I lost the match. One careless mistake. Wasn’t my mistake. Would’ve been easier if it was my mistake. Easier to blame. Easier to point fingers at. I know that I can take it – the arguing, the name calling, the harassing. I just don’t know if the other guy can take it. So I don’t say anything.
“Let’s move on.” I say though grit teeth. I force my lips to stick together, but I don’t curl my lips. I don’t grin. I don’t smile. My brows are the only things that are curled. I hide it, though. They know they’ve done wrong. They might not want to believe it right now, but they know that something bad happened; something that they might’ve been the cause of.
It’s like talking down to a three-year old. Slightly slurred to incoherent speech – you’ve got to make do with what you’ve got, and try to hammer it into their head that they’ve done a bad thing. You’re trying to teach them about morality, but you’re also trying to not hurt their feelings. It feels bad when you make someone cry.
But I won’t get into sadism just yet.
It feels bad when you can see that you’ve hurt someone. It’s easier to type something harsh, and not have to face anything besides a few more lines of text in response. You can simply not read the response. You don’t even have to close your eyes. The letters are pretty small, anyways.
That’s what I think.
But it’s not how I usually act. Usually, I’m not cursing someone out. I like to keep it to myself.
Not that I’m trying to paint myself as some paragon of virtue. Sure, there’s been times where I’ve gotten pretty mad. Sure, I’ve lost control a few times. Sure, sometimes I had control. Sometimes, I wanted to keep going. Sometimes, I couldn’t stop.
There’s a lot of questions I can ask myself about the things I did. But in the end, only one question really matters: did they deserve it? Did they deserve all the hate and vitriol I threw at them through my fingertips? The answer is: YES. A resounding, gleaming YES.
This time, did they deserve it? YES. Not only did they not live up to their mistake, they started blaming us, their teammates. Bratty, insolent asshole – a textbook example of “someone everyone agrees to blame.”
You know what I did?
I didn’t say anything. There was something in my fingers that stopped me. I was frozen. Like my blood had turned to slow, viscous slush. I had ill intent, but I couldn’t do anything with it. I had something brewing in my mind already, but it seemed to fade the more I thought about it. All the words came together, and nothing meant anything.
I wasn’t angry. That was the thing – I was fired up, but it wasn’t by him. It was just by the game. It was just the residual passion of competition, not the hatred in my heart.
Am I getting softer? I’m not sure. The only thing I’m sure of is that another dumbass got away with being themselves for today.