Stripped

In the corner, he's rocking back and forth.

"I hate you. I hate you!"

There's still a crash, a scream from the other side of the house. From the other room.

"And I'm tired of this!"

There's a door slamming. There are bills being paid. And there are silences being answered and accounted for. Millions of non-sensical thoughts and emotions spewing forth and giving life to a scene. To a moment in history inexplicable. To a dance of flame. Only there is no beauty in this fire. It's the little boy's first introduction. And it burns like a bitch.

"I hate you! I don't ever want to see you again!"

Across his floor: torn stuffed animals, a lifeless goldfish, a broken glass, and his bleeding hand. His bleeding heart. He keeps talking. Keeps mumbling. Keeps hiding.

The front door opens and slams. He can hear the ignition fire in the yard. He can hear the keypad on the telephone dialing. He can hear the television making important life decisions for everyone in the living room. In the living room. Where we played out our lives. Where he avoids. In his own living room. His room. In the corner.

It's over.

His father is gone. He'll be back tomorrow. Like always. His mother crying.

He's still in the corner of his room....Rocking melodically now....Still whispering....Still staring in the mirror. Glaring intently at his own reflection....Whispering....

"I hate you...."