Hate is a Strong Word

I want it to be known that I am not a vengeful person. I’ve been wronged before, plenty of times actually, but I’d never willingly or purposefully harm another living thing, especially not for revenge. With that being said …  I really, really hate my ex. He’s disgusting. Just thinking about him is enough to make my blood boil. I don’t want you to just take my word for it, though.

I live with my grandparents and have been for a while now. It’s not a bad living situation; I get three meals a day and they enrolled me in a pretty good school. They’re just extremely unobservant. They’ve got the awareness of a numb deaf-mute. That might’ve been a bit of a hyperbole, but you get the idea. I don’t hate them for it, at least not anymore, that’s just how they’ve always been. I only mention it because it’s what led to me hating my ex in the first place.

One night, when were still together, he asked to come over to watch a few movies. Of course, I said yes. I’ll spare you most of the lewd details and just let you know that it progressed to a lot more than watching the movie. After a while, one of his hands found its way up my dress. I didn’t say much at first but then he started tracing the hem line of my underwear. I tried giving him a few physical cues. When that didn’t work I finally pushed him away and told him to stop. He didn’t, though. He just held me tighter and ripped part of my underwear.

I writhed around in his arms, trying to break free. Tears were running freely down my face and my heart nearly burst out of my chest. I started crying out for help as I knew my grandparents were upstairs. As the time went on, my cries got louder until eventually I was screaming bloody murder. At this point, he had already ripped the rest of my clothing for his…needs. I then went dead silent. My voice was fried, and he had already left several bruises on me. I don’t know what happened to stop it, but it was over as soon as it started. He just got up and left.

I gripped the railing tightly as I went upstairs to my room. I couldn’t even bring myself to change or even move after I got in bed. Not even the knock at the door could make me do more than turn my head slightly.

My grandmother walked in, something clearly on her mind. Whatever it was quickly disappeared as she saw my outfit.

“What do you think you’re doing walking around my house like that?” She shrieked.

“Nani, it’s not -”

“Don’t you even dare try to give me an excuse. You get up and change right now before things get ugly.”

Even with her warning, I couldn’t do it. I just covered myself with my blanket and closed my eyes. I’m thankful to not remember my dream from that night.

I got ready for school, albeit reluctantly. I sat in the study waiting for the bus to arrive. While I did, I couldn’t sit still. I paced around the room, trying to shake off yesterday. I got lost in thought for a while, causing me to bump into one of the bookshelves. A few books and other objects I didn’t even know were up there fell on my head. I knelt to pick them up. Something in the middle of all the books and various keepsakes caught my eye.

In the dead center of everything lay a doll made of burlap. It had big black button eyes and an unnerving crochet smile. It was very clearly old, or at the very least poorly made. Some of its stuffing was poking through the stitches on its side and the button eyes were all scratched up. Despite its odd appearance I felt a strange attachment to it. I put away the rest of the fallen objects and took the doll to my room.

I sat on my bed, just holding the doll in my hands, before I got a text from my boyfriend. “Good morning, beautiful,” it said. I felt immediately sick. How could he just send that to me as if nothing had happened? I ignored his text and put my phone away.

“I hate him.” I said aloud.

I didn’t even realize how hard I was gripping the doll until I saw its stuffing fall out of its arm. I released my grip on the thing and put everything that fell out back inside.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened that day until after school. My boyfriend walked up to me in the stairwell as I was leaving. I tried to ignore him again, but he cornered me.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?”

“You know what you did. Now please, leave me alone.” He paused for a moment and took my hand in his.

“Okay, I get it. What I did was wrong, but it was a mistake.”

“You’re treating this like you accidentally hit me with a ball.”

I couldn’t take it anymore and pushed past him. I rushed down the stairs and he followed suit. I pretended not to hear him call my name as I walked briskly to the bus stop. The bus was in sight. I could just get on it now and deal with him later. His footsteps were just behind me. They only stopped after being replaced by the sound of screeching tires and a loud, bloodcurdling scream.

I turned around just in time to see the back tire of a car drive over his already broken arm. Through the blood and fabric of his sleeves I could see his bones. I stood petrified, watching him writhe and shake in pain. The driver got out to check on him and quickly called for an ambulance. It came along with a police car. I was questioned, obviously, but from what I told them it was clear that I couldn’t be charged with anything.

