For the want of trying they simply gave up. Each of them held fast to their bitter memories nurturing them as though they were the seeds of some delicious fruit being grown rather than a bilious loathing eating at their hearts like a cancer.
At the root of this odium was a hurt so huge it required an even bigger emotion to deflect the pain. It was hate that now gave fuel to their lives; it was hate that gave them purpose.
The shattered shards of their history lay in pieces on the stony ground reflecting sunlight and revealing the stains of their recrimination. It was as wanton an act as a war in the third world.