by Peter Farrugia

Photo by author

She discovered her mother’s “List of Hateful Things” earlier that day.

Written in a childish hand on an all but faded scrap of nursery paper, it must have been three times as old as she was (if not older). A little signature at the end was followed by the words “8 1/2 years old today”. The girl was eight, though three quarters of the year had passed since her last birthday.

Which ought, she thought to herself, to mark the New Year just as well as my Birthday.

And why shouldn’t it? She couldn’t very well remember anything that had happened before her first birthday, it was difficult enough remembering anything at all. Time seemed strange and cruel, subject to everybody’s will but her own.

When her father said it was time to catch the bus she obeyed and when her mother said it was time for dinner, she washed her face and hands. When Nanny said it was time for bed she kissed the woman’s wrinkly cheek then wiped her mouth in the hall (because she didn’t want to offend Nanny, loathsome as the soft taste of old skin was) and whenever she was busy with something it was always time to do something else.

She couldn’t bear time, the sound of it (like an insect tickling the edge of her ears with long reedy legs) filled her with palpable dread.

But today was Sunday, well past afternoon, which she judged by the quality of light streaming into her bedroom. When the dust motes were brightest and came up onto her arms, little shimmering particles of nothing, she knew that the infinite stretch of emptiness between breakfast and tea had begun. And so she sat on her stomach under her bed and read over the list once again.

“List of Hateful Things.”

“I hate the smell of parsnips.” She couldn’t remember what a parsnip smelt like, so she crossed that entry off the list.

“I hate the sound a baby makes and babies in general. They don’t do anything and if they’re useless they shouldn’t be allowed in the house especially new babies who clutter up the playroom and steal other people’s toys.”

The thought that her mother hated babies worried the girl. I was a baby and she didn’t hate me.

Rather, she couldn’t remember any overt displays of hatred other than a loud scolding when she broke a vase in the dining room, after filling it to the brim with water and goldfish. The poor little fish were saved but the vase was ruined.

The girl kicked her heels against the top of her bed and crossed that out too. Her mother didn’t really hate babies or she wouldn’t have had one, so that couldn’t be true or if it had been true, it wasn’t true any longer.

“I hate lies and I shall never lie.” The girl snorted.

“I hate being alone at night, and the dark. Being alone in the dark is horrid.” The girl bit the end of her pencil then underlined the entry. She hated that too.

When the darkness was oppressive and bore down on her, when the window was closed (it was always closed, Nanny’s orders) and the room was filled with hot air so heavy and so crushing she could scream. The silence was total and time, embodied in the little carriage clock in the corner of her room, dominated that awful emptiness.

“Most of all I hate being told what to wear.” Shrugging her shoulders, the girl let the pencil fall from her fingers. She didn’t much care what she wore so long as it was clean.

Her mother spent hours getting ready. She lived her life in the mirror, changing her earrings and necklaces and hairpins – an endless array of shiny things attached to her pale body. But the girl couldn’t understand it and thought her mother should have better things to do. Like visit the nursery.

The girl wriggled out from under her bed and picked the carriage clock off the dresser. She turned it over and read the inscription aloud (something tedious she couldn’t understand) and pretended she was a teacher giving her toys a lesson.

I hate lessons, she realised and was about to add that to the discarded list under the bed when Nanny’s voice broke through the afternoon haze.

“Emma! It’s time for your bath!”

Emma chewed her lip and held the carriage clock firmly in both hands. Then very precisely and with excellent aim, she threw it at the large window overlooking the garden.

Nanny’s scream was awful and Emma knew she would be in no end of trouble. But an indescribable calm, a sense of supreme satisfaction, filled her whole body. She laughed and laughed.

December 11th, 2010
Categories: Flash Fiction . Author: Pete Farrugia

4 Comments

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a comment