‘The Man Who Hates Himself’

Elizabeth Agre ran far far away from city life and into the north woods of Minnesota. She took the dog and husband with. She has never looked back.

The Man Who Hates Himself

There’s a man who doesn’t pick fights to win.

He picks them to lose.

He walks into bars already bleeding. Not from skin but somewhere deeper. Shame. Guilt. Regret. The kind that doesn’t fade easily. He’s not bloated like the other barflies. He’s still lean from years of factory work and fights. His knuckles tell their story with scars and bruises. His face is gaunt. Greasy hair clings to his scalp. His teeth rot beneath the permanent scowl. You can smell the Marlboro Reds and booze on his breath before he even speaks. He hasn’t looked in a mirror in months. Doesn’t want to. Doesn’t need to. He already knows what’s there.

Hatred. 

Of the self.

He’s been banned by a few of the local haunts but it makes no difference. They know he’ll keep showing up anyway, even if the cops get called. He returns to them looking for someone big. Mean. Loud. If they’re all three, even better. All that matters is they’ve got fists. Hopefully they’ve got a fragile ego to boot. When the first punch comes, he blocks it. It’s just for show. By the second or third, his hands are dropped. Fists find his face. His head snaps back. Blood leaks from his nose. Doesn’t beg them to stop. He goads them on if he must. Many times, they oblige. When it comes to words, he’s got a gift. He knows how to hit them where it hurts.

How he survives each encounter is anybody’s guess. Even the doctors (when they choose to help) are left dumbfounded. One time, he provoked a group minding their own business. They fell for his bait and stomped him out until people started yelling at them to stop. One of the onlookers tried to help him to his feet. He waved them off and stumbled away, disappointed. Another time, they dragged him into the alley. He didn’t fight back. Didn’t raise a hand. Just posted up against the wall with his arms slack, hoping that would finally be it. It wasn’t. 

Somehow, he survived. 

Again.

He used to be someone. Wife. Kid. Coaching little league games. Hangouts with coworkers he also called friends. Sunday drives with the family to the lake. It was about as close to the American Dream you could get, blue collar style. Then it all started to slip. One thing after another. Doesn’t matter what happened. It just kept getting worse. The Rust Belt town he’s in? Factories long shut. Buildings boarded up. Potholes and garbage riddle the streets. At night, even the streetlights flicker like they’re ready to give up. Look at the scenery long enough and you’ll see what his inner world looks like.

Decayed. 

Devastated. 

Destroyed.

When he’s not looking for a fight, he fills the rest of the time with drink. Beer. Whiskey. Rum. Whatever’s cheap when the cash runs low. He used to consider saving himself instead of heading down the hellish road he’s on. AA. Rehab. Church. Those options are long gone now. Sponsors, counselors, and pastors have all but given up on him. The cops know him well. They try to talk sense to him, in and out of the holding cells. The words don’t stick. He knows what he’s doing. 

He’s not surviving.

He’s hunting for his own death.

This is a man who doesn’t want a clean death, though. No. In his mind, that’d be too generous, because there are no do-overs for a man convinced he’s damned. He wants humiliation. Public beatings. The laughter and jeers of onlookers. The shock on someone’s face when they realize he’s not even fighting back. There’s power in degradation. To him, it’s the punishment he believes he deserves. And in those moments of violence, he finds penance. It overrides all those pleasant memories that have turned into a kind of slow-release poison: reminders of his failures, the things he couldn’t prevent, that which he couldn’t save. Now, he’s looking for someone who won’t hold back. Someone who won’t let him slip away unscathed. He hopes it’ll be quick, but if not? Even better. Until then he’ll keep picking fights. 

Because in his mind? 

He’s already dead.

His body simply hasn’t caught up yet. 

Ryan Rahman is a writer based in Orlando, Florida. His works have appeared in Wingless Dreamer Publisher, The Words Faire, and Neon Origami, among others. When he’s not writing, Ryan enjoys reading, listening to music, watching movies, and traveling. Find him on Instagram: ryanrahmanwriter.