The Euphoria of Hate

Waukesha, WI: A story on hate and how it destroys from within.

At first, it was just a whisper.

Jared had never considered himself angry. Not really. He was polite. He held doors open. He said "excuse me" in crowds. But lately, something shifted. The headlines, the protests, the constant swirl of voices telling him what he could and couldn’t say—it all began to itch at something deep in his chest.

It started when he scrolled late at night. One video, then another. They called it “truth.” They said he had been lied to. That others were getting more than him. That they were taking. They were rising. They were dangerous. He didn’t even realize he’d started nodding along.

There was a group. They didn’t call themselves a hate group, of course. Just “realists.” Just “protectors.” Just “those who finally say it like it is.” The first meeting was awkward, but there was something addictive about the righteous certainty in the air. No room for doubt. No complexity. Just us and them.

Jared felt his spine straighten when they cheered. His breath quickened when they laughed at the cruelty, the mockery, the way they stripped the humanity from others with surgical ease. Every insult felt like a burst of adrenaline. Every dehumanizing word, a hit of pure purpose.

He was part of something now. Not some bland middle-ground of nuance, but a movement that bled passion and fury. He stood in a crowd one night, torch in hand, face lit orange by flame. He didn’t know the names of the men beside him. Didn’t care. They chanted with him. They raged with him. And in that moment, Jared felt alive.

It was euphoria—raw, primal, intoxicating.

But euphoria, by nature, burns hot and fast. And one day, standing alone outside a courtroom, Jared watched a boy testify about the night his father was attacked for being “other.” The boy’s voice shook, but he stood tall. He looked nothing like the monster Jared had been taught to see. Just a kid, trying to be brave.

The crowd was gone now. The rush had faded.

And for the first time, Jared realized that euphoria built on hate doesn’t just disappear—it curdles.

It hardens into regret.

Into shame.

Into silence.

He never felt more human than when he hated.

He never felt more hollow than when it was gone.

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