A few years ago, I was in a dark place. It seemed like I was just shit out of luck at every turn. I was laid off from work and my fiancée Irene left me. It all came out of nowhere, and it all just… rushed by. Like a bad dream you can’t wake from. I had been a stepfather to her daughters Elena and Maria for six years, and all of a sudden, I wasn’t allowed to see them anymore. To invest yourself in someone so much, only to have them pulled away… it hurt way more than just losing my job.
I was stuck. The breakup was hard, and I was trying desperately to get her to take me back. I didn’t even understand what I’d done. My savings were running out, and I had no idea what my future would look like. That, and getting a shitty two-room apartment in a run-down neighborhood didn’t help.
People deal with this in all kinds of ways. Some sink into a depression, others try to make vast changes to their lives. Hell, some just start drinking. I had a different approach.
I started spending a lot of time with some unsavory people online. People with awful, antisocial opinions. Day by day, we would just sit there and wallow in bitterness, spewing hate and talking about other people like they were mindless caricatures. It was all just hate, hate, hate. All day. It was my only outlet, and the only people I felt could reflect the way I saw the world. We were in that black hole together, pulling each other further down.
I’d just sit there like a goblin, clawing at the screen.
I’d gotten to know a man named Barnett. He talked to me every night, and I knew all about his struggles. He was disfigured after a car accident and was left with a large portion of his face paralyzed. He walked with a limp and had lost about 75% muscle mass in his right arm. He could barely pay his rent, and no one was willing to hire him. Love, and the topic of women, could send him into a rage at the mere mention.
“You have even the slightest idea how much it pisses me off to see people jogging past me in the morning? One by one. A parade of these healthy, gorgeous, young people. The world is laughing at me. I can’t do much, but I can laugh. Right. Back.”
It was a Saturday night when Barnett invited me to a group called Invictus. I was promised a group who could make a real difference, to real people. Actual allies, ready to help one another. Brothers and musketeers. I needed this. I needed to make a difference.
The same night, I was invited into a group convo. Six other people were there, but the only one I recognized was Barnett.
They cheered as I joined. Hands clapping and all. I just leaned back in my chair, thanked them, and sipped my whiskey. I’d made the right decision. Damn, it felt good. Sitting alone in a dark room, I still felt like a king.
We shared stories, complained, and reminisced about how much better the world used to be. While we all enjoyed the company of one another, it was clear that we were all deeply damaged people. There was Lance, who claimed he’d been falsely accused of abusing a co-worker. Poke, who lost his mother’s inheritance to his sister on a technicality. I won’t even repeat what “Sapper” had to say about the people who stole his car and killed his dog in a home invasion. He owned about eighteen guns now.
These weren’t nice people, but I wasn’t either.
It all came to a grinding halt as a new person logged on. “HOD”. Three letters, all-caps. An admin, with no profile picture. Most probably the guy who made Invictus in the first place. One by one, he pulled us into a separate channel to talk with us in private.
“He’s amazing” Barnett said. “He just gets it. He gets us. I promise, you’re gonna love the guy.”
“I record every chat” Poke laughed. “Better than therapy. I listen to it over and over.”
Weird, but okay.
One by one, we were taken into the other room. When it was almost my turn, I was at the edge of my seat. They’d hyped him up so much. I was scrambling to find a good program to record our conversation, but I didn’t find one in time. Suddenly, it was my turn.
There was a strange screeching noise, like someone tuning a radio. Then, a voice.
“I’ve heard so much about you” the voice said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
There was such a welcoming presence, like someone telling me I’d finally come home. It was warm, almost relieved. At first, it was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman.
“Thanks, I’m, uh… glad to be here.”
“That’s amazing” he said. It was definitely a man. “All that hurt, and you still manage to get excited. That takes a lot of strength, my friend.”
“I don’t know how much you’ve, uh, heard about me.”
“It doesn’t really matter what I’ve heard” he laughed. “It doesn’t matter unless you’re the one to tell it. I prefer to listen to the source, not some he-said-she-said second-hand garbage.”
I was sold. For the next hour or so, we just talked. I could’ve talked all night long.
I started coming back to Invictus every night. We shared our miseries and hate. Our revenge fantasies. We talked about things that would send us over the edge. We defined ourselves not by what we enjoyed, but by our common disgust of other people. If you’ve never been in that state of mind, it might be hard to understand, but spending every hour of every day in that world does something to a person.
One night, after what felt like weeks, Poke came into the chat screaming.
“I’m next!” he roared. “I’m up for the next HOD meet!”
We roared and cheered. I didn’t even know why, it just felt like the right thing to do.
“You taking anything with you?” Lance asked. “Anything big?”
“No idea” Poke chuckled. “I’m having a final chat tonight, heading out tomorrow.”
