The Hate Collective by James Powell (rom com books to read txt) 📕

or wipe out the anger and hatred he had been feeling since. Sitting on a psychiatrists couch couldn’t change the past. It would just cost him money. But as time went on, the idea of meeting with other victims took on a greater significance in his mind.
Over the next few weeks, Michael put on a brave face and tried to pretend that everything was fine. He was actually quite good at this, so good in fact, that his friends were convinced that he had forgotten about the incident, having taken their advice and just got on with life. This was not the case though, as Michael was really struggling to keep his emotions in check.
Despite a superhuman effort, he just couldn’t get a grip on the mood swings which had taken over just days after he was attacked. Anger turned to despair, turned to helplessness and self pity on a daily, sometimes even hourly basis and it was slowly tearing apart the fabric of his mind.
Sometimes he was angry. Angry at himself for getting so upset and letting such an incident consume him. He knew how fortunate it was that he had managed to escape unhurt, when there was a chance he could have been stabbed or killed. He could have lost his life that day, yet all he lost was his wallet. He should have been feeling lucky, not angry. Besides, like his friends so forcefully pointed out, people got mugged all the time, but they didn’t let it take over and ruin their lives. They just forgot about it, and he should do the same. It was no use though. Rational thought just could not make the fear go away.
At night, instead of sleeping, he would relive the incident over and over in his mind with appalling clarity, remembering every little detail, every step he took, and every thought and feeling he experienced that afternoon. To make things worse, it all happened in super slow motion, which only served to emphasise just how terrifying the whole ordeal had been. The sight of the blade, the look in the man’s eyes, the beating chest and breathlessness. It all came flooding back the moment his head hit the pillow.
But then Michael started to relive it differently, imaging what would happen if it was somehow possible to go back in time and do things again. He certainly wouldn’t just obediently hand over his wallet, that’s for sure. If only he could turn back the clock and rectify the mistakes of the past. Maybe he would have just run away the moment he saw the knife and hope that he wasn’t followed. Yes it was cowardly, but when he gave that man his wallet, he gave away his dignity too. The guy was probably too lazy to go after him anyway, so running would have been the best option.
Sometimes he imagined that he had simply stood up for himself and had the balls to say no. Refuse point blank, and see what happened. The guy probably wasn’t a killer- just somebody who preyed on other peoples fear to make a bit of easy money. If he had stood his ground the attacker wouldn’t know what to do and would probably back down, not prepared to commit murder for money. It would be a very depraved person indeed, who sticks a knife in someone for a handful of notes, but Michael was aware from various alarmist newspaper articles that such people do actually exist. But still, the odds of coming face to face with one are statistically unlikely. But what do statistics mean? Someone has to win the lottery.
However, even when Michael imagined taking a stand against his adversary, there was still no escaping the growing sense of shame and loss. It was like a pain that just wouldn’t go away, not too severe, but always there, always noticeable, despite his best efforts to ignore it. He was ashamed of his weakness, appalled at how quickly he crumbled under pressure and just threw his money away. It was pathetic. What kind of man doesn’t even try to defend himself? Was he even a man anymore?
These thoughts tormented him for days until he eventually became utterly consumed with rage, to the point where not even his job could ease his mind and sooth his anger. He started having fantasies. Sick twisted revenge fantasies. If he could just have five minutes alone with that guy. The things he would do. He dreamed about discovering where the criminal lived so he could follow him around, stalk him like a hunter, knowing that revenge could be his at any time. Whenever he decided. How good would that feel, knowing you have the power to strike at any second, while the target remains oblivious to the misery ahead? And it really would be misery, because Michael wanted to degrade, torture and humiliate the man, just like he himself had been humiliated. He wanted him to suffer, just like he himself had suffered. He wanted blood.
These were just dreams though, as Michael knew that none of this would ever happen, as he didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He couldn’t even stomach violent films for God’s sake, never making it past the first half hour of Pulp Fiction, much to the amusement of his friends. He was obviously not the kind of person who could inflict real violence on a real human being, and even if he did summon up the courage to go and look for the attacker, and even if he did defy the odds and somehow manage to find him, then what next? He wouldn’t have the bottle to do anything, no matter how much he wanted to. He was simply unable. There was no way he could break the pacifistic habit of a lifetime and actually hit someone, which meant that vengeance would forever remain a fantasy. A different approach was therefore required.
