited for the sound of the bathroom door opening. It was a while before the he heard it, and as he waited he lay on his back, fingering his knife. Soon enough Alice was curled up beside him, and after he heard her breathing slow and knew she was asleep, he finally placed his knife on the bedside table, and followed her into that black land of dreams.