“You know what you’re gonna do?”
“Yeah” he laughed. “Might make the news.”
“Be careful. God speed.”
Apparently, people stop coming to Invictus after a while. They meet up with HOD who helps them with their problem, and then they lay low. It was all part of a cycle to make people feel better. Barnett was technically next up, and he had a lot of things planned. As the others congratulated Poke, Barnett pulled me aside.
“None of this is legal” he sighed. “But that’s kind of the point.”
According to Barnett, this was the final stage. To go from talk to action, and HOD would be there with you all the way. No matter the problem, no matter what lightning rod your hate focused on, you’d get an outlet.
“We’ve done it all. Assault, threats, vandalism, arson… all of it.”
I was just quiet. Barnett sighed.
“And yeah, allegedly, worse things. Depends on the candidate.”
“Are you gonna do something too?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
I’d never heard him use that tone of voice before.
Over the next few days, Poke stopped coming to the server. HOD was gone too. We were scouring articles online for any sign of what he’d done, but we didn’t have the slightest idea of where to start. What city? What state? What day? Hell, just open whatever news site you want, and you’ll see ten articles that could all be something Poke did.
Then, out of nowhere, Irene called me. Not to get back together, but to catch up. She called to ask how I was doing, but it was clear that she didn’t really care. It was just words to get to whatever she really wanted to talk about. I was cold and convinced she just wanted something. Money, maybe.
But no, it was worse. She was getting back together with Armin.
Armin.
That man had been the bane of my existence for years. He was the biological father of Irene’s daughters, and he’d tried to elbow his way back into their lives over and over. Whenever there was an issue, Irene and I knew that Armin somehow had something to do with it. She would spend hours talking about his many shortcomings, and how she despised him. And now, somehow, she was getting back together with him.
No way. No way.
I hung up the phone.
That night, as I got back on Invictus, I raged. I was screaming into the microphone, and everyone just cheered me on. At one point, my neighbor started knocking on the walls to shut me up. I just threw my best glass into the wall. I’d known it, all along. She was never truly over him. That godforsaken snake of a man.
As the clock crept past midnight, HOD suddenly logged in. He listened to me and pulled me aside.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “I understand this must be difficult.”
“No, I’m not okay” I groaned. “I’m nowhere near okay.”
“Do you want to do something about it?”
I watched the broken whiskey glass scattered across the floor.
Goddamn right I was going to do something about it.
HOD bumped me up the line, skipping right past all the other members. I was the next in line to meet him. I didn’t even care. Whatever he could do for me, I was all in. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I was laughing and crying at the same time, trying not to tear my pillow in half. I was so consumed with these violent thoughts that I couldn’t function.
But it was going to be okay. I was going to see HOD. He’d fix it all.
It was a cloudy Sunday when I went down to the park to meet with HOD. The others were jealous, but they understood and wished me all the best. The Invictus crew could be unreasonable about a lot of things, but one of us getting the chance for vengeance was the exception. That was always a cause for celebration
Ducks were picking at a patch of blue sunflowers by the pond, quacking contently. There was a cold wind in the air, ruining an otherwise pleasant night. I was so tired from all the anger, but it had burned into my head. I couldn’t let it go; not anymore. Imagining Irene and Armin together made me so hopelessly mad that tears pressed out of my eyes like freshly squeezed lemon juice. It was a pressure building up in the back of mind, desperately looking for release.
Suddenly, there was someone on the bench next to me.
He was probably in his late 40s. Thinning black hair, clean shaven face. Tired eyes, and a strong physique. This was nothing like I’d imagined HOD.
“I’m glad you’re here” he smiled.
There was no mistaking it; it was him. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“I’m here to help.”
We took a walk. He didn’t say much, but we kept a brisk pace. We stopped to get a snack at a gas station. As we sat down to take a breather, I noticed something. HOD had a knife in his boot.
He noticed me looking at it.
“I told you” he said. “I’m here to help.”
“How?” I asked.
“However you want.”
He chowed down on a sandwich, not breaking eye contact. To him it was the most obvious thing in the world. We were here to hurt people.
I was having doubts. Talking the talk was one thing, but really being there? Going through with it? That wasn’t me. Not really. HOD noticed my hesitation and handed me a coke.
“You’re already wounded” he said. “They hurt you. No matter what you do, that won’t go away. But you can put a patch on it, allow it to heal. And for that, you need a salve. A balm for the soul. Something cool and pleasant.”
I nodded and cracked the can open.
“I can give you that” he continued. “I can give you the tools to heal.”
“I just don’t want to be like this anymore” I admitted.
“And you won’t have to be” HOD smiled. “Come on.”
It didn’t take me long to realize where we were going. I’d walked down that street with Elena and Marie a thousand times; we were heading to Irene’s place. My old home.
