Hate

By Amethyst Turner

Hate looks like a housebroken dog

Watching its owner eat meat while it chews on a rock

Hate feels like a dense fog

That turns an angry bird away from the flock

Hate smells like saw dust

Falling from the ceiling of a tiny cupboard

Hate tastes like bitter crust

Tossed to a little girl who asks for more

Hate sounds like my words on the paper

Because yes, Miss Baker 

I HATE writing these fucking poems in your fucking class

XXX

Amethyst woke up sore on her birthday.

The house was slowly deteriorating again. After the woman in the gray suit and the man with the round face had left, there was no more cleaning or makeup to hide her cuts or pick up that bottle, would you?

The box was much too small by this time, and coming apart at the corners. She snuggled back into her blanket, which was becoming frayed and discolored. Even Scrubbles and Molly were looking a little disheveled.

The woman in the gray suit had asked Amethyst a lot of questions. She was too scared to answer. Daddy had been peeking in from the back door, making hand gestures that she didn't understand, which made her anxious. Besides, it had been a long time since she'd come into contact with anyone other than her parents.

Mommy said they were coming to take her away. She'd been scared sick. If she had opened her mouth, she might have thrown up all over the two of them.

Aimee didn't know it was her birthday until Daddy came downstairs and told her. Mommy was still asleep, so he made breakfast (a pop tart wit a candle in the middle) and they ate together. Then Daddy stood up and said he had to go to work.

It was a Friday morning, chilly and dark. None of the lights were on and shadows splayed themselves across the walls like blind, curious animals, reaching out to touch her. Amethyst began to cry. She didn't want to be left in this house alone again. Sure, Mommy was upstairs. Sure, Scrubbles and Molly sat in the corner, waiting for her. Sure, there were the rats and the bugs and the random noises and the wind to keep her company . . . but Aimee missed her father. She missed the family she'd never had, the life she'd never been given.

Summers at Mama's had given her a taste of what that might be like, to have someone there all the time, someone that loves you and takes care of you. Someone to play with and learn from and talk to. Maybe that was what parents were supposed to be. She could never be sure. There was the TV families, with their clean houses and family dinners and affectionate hugs -- and then there was her family.

When she started to cry, Daddy's face softened. He crouched down on the floor in front of her and wiped away her tears. "What the hell," he sighed. "It's a Friday. No one'll miss me."

So he stayed home with her.

XXX

Libby was confused.

The house wasn't quiet, today. It was Friday, not Sunday, right? What was Richard doing home at this hour?

She didn't go downstairs, though. Rather, she waited for him to come to her. She glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty AM. Her stomach no longer growled at the thought of food; it only lurched and then shriveled. Eating was becoming harder and harder to do.

Richard came lumbering up the stairs around that time, then busting through their door. He was smiling, although his face went slack when he met Libby's eyes. As much as she hated him, it still hurt to see how much he hated her.

"I can't find the kitchen knives," was all he said.

Libby rolled her eyes, and then her body, turning toward the opposite wall. She mumbled, "Whadda you doing with kitchen knives?"

"Making fruit salad."

Fruit salad? That was a laugh. There was no fruit that she knew of in the house, nor was there a cutting board. Plus, what spontaneous chemical reaction had suddenly inclined Richard to make food other than his usual dinner egg-salad sandwich?

Oh, right. The brat's birthday. She bristled at the thought of it.

"So," he pressed, "Where are they?"

"We don't have any."

Richard sighed. Walked over and sat on the side of the bed, close enough that she could smell his cologne. "Look, I'm not gonna try to stop you from cutting yourself. I just want to make a fuckin' salad."

Rolling her eyes again, she sighed as well. "That's unsanitary."

She was joking, but Richard answered, "Seriously? How stupid do you think I am? I'll wash those things fifty times, okay? Just give em to me."

Her sense of humor was getting dryer and dryer with every hour she spent alone. As a kid, she'd kept her sarcasm to herself because folks just seemed to find it rude. Now, she had no one to talk to even if she wanted to be sarcastic. She turned to Richard and said, "Hey, you know that song, Highway To Hell? Take that literally, would you . . ."

He growled. "Is that your way of telling me to go to hell?"

How stupid do you think am I? Ha. Pretty stupid, then. "Yep."

It stopped being funny when he hit her. It only took two hits before she was begging for mercy and repeating, they're under the bed, they're under the bed.

XXX

That night, Richard was awakened by the sound of bedsprings creaking. Keeping still, he watched Libby's outline in the dark as she scooted out of bed and tiptoed out the door. He listened to the scuff of her feet on the wood stairs, then the sound of her footsteps on the carpet, like stepping in snow.

He wondered if she was going to finally eat something. That woman was practically disintegrating, she was so thin.

Richard had left a little tupperware container of fruit salad in the fridge, just in case.

XXX

When you were a pup,
Well I watched you so close
You ran straight to the distance allowed by his post
You got kicked. You got choked.
Phrases crept up your spine when he said 
"we must keep our bitches in line"

And on his poker nights, he says the same of his wife
He's the top-dog, pack leader, a true alpha-male
So, make no sudden moves

Keep your nose from the border
You move fast, you eat last this side of pecking order

-Housebroken, The Hotelier