In a rare moment of clear thinking, Michael realised that there might actually be others ways of achieving, what the Americans would call, ‘closure’, and although there would never be the opportunity to achieve the kind of physical revenge he has spent so much time dreaming about, he could still channel his anger into something useful.
He decided to phone the local newspaper, convinced that if the police didn’t think his case was very important, the media certainly would. They would want to know why an innocent man can’t even walk down the street without becoming a victim of crime. Maybe the paper would even campaign on his behalf. In his mind, Michael envisaged a big article about the spread of knife crime, with emphasis on his own personal trauma, and maybe they would even contact the mayor and police chief to hold them to account for once. Ask them some difficult questions. Very difficult questions indeed. And maybe, just maybe, the wheels of justice would be set in motion and Michael’s assailant brought to justice.
This was definitely the right way to go, he was sure of it, so the next day he called the local gazette and was put through to the news desk straight away.
‘Good morning, my name is Michael and I have a story you might be interested in’, he said confidently. ‘OK, go ahead’, came the reply. The voice on the other end sounded distinctly uninterested, and it was surprising how quiet the office was. He had expected to hear a lot of background noise, telephones ringing, busy journalists chasing the next big story, and just a general sense of excitement, yet there was none of this. Just silence, punctuated by the sound of the journalist’s slightly laboured breathing, and even though it was only a local paper, Michael still expected more.
He ignored the surly tone of voice, realising that this particular journo probably had to take dozens of calls every day, each person thinking that their story was of the utmost importance when in fact, all they had was a triviality. Some complaint about the council’s rubbish collection policy perhaps, or a ‘story’ about car parking spaces. Michael realised that the high powered world of media might not be as glamorous as it seemed.
Undeterred, he spent a couple of minutes explaining what had happened, going into great detail about the threat of being stabbed, before finishing, hopeful of a positive response. The hack listened without interruption, then let out a slow, almost undetectable sigh. ‘Were you hurt at all?, he deadpanned. ‘Well…no, not physically, but for the last few weeks, I…’
‘And how much money did the mugger take?’
‘About forty pounds.’
‘Credit cards?’
‘ Yeah, he took those too, but I phoned the company and got them cancelled. No money went out of my bank account’. There was a pause. ‘Well, it doesn’t sound like you have much of a story to be honest. Have you left out any other details, or is that it?’ This was said in a slightly condescending manner, but Michael persisted. ‘Well, the police came to my house, but there was nothing they could do except give me a number. Do you not find that ridiculous? That should be the story. Or you could write about the spread of knife crime, police incompetence, lack of effort when it comes to small cases or the fact that I haven’t been able to sleep since it happened. There’s a story for you somewhere. Maybe you could contact the police chief or the mayor and…’
‘Let me stop you there. These things happen all the time. Last month my house was burgled, but I didn’t write an article about it. It just isn’t news.’
‘But the guy had a knife’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t use it. Nobody got hurt. It’s not a story.’
‘So what you’re basically saying is that it’s not worth printing unless someone gets hurt. If I had actually been stabbed, then it would be on the front page. Am I right?’
‘Pretty much, yeah. Man holds knife, is not news. Man stabs someone with knife certainly is. That’s just the way things are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for a meeting.’
Michael knew this was a lie, and slammed the phone down in despair. Moments later he began to hate that journalist, with all his heart. He imagined him to be a fat, sweating middle aged hack who never had the talent to write for a proper newspaper and had slowly but surely become bitter, cynical and jaded. The guy probably spent his days sitting in the office drinking lukewarm coffee and idly writing bullshit celebrity stories sourced from the news of the world website, instead of going out into the real world to find something to write about that really mattered. This guy was a joke. Wouldn’t know how to read a good story, never mind write one, and besides, the mayor and police chief wouldn’t have a clue who he was, and neither would anyone else important. He had no power or influence. He was nothing. So Michael decided on another strategy. This time, he would go higher up the food chain.
Writing a letter to his MP was the last throw of the dice, the final actions of a desperate man. The police hadn’t helped, the press hadn’t helped, so the only other person who could possibly make a difference, and even that was highly unlikely, was his right honourable member of parliament, whoever the fuck that was.
Like most people, Michael nurtured a healthy indifference towards politicians, well aware that most of them were on the make, hoping to get as much money as possible while actually in power, before disappearing afterwards to make some real cash on the lecture tour, as well as raking in the big dollars with various book deals. The thing is, MPs screwing the taxpayer out of