There are times when the hatred, the vitriol and the malice can no longer be contained. They must be unleashed. Most often, this occurs as a consequence of the ignition of fury which arises as a response to the wounding which happens because we have been criticised. The ignited fury may, with those of us with greater control thresholds, be kept under control, especially if we are mindful of the impact it may have upon the facade. Sometimes, we cannot exert that control and heated or cold fury erupts from us, seeking to provoke a reaction from you and others which will draw fuel and in turn address the wound so the fury in time abates.
Then there are the times when there is a need to spread hurt, cause pain, to shock and to lash out.
It is not an uncontrolled and haphazard spewing forth of hatred, a dervish that lashes out at all around him or her, drawing looks of horror, hurt and annoyance. Such a frenzied response is one associated with the loss of control which occurs through the ignition of fury. This is a calculated exercise in drawing negative fuel for the purposes of letting this awful and treacherous world and its traitorous minions know that there is a blazing hatred at our core, a permanent state of malicious and venomous antipathy for everybody around us. We have no interest in donning a mask of charm or magnetism. There is no desire to present a facade on such occasions. Our seething, savage malcontent must emerge and be branded on all those who are unfortunate enough to cross our path.
It may start at any point in the day. It may be that on wakening we feel it there, the corrosive taint of malice which has to be allowed to surface. We may, in less experienced times, have thought that the provision of positive fuel would cause this sensation to lessen and to vanish, but it does not. For some reason, some deep and dark reason, only negative fuel will suffice. I have experienced this on several occasions. I now recognise it. It is the desire to destroy, to hurt, to maim and I know that until such time as I have drunk deep of the negative fuel that flows from such actions, I will not be able to stop and cause this sensation to vanish. I can feel it inside of me – it is not fury, but rather a visceral and powerful hatred for everything and everyone. A bilious sensation sat in my core and I must obey it. It is allied to the ever present hunger for fuel, but only negative will do. It is as if some ancient wrong can only ever be reconciled through the application of repeated wrongs, as if that historic crime has to be repeated and replicated in the here and now and in so doing, by giving it such an exposure and airing, release is achieved.
Something wicked from way back when must be allowed to manifest now.
And so the day is one of vicious behaviours. The morning greeting from the neighbour is met with an instruction to him to “get fucked” or to invite him to keep an eye on that “whore of his wife and her afternoon visitors”. His shocked response is seen from peripheral vision, the first drops of negative fuel trickling my way as I march to my vehicle and enter it. The cocooning effect of the magnificent car does nothing to remove the malice. On the drive to the office, those talking on the radio are routinely lambasted for the idiocy – they cannot hear me but it does not matter – they must still be told. The window is lowered and a pair of young women walking along the road are shouted at, the single insult of “sluts” trailing after me as I drive past. The cyclist is pilloried for being a “latex clad wanker”, the person waiting at the zebra crossing jumps back as I fail to yield to them and give them the finger as I sail by.
Sat in idling traffic I endeavour to catch the eye of the driver behind or in front and goad them with hand gestures.
“Come on, come on, get out,” I hiss to myself, hoping they will emerge from their vehicle and challenge me. Just do it, give me the provocation I am looking for and I can unleash yet more of this malice which is surging through me. Today they perhaps see what glints in my darkened eyes and do no more than retaliate with their own gestures before the traffic moves on and we become separated.
The barista in the cafe asks for my order and my name in that ridiculous manner of theirs. All I want is tea, not some imported affectation of a grand ho cho or some ridiculous coffee which is whipped, flavoured, syrup and sprinkled. I give the name “Farquhar” and say it in a tone which tells him that if he dares, if he fucking dares to ask me how to spell that name I will seize several of these over-priced muffins in the display and force them into his spluttering mouth one by one. He does not ask and his cake choking is avoided.
Of course when the beverage arrives, I see “Farkwar” daubed in the hand-writing of a five year old on the side. I lift the cup and speak,
“Excuse me,” I say coolly. The barista turns and looks at me. Already hesitation is gripping him.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Are you some kind of epsilon semi-moron.” I say. Although it should be a question, it sounds more like a statement as I point at the scrawl on the cup. He says nothing, unsure of what to say and what I will do.
“Is that wrong? I’m sorry,” he offers.
I hold his gaze, my dark glare boring into him as I contemplate setting alight his extensive beard. He looks away at the floor within a couple of seconds. I know everybody else in this store is looking at me. Good.
I shake my head.
“You should have tried harder at school you fucking quarter wit,” I announce and turn, shoving past those behind me. There are no protests.
And so it goes. The receptionist is told she looks slovenly when I enter the office. The office junior is snarled at to get out of the way. I find fault with everything that those working for me do. I draw tears from one annihilated associate as I subject him to a five minute tirade as to the inadequacies of his report, banishing him from my room as if exiling him from my kingdom. He is the third person who has entered my office and been subjected to my malice and it is not even mid-morning.
My secretary pokes her head around the door.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
I pause and look up from my computer and apply the charm of the smile.
