The Five Loathe Languages: Apology to an Enemy
The Five Loathe Languages: Apology to an Enemy
When you find out your nemesis preferred words of condemnation all along...
Oh, enemy mine, thorn in my side, dagger at my throat,
I have had a revelation of sorts, and it is my ardent hope that sharing it will quicken us once more, breathing life into the guttering flames of our once all-consuming loathing.
The other day, whilst ransacking the boudoir of a snivelling dandy as he wept and shielded himself with a chamber pot, I came across a curious book. It was titled Loathe Languages. Alas, I don’t have it at hand — it was lost to the fire I set — but I recall the gist of it, which I shall relate to you.
You see, I have been derelict in my duties. Or rather, I thought I was doing right—wrong—by you, but only by my own selfish reckoning, and never quite in the way you needed or appreciated. It transpires, there are five loathe languages, and I may have been conveying my distaste and detestation using the wrong one.
I thought that by sending you cursed objects (gifts), disrupting your nuptials (acts of disservice), kidnapping you (quality time), and turning the rack (touch/torture) myself rather than leaving it to some fumbling, callow henchman, I was fulfilling my obligations to you as your sworn enemy.
How wrong I was!
It dawned on me then, enraptured by that most marvellous tome, pausing only to kick a yipping spaniel square in the muzzle, that you’re more of a ‘words of condemnation’ fellow. Oh, how it explains all the insults you’ve hurled my way over the years, ‘mongrel cur’ this and ‘saucy knave’ that.
And here I was, furnishing you with lacklustre monologues, foolishly believing their only purpose was to give you sufficient time to escape your bindings by means of a cleverly concealed glass shard. Forsooth, I could not be any more embarrassed.
Perhaps we could reach a compromise, you and I? From time to time, I shall take you (and your loved ones) captive so that we may spend some ‘quality time’ together. (That’s my loathe language.) And, while you’re trussed up, I’ll pace back and forth, gloating, ranting and raving. Mark my words, it’ll be a thorough dressing-down, an unforgettable tongue-lashing. I’ll express my contempt for you and your… self-righteous ilk. (I’ll get better at this, I promise).
How sounds this to you? You, you… you ninnyhammer, nincompoop, and fop-doodle.
At length, I set down my poison pen. Incidentally, I sent you one just like it—the nib sharpened to a deadly point and drenched in Cantarella. Though I certainly won’t be sending any more ill-begotten signet rings or bloodied, monogrammed handkerchiefs—your comely, young bride sends her regards, by the way—knowing as I do now that ‘gifts’ are not your loathe language.
Till we cross paths (and swords) once more.
In sincere, burning animosity,
Your devout enemy,
now and always.
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