The two-story house had an adjoining garage. I’d painted it myself. At first, I was relieved to see it was all still there. But in a few seconds, it all just turned to this black bitter pit in my stomach. HOD handed me the knife from his boot. It was heavier than expected.
“Just go” he said. “Heal.”
“What do I do?” I asked.
“Just open the door” he said. “The rest will come to you.”
The curtains in the kitchen window were the same. Her car was the same. I’d been there. I’d been a part of that journey. It’d been mine.
“Don’t fight it” HOD said. “You’ll feel better.”
He pushed me forward, giving me that warm smile every step of the way. I didn’t resist. I clutched the knife tighter. He looked so proud.
I just opened the door without knocking. I knew Irene was bad at locking the door, and it just came naturally to me to enter that house unannounced. I’d done so thousands of times. I just stepped right in.
There was no one there. There was a TV in the background and someone was messing about in the kitchen, but no one came to greet me. For a short moment, it all felt like a bad dream. I’d just come home after a long day, and I was doing fine. Everything was as it should be.
“Elena, can you help me with the onions?” Irene called out.
I gripped the knife tighter. At least the kids weren’t here to see this.
As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, Irene was facing away from me. She had her tacky green “Luck o’ the Irish” apron on. Step by step, I got closer. I’d never stabbed anyone before, but I could imagine it. In my head, I could feel the pressure of the knife opening skin. I could feel the warmth of blood. The apron would turn red. She’d never finish making her pasta.
“Can you wash your shoes first? I don’t want you to drag-“
She turned around.
Every instinct in my body told me to plunge that knife into her chest, to just… end it. To get that cool, calming salve on my soul.
To make the hurt stop, the anger to go away.
For a split second, the world stood still.
“Oh my God” she gasped. “Oh my God.”
She rushed me.
I expected her to tackle me, but that just… didn’t happen.
Instead she hugged me.
“Jesus, I’ve been so worried!”
All the anger just poured out of me. She sobbed in my arms. I dropped the knife and started bawling, right there in the kitchen. Irene was so warm. She stroked the back of my head. I just stood there, the adrenaline making my body shiver.
“I’m sorry” I cried. “I’m sorry, you… I just… please, anyone but Armin. Anyone but that… that…”
Irene pulled back and stroked my cheek. She looked me in the eyes, trying to understand.
“Honey, what… what are you talking about?”
She wiped away my tears and kissed me.
A cool drink of water in the desert.
We just stood there, letting the water pot boil over. It felt like an eternity. We just hugged and kissed, over and over, holding each other close. I smiled, my mind feeling lighter with every breath. Tears burning my cheeks.
Elena and Marie eventually got home. They saw me, dropped everything, and just threw themselves at me.
“Dad!” they yelled. “Dad, where’ve you been?!”
I peered out the window.
HOD was gone.
Alright, so… let me explain.
For the past few days, a bit over a week, I’d gone missing. I hadn’t been fired. I hadn’t lost my family. Armin was still nothing but a footnote in our lives. I hadn’t moved out to a shitty apartment, I’d just… sort of squatted. None of it really happened anywhere but in my mind. Like someone had just poured this… this liquid hate into me.
Trying to explain it all to Irene and the police was a struggle. We visited my “apartment” several days later, only to find itabandoned. It was just this broken down, shitty room. Still, there was something more to that place. Some things had been real. My broken whiskey glass was still all over the floor.
According to witnesses, they’d noticed a “homeless man” in the area, frantically tapping away at a smartphone. Me, I suppose. They also reported a man going in and out of that building about once per day, checking in on him. Checking in on me, I mean.
One neighbor described this “visitor” as a tall, handsome man with short blonde hair. Another said it was a young stocky woman with long red hair. A third said it was some gothic teenager. The funny thing is, they all reported seeing him or her on the same day; and roughly at the same time. It was as if they sort of saw what they wanted to see.
Later on, I also found out that there really was a “Poke”. He was arrested in the Hudson Bay area for attempted murder and kidnapping; the nickname was published as part of his arrest. Patrick “The Poke” Oakman. It had to be him. I shared other usernames with the authorities, but they didn’t seem all too interested. Invictus was a real group, recognized by authorities, but that was all they would tell me.
I don’t like to think about what I would have done if Irene had never turned around. I know what would’ve happened. I would’ve given in. That horror still keeps me up at night.
And HOD? Well… in some dark parts of the web, it stands for “Hate On Demand”. Groups that fire each other up, preying on prejudice and expectations. “Gimme the HOD”, they say. “Need that HOD, gonna yell at my boss today.”
I think there is something to it. I think HOD is what we want him to be. I think I met him at precisely the wrong time, at the wrong place, and he just stole me away.
HOD is all too real.
Just like his knife, that I dropped on the kitchen floor.