“Absolutely great. Could not be better. First class. Tip top. Superb.” I confirm as I reel off a range of synonyms for all being well. Most will be branded with my malice today but not her. She is a loyal Lieutenant and this time she is exempt, besides, what better way to really mess with the heads of those beneath me is to have my secretary say,
“He was fine with me,” if they come crawling back trying to ascertain what is wrong.
E-mails receive curt replies. Those who telephone are subjected to a savage dissection of their proposal which leaves them speechless. Instructions are barked, injunctions issued and idiots torn apart. The malice remains, powering the nasty and unpleasant behaviours but never surging out of control. It is as if this malice recognises that it does some good to put some stick about, to let people know that they have to earn my grace and favour, that they ought to be on their toes, alert and mindful that their elevated position can be removed in an instant. Few ever challenge, most retreat horrified, alarmed and hurt. Those that do fight back but they are then subjected to fiercer malice as they are intimidated until they break away, muttering and still hurling insults. It matters not, it is all negative fuel.
In another place this malice would have manifested through the application of physical violence. The punches and kicks traded with those stroppy waxwork faces as part of the understanding that this is what happens in such an arena. In another place again, this malice would surface through the cruelty and humiliation of the one supposedly closest to me in the most intimate of settings. In yet another place, this malice would appear as the event wrecking ball, leaving nothing standing.
But today it happens in this place and this means that verbal abuse, insults, savage tongue, baleful glare and acidic responses are the appropriate ways in which the malice makes itself felt and draws of the negative fuel.
Some who are the recipients are strangers and our paths will not cross again. Others may regard me warily until the usual charm appears and they are put at ease. Most know better than to make it appear on another day through the ignition of fury. Occasionally there are those who will take it further. A demand for an apology, a raised grievance through formal channels and even a complaint to the authorities. In those rare instances the matter is dealt with through the restoration of persuasion and magnetism. A reward is offered to avoid the issue, charm negates the challenge or even a supposedly heart-felt apology is provided. They are, after all, just words and of course the relief, pleasure and gratitude espoused by the other person is all positive fuel, welcomed on the alternative occasion. There is not one who has been on the receiving end of the malice who cannot be brought back into line once again. All people have a price.
When this malice appears in this form, the entrenched and ancient right exercising its need to be aired, after a day of caustic comments, vicious volleys and sarcastic smiles, with the negative fuel swallowed up, I return and there is a beneficiary of all this vitriol. Having allowed the malice to be known, to let it stretch its legs and flex its muscles, it retreats, for now and as I arrive at your house or return to ours, you receive the positive side of this contrast for once. Even if you, as primary source, are being devalued, you will be given a sudden respite and the resurrection of the golden period. Your surprise and delight at its return brings forth the positive fuel in significant quantities and it washes over me, replacing the now receded malice. Your positive fuel is now required and thus the devaluation is halted as you are seen as a sanctuary of delight compared to those who have annoyed, irritated and crossed me during the day. It may not last long, but for today at least, the malice was given vent and now you benefit from its sustained application.
Even when I am malicious, I am good.
16 thoughts on “Malice”
Quote Of The Day: [`The absence of the narcissist means the waters of emotional thinking recede and leave the cold, hard rocks of logic behind.`] ~~HG Tudor
Is there anyone who can bring you out of this state of malice?
Hello HG – I’m battling with shame regarding the narc. Shame in that I believed him and foolishly trusted him – I am not a stupid woman yet I saw nothing until the narc was gone. Is that common? Could you at some point write an article regarding this – I’d love to see your thoughts on this.
It is common, it is called the reduction of your emotional thinking (because of the nil engagement or reduced engagement with the narcissist) which then leaves you with the clarity of though called logic. The absence of the narcissist means the waters of emotional thinking recede and leave the cold, hard rocks of logic behind.
Thank you so very much!!!
“The absence of the narcissist means the waters of emotional thinking recede and leave the cold, hard rocks of logic behind.” Beautifully written, HG!
HG , wouldn’t it be sweet to have your primary playing the cello or harp when you returned home after a sucky ass day ?
This is kind of how I feel when I have PMS. Yikes.
Good HG! I have had similar feelings about overpriced muffins and irritation when I just want a simple coffee—obviously just much dampened by comparison. I really enjoy your ability to be expressive.
HG, are these hypothetical occurrences, or have you actually done these things? They are quite nefarious.
I call shotgun with Farquhar on the next Malice Day for some badass lessons! Pumpkin spice breve latte please…extra hot. (Most badass-est drink ever! Ha ha) Name is Ishtar bitches!
Tell them your name is Uranass and keep a straight face when they shout it out. Doesn’t matter if they pronounce it Uranus or You’re an ass – still funny. I’m going to grow up some day. Just not today.
NA, I love it! Uranass! I’m never planning to grow up. I realize I’ve already messed up my badass lessons by saying please. Good Lord! There’s no hope for me. I’ve definitely been uninvited for Malice Day.