This morning as I got ready for work, I pulled on a flattering T-shirt and spent the next few seconds making sure the v-neck hung straight. It looked good, all was well. I wandered into the bedroom, and promptly traded it out for something much baggier and frumpier.

Which means two things:

  1. It’s casual Friday (WOOT!)
  2. Friday’s aside, it means I’m in the perfect mood for Tessa’s Hatefest

The concept is basic, but epic. Post a snippet of writing (story, poem, part of a longer piece) filled with hate. I hesitated before signing up for this one, because I don’t have a lot of individual scenes that convey hate. I mean, I have a couple of characters who absolutely loathe each other. But I don’t have any good scenes that show that.

And then I remembered the following. This is from my novel God’s Girl Friday, which I very rarely ever mention (it’s been referred to as my ‘angels with guns’ novel by the handful of people who have read it). The main character, Sakura, was raised an assassin for a well-known religious organization. At this point in the story, she’s been betrayed by her faith and the woman she loves, and she’s blaming herself. She’s pretty much swimming in self-loathing.

When you’re done here, make sure you go visit everyone else. It’s a good day to revel in others’ dislike.

God’s Girl Friday

Sakura wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror with the edge of her towel. She ran a comb through the long strands of black hair, letting them slap against her shoulders as they fell. Drops of water ran in cold rivulets down her back. She opened the medicine cabinet door, finding what she needed, and grateful that Don shaved with a straight razor.

She unwrapped a fresh blade and ran it along her fingertip, smiling at the small drop of blood that welled up from the fresh cut. She sectioned off a piece of hair and pulled it forward. Sawing through the black annoyance, she felt a spark of satisfaction when a wet clump of the mane dropped to the ground. She continued the all the way around, until a face surrounded by a jagged helmet ending just above her shoulders stared back at her in the mirror.

She held the blade up in front of her face, watching the yellow bathroom light bounce off its surface with a dull shine. Pressing it against the inside of her wrist, she winced as she applied enough pressure to break the skin. She dragged the blade down her arm, fascinated by the trail of red it left in its wake.