The Doubt Point

I have hated them for as long as I can remember. They are lazy, entitled, and otherwise useless creatures that arrogantly waddle about Campus defiling the air with their repulsive din. Some say they are what make the University of Waterloo’s campus unique, yet I see them as nothing more than a disease, and why should we be recognized by the sickness that plagues us? 

There is no simple explanation or cause behind my hate, but that is how hatred often functions. It is the dark culmination of many nameless annoyances and peeves, gathered like a storm. I loathe the way they loiter on the paths, trample the grass, stop traffic with their bold attempts at crossing, and above all, I despise their cold, beady eyes that freely boast of mutual resentment. They are, indeed, the scourge of Campus. 

This Halloween night, the storm of hate will break and unleash the torrents of violence—I can feel it. There is a quiet tension across Campus. Small actions and words reveal everything to the careful watcher. Cold whispers and jagged faces of disdain tell me the time is right. I have only spoken to a few trusted individuals about our illness and its cure, and we have carefully devised a treatment. We aren’t planning on starting a war—not yet. All we need are a few select targets to use as the harbingers of fear. Ah, yes. I speak of violence. Such a dark word, a cruel word, but one that is grossly misunderstood. Violence is a tool: It has laid firm the past and will determine the future. 

Tonight is the Resistance’s largest gathering. My colleagues are not planning to make the first move this evening—only collect and set the pieces. I know better. An individual’s hatred can lead to violence, but it is not guaranteed. A room full of collective hate, however, will almost always result in bloodshed. 

As I round the corner and enter our meeting place, I am instantly struck with a wall of ferocity and intoxicated by the fumes of vehemence. My comrades are already shouting and frenzied. Someone is standing on a makeshift podium screaming spit-flecked words to the eager listeners. It is strange to see so many of my peers in the crowd. I have been on campus with them for years and never guessed such civil individuals could be capable of this behaviour. If it were not for the solemnity of this event, I would almost be amused. It is astonishing to discover that those around you who seem capable of only coughing up enough emotion to show that they are alive are, in fact, able to roar with a lion’s heart and fervor.

The hot voice of malice coming from the podium is now directing us to exit the meeting area and follow a comrade who has found our first target. Tonight is a night of blood, feathers, and fury. How wonderful it is that the night is young.

I am one of the first to spot the lone creature. It is sitting on the dewy grass looking at something on the ground. There is no hesitation, no orders from a leader. Our Commander is our rage; our Sargent, the collective body we have formed. 

We spill from the shadows like hot tar, moving slowly so the creature does not suspect our intentions. For years, we have coexisted—why should it expect a change in behaviour tonight? Its protective instincts have been rendered useless by a lifetime of peace. Ah, now it sees. Now it knows what fate will soon fall upon its once unsuspecting head. It is surrounded. With a shout, it sounds its distress, and we descend upon it in a crushing wave of darkness. 

In a short time, the beast lay still. It looks peaceful there, on the damp grass. The mob slowly begins to depart. Some of my comrades with weaker belief in our cause separate from the group and flee into the night. Others regroup and continue their hunt, fueled by their first victory. I remain beside the carcase. It is a strange thing that the death of this one creature should have any impact on the world. In life, surely, more could be done. Perhaps the significance of death, the sheer decisiveness of it all is what inspires great fear, and with fear: change. And death happens much faster than life. This human lived for years and died in moments, suffocated beneath our feathers and wings.  

This story was written and published in the October, 2022 WatisZine issue.

Photo by Kevin Bidwell