You hated.

Some say you hated too much. That if you were a character in a novel, you'd be a painfully shallow one. But there was a depth to it, an all-encompassing heat, that they couldn't grasp.

You hated how heartbreaking it all was. That despite all the work put into reversing the well-worn, century-old racial slurs (you beast, you savage, you animal), there was a cutting truth to it that, when you found out, sliced through to your vitals and left you with nothing but the hatred. Because how could you dare to feel anything but, when you were the biggest irony of them all?

You hated God. Because how could He do this to you? How could He turn your understanding of the world on its head, and rob you of any certainty? Moreover, how could He stand by and watch as you were stripped of your humanity, of your self, and left without any guidance. They say all things happen for a purpose. God was no longer yours.

You hated the awful, perverted facsimile of love. Love is all about choice. Choosing to treasure the other above all else. Choosing to bring them breakfast in bed, and choosing to look after them when they are sick. Choosing to put up with your in-laws, despite knowing that they will forever be wary of you, and your ability to steal their child from them. There was no choice, in imprinting. An overwhelming compulsion to do all those things, sure, but you felt it lacked something, when it shifted from want to to have to. And it brought tears to your eyes, the first time you realised what you had lost.

You hated the feeling it gave you, as it traveled savagely down your spine, leaving shifting, writhing skin in its wake. It was pins and needles, and hot pokers, and ice cold water, all at once. It reminded you of the days you would spend with your brother, shoving handfuls of snow down the others back, before you thawed your hands inside while your fingertips tingled painfully, hotly. But the pure, white snow was replaced with mud and dirt and claws and you couldn't imagine ever being able to grasp something in your hands without being sickened by what they become.

You hated the thoughts that you were certain weren't yours. Not the ones from the rest of the pack, because you could care less about those, but the ones that invaded your own mind. The ones that got clogged in your throat, as you tried to keep them, desperately, from escaping into your life. The ones that called for blood, their blood, and pulled you towards the trees and the earth and the forests all around.

And you hated yourself. And you told yourself you would never be one of those people, that you would always have enough self-respect to matter, even if only to you. But you're not a person anymore, are you? So you suppose it's kind of moot.