He blamed himself. He hated himself for that. He knew he should have hated her but he couldn't. He hated himself more because of that. He knew he did nothing wrong, but it was still his fault. He hated himself more for that. He drove everyone away when he knew he needed them the most. He hated himself even more for that. He had more hate than anything, friends, emotions, possessions, especially people that loved him. It was all replaced with hate. He knew he shouldn't be thinking like this, not over something that everyone goes through. That made him hate himself more. The hate accumulated, built up. He could practically feel the internal heat of his hate build up. He couldn't feel his legs but he knew they were shaking. The heat was growing more and more, no longer inside him. He felt the heat from his arms, the metal burnt his hand from the heat. He dropped the gun and stepped back. A sudden flow of emotions came over him. He was scared, confused, angry. He became more and more angry. Hate turned to anger, pure anger. He didn't even know what he was angry about. The gun, himself, his friends, but never her...he could never be mad at her...and he hated himself for that...

And that hate was enough