Hate
Oliver stepped out of the office building, heading absently toward the car park before remembering he’d dropped his car at the garage the day before. Frustration flickered, but then he shrugged—perhaps it was for the best. The idea of squeezing onto a packed, stuffy bus during rush hour made his skin crawl. Better to walk. The only thorn was the bruise-black sky swallowing the horizon, thick storm clouds rolling over London, threatening thunder, threatening a deluge.
He quickened his pace, glancing skyward as a distant rumble shuddered through the air. There was a café nearby—one he passed daily but never entered. The first heavy drops struck his shoulders as he reached it. He barely made it inside before the heavens split open, rain hammering the pavement, the café windows rattling under the storm’s fury.
Inside, the air was warm, dry. A few empty tables dotted the room. The door banged open behind him—two young women spilled in, laughter drowned by the downpour’s roar. Oliver claimed a table before the place flooded with soaked strangers seeking shelter. The hum of chatter rose, everyone animated by the storm.
A waitress approached, tall, stern. She dropped a menu in front of him and turned to leave, but he stopped her.
“Just the steak, no sides. House salad. Black coffee.”
She scribbled, snatched the menu, and disappeared into the growing chaos. Behind the bar, someone cranked up the music, drowning out the rain. Oliver exhaled, relieved—stuck here, with a reason not to go home, not to face Rebecca’s sharp tongue.
They’d married eight years ago. Rebecca had been vibrant then, full of fire. The early years were golden. Then her friend married some flashy entrepreneur, and Rebecca’s envy festered. Suddenly, it was all designer handbags, Botox, diamond earrings.
“Bec, you don’t need any of that. You’re beautiful.”
“I could be *more* beautiful,” she’d snap. One week it was her nose, the next her lips—*too thin*—then her breasts, *too small*. He’d begged her not to carve herself into someone else. Silicone wouldn’t fix what was broken.
“You’re just saying that because you can’t afford it,” she’d sneer.
A child? Out of the question.
“Pregnancy ruins women. You’d leave me. Get a proper salary, *then* we’ll talk.”
He hadn’t argued. He loved her. An old university mate had dangled a partnership, promises of wealth, security. Oliver took the gamble. At first, it worked—he traded his father’s old Audi for something sleeker. Used, but better.
Then the tax audits hit. The accounts froze. Competitors circled, forcing a sell-off. He lost everything.
Rebecca called him a failure. Every fight snuffed out another ember of love. He crawled back to his old job, drifting through life, unable to leave.
***
A young couple slid into the booth next to him. Oliver watched them, hollow. He and Rebecca had been like that once. Where had it gone?
Shouts erupted at the bar. Two girls—students, not the usual crowd—were fending off a drunk bloke. He grabbed one, hauling her toward the door. Her friend lunged, but he shoved her hard—she slammed into the bar, nearly falling. No one moved to help.
Oliver was on his feet before he thought. He blocked the guy’s path.
“Oi. Let her go.”
The man sneered, swung. Oliver dodged, cracked a fist into his jaw. The girl dropped, and the drunk surged forward—fists flying, tables scattering. Oliver took a few hits but knocked him out cold. Someone yelled about calling the police.
“We need to leave. *Now*.” The girl tugged Oliver’s sleeve.
His lip was split, blood iron-bitter on his tongue. He didn’t argue. Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. They ducked around the corner.
“There’s a chemist nearby—let’s clean you up.”
She dabbed peroxide on his cuts, pressed plasters over the wounds. Her hands were soft, her hair smelling of vanilla. *She’s beautiful*, he realized, startled. Their eyes met; she blushed.
Her friend burst in.
“There you are! I’ve got a cab. Chloe, come on.”
Chloe hesitated. Oliver smiled. She left with her friend.
He’d barely stepped outside when a voice called, *”Wait!”*
Chloe sprinted back, breathless.
“I didn’t even get your name. No one else helped me. Just you.”
“Oliver.”
She fell into step beside him. He learned she’d just graduated, still job-hunting. He admitted he was married, though it was over in every way but legally.
“I saw the ring. I was scared I’d never see you again.”
Fate, he thought. He could’ve taken the bus. The storm could’ve missed them. But here they were. His pulse hadn’t raced like this in years. Rebecca had never made his chest ache like this.
“God, we’ve been walking forever. Where’s your flat?”
“Passed it ages ago,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to say goodbye.”
They turned back. He called her a cab, swapped numbers before she left.
At home, Rebecca pounced.
“Where the hell were you?” She spotted the plasters, the blood. “You got in a *fight*?”
“Some bloke harassed a girl at the café—”
“Wish you cared that much about me,” she muttered, stomping to the kitchen. Glass clattered.
“Bec. Let’s divorce. This isn’t working.”
“Knew you were screwing someone.” She screamed, called him pathetic. “I gave you my best years, and you—” She snatched a plate, hurled it. He caught her wrist before it connected. The plate shattered.
Before she could grab the frying pan, he pinned her.
“Stop. There’s no one else. But we’re miserable. Why stay?”
The next day, he rented a flat and left.
Shame kept him from calling Chloe. Too old, too messy. But when *she* called, his heart leapt. He couldn’t push her away.
They dated—cinema, walks. He filed for divorce. No fights over assets. No kids meant a quick registry office split. Only then did he invite her over. A month later, she told him she was pregnant.
Joy nearly crippled him. But her parents balked—*Ten years older? Divorced? No property?* Her mother’s disapproval was a living thing. Her father hid behind the *Times*, silent but loud.
Still, they agreed to the wedding, even gifted them a small flat.
Chloe withered. Morning sickness ravaged her. She barely ate, slept constantly, coughed endlessly. Oliver dragged her to the doctor.
“Pregnancy affects everyone differently,” the doctor said. “Nothing alarming.”
But Chloe clung to him, ghost-pale. Other mothers-to-be glowed; she was fading.
“Wait!” A nurse chased them outside. “I’ve seen this before. I don’t want to scare you, but…” She glanced at Chloe, handed Oliver an address. “My aunt. Tell her I sent you.”
“A *witch*?”
“No. But she understands. Go.”
He didn’t believe it. But the next day, he went.
An elderly woman answered, eyes sharp as flint.
“Rita sent me.”
She led him inside—no cauldrons, no crystals. Just a plain kitchen.
“Your hand.”
She studied his palm, her fingers cool.
“How far along?”
“What?”
“Your wife. The pregnancy.”
“Four months. How did you—?”
“Someone close hates them. Hates *deeply*. That kind of hate kills.”
Oliver scoffed, then froze.
“Talk to her. Make her forgive. It’s the only way. Time’s short.”
Rebecca. It had to be. He staggered out, numb.
He found her at her flat.
“What do *you* want?”
“We need to talk. Hate me all you want, but *forgive her*. She’s pregnant.”
“You’re insane.”
“Bec, if anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.” His voice was ice. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
She paled. “I didn’t—”
He grabbed her wrist, twisted. “Take it back.”
“Let go!”
“Or we all die. Right now.” His grip tightened.
“Fine! I won’t—just stop!”
He shoved her away. “Try anything, and I *will* end you.”
Back home, Chloe slept curled on the sofa. He knelt beside her.
“Forgive me. I never should’ve… Just live. Please.”
“Oliver?”
“I love you.” He kissed her nose.
Two days later, she was singing in the kitchen. Oliver wept.
The birth was brutal, but their son was healthy.Years later, watching their son chase seagulls along the Brighton pier, Oliver finally understood that some curses are broken not by magic, but by love.