When I finally got home I saw my grandfather sitting in his chair. He glanced at his watch and then looked up at me.

“Young lady, why are you getting home so late?”

In my state of confusion, I hadn’t even realized that I was finally let go around 8:30. The bus ride home from the police station was another hour. From his point of view, I was basically out around town doing who knows what until almost 10.

“It’s not my fault, Granddad.”

“I will hear none of this,” he said sternly. “You know the rules in this house.”

“I do but-”

“But nothing! I won’t have any type of rebelliousness in my house. I don’t want you coming home later than 3 PM, on the dot! Understood?”

“Yes sir,” I mumbled.

He sat back down in his chair, now content.

“Sometimes I really hate this family,” I muttered under my breath as I trudged up the stairs.

I spent some time admiring the rag doll. I was miraculously drawn to the simple thing. I propped it up on my desk while I did my homework. I kept glancing at the doll and it brought up many questions.

Why did my grandparents have this in the first place? I was a woman of science, so it’s not like I believed in magic or the supernatural, but I knew they did. Surely, they wouldn’t keep something often associated with evil in their house.

It was hard to keep my curiosity at bay. I walked downstairs to the kitchen with the doll in hand. As I neared the top stair, it slipped out of my hand and tumbled down the rest of them. The doll hit each stair with a surprisingly loud thump. When it fell from the last one, it landed slumped over with its back against the wall. Its head was unnaturally limp, and its button eyes seemed to stare right into my soul.

I took a deep breath and tried to shake off the event. It was a doll, a nonliving object, and nothing more. I was just personifying it.

I walked down the stairs to pick up the doll before entering the kitchen. My grandmother was busy mixing something in a bowl while my grandfather was reading an old novel.

“Hey, guys, I was wondering if you could explain something to me.”

“Of course, dear, what-” My grandmother looked up at me for a second before shrieking and launching the spoon across the kitchen. My grandfather glanced up to see what was so concerning, and the stoic expression on his face left as he realized what she saw.

“What?”

“Dear, where did you get this from?” My grandmother asked.

“It fell on me yesterday when I was in the study. Why, what’s the big deal?”

They exchanged looks before my grandmother pulled out a chair for me.

“Sit down. We have to explain something to you.”

They had a long talk with me about our family history. Apparently, the doll was a voodoo doll, or however you call it. My family has had it since the 19thcentury. Its purpose was to protect us from whoever we targeted. The way you targeted someone was by proclaiming your hatred for them. Once you did that, whatever you did to the doll would then be reflected to real life.

My heart sank as I realized that it was my fault my ex got his arm run over. It sank even lower when I realized what had happened before I got to the kitchen. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I just excused myself to go to bed.

I tossed and turned in my bed that night. I was kept up by my imagination running wild. My grandparents would be hurt at any moment all because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

Eventually, my eyes got too heavy to keep open and I fell asleep. I am once again thankful that I don’t remember my dream from that night. The next morning, I awoke to peacefulness. Birds chirped outside my window. I figured this was a subtle way of saying that everything was fine.

I thought wrong.

I almost fainted when I saw the sight at the bottom of the stairs. Both my grandparents were slumped against the wall, their necks snapped in grotesque ways. They were bruised and slightly bloodied, but there was no hope for their survival. They were dead.

Tears streamed down my face like a faucet as I dialed the police. I could barely keep my voice steady. What followed was a long talk with the police and then several mental evaluations. For a while they thought that I had pushed them down the stairs. Like an idiot, I started going on and on about the doll. The mental evaluation somehow concluded that I was clinically insane. In an effort to "cure" me, the court ordered me to some mental institution about forty miles from the city. That all happened over a year ago.

The one thing I begged them to let me take was the doll. When I arrived at this mental institution, the first thing I requested was a box with a lock on it. They did so without protest.

I held the doll tightly in my hands that night.

“I hate myself.” I croaked with teary eyes.

With that I placed the doll in the box and shut it tightly. I used the key that came with it to lock it and now I carry that box with me everywhere. I don’t know if anyone can use this doll, but I refuse to take any chances. Even in death, I plan on keeping this box as close to me as possible.

No one believes anything I say about this doll. They think I’m just another insane person, but I know the truth about it. That’s why I’m writing this. I don’t know, or care, who will find this. To whoever is reading this, all I have to say is be careful with what you say.

There is real power in the words you speak, and you never know what that power may be.