Page 1 of I Love to Hate You
PartOne
WORLDS APART
Maya
One
~ MAYA~
What does it feel like to not hate everything? What type of brain must someone have in order to look at life and not feel drained every single day? Does that feeling require special bones that give off warm sentiment in the face of darkness, or is my form of darkness its own remarkable brand that defies warmth? Maybe that’s why everything feels cold all the time. The darkness I live in every day is a sea ready to swallow me as I float on my back at its surface, staring up at the sky as if my very existence isn’t in danger. Sometimes I can look above me and ignore it. Other times the black waves become too rocky and I can’t even see which way is up. It’s easy to hate everything when you're drifting in the pitch-black.
I don't wake up every day in such a shitty mood. In fact, this morning is one of the better ones. I slept in because my first class of the day isn’t until noon, which is typical for college, but especially since I’m about to graduate. At this point, I barely have to show up because my cap and gown are secured. All I’m doing now is passing the time and trying to stay out of trouble, which is much easier said than done for me. All I have to do is look at a professor the wrong way and I’ll be swept into the dean’s office faster than I can blink. As much as I hate it, I can’t be mad. I’ve earned my reputation—not on purpose, but not by accident either. My life is just built this way, and the results are inevitable, so I simply roll with the punches. It’s not my fault if people get hurt in the process.
It’s ten forty-five by the time I’m finished getting dressed, and the mood I woke up in has quietly gotten better with the passage of time. Although the basement I sleep in is dark and dingy, I try to focus on the fact that I’m about to leave the house. Temple University isn’t exactly my home away from home, but I’d much rather be there than here. So, I put on the finishing touches of my makeup and walk back into the basement to turn off the TV. I only have three classes today: logistical strategies, market research, and principles of marketing, so I grab my books and car keys before pausing at the foot of my bed to take a breath.
I have no desire to socialize, and I’m not talking about just today. I don't want to socializeever, good mood or not. I’m an introvert by nature, and I’ve made it clear that I don't likeanything, but I’m on a mission to get out of this dungeon I call a home. It takes focus to keep my head on straight, so I have to stand at the foot of my bed every day before I go upstairs and step out into the world I can’t stand. I have to put all of my energy into finishing college, getting my degree, and getting my ass out of Kensington. I won't survive if I stay here. If the streets don't kill me, living with my father will.
The sound of sirens screaming down an adjacent street put my need to stay focused at the front of my mind. Don’t let the idea of Philadelphia fool you. Sure, it’s gorgeous in Center City, and everybody loves the Rocky statue as much as any other tourist location, but Kensington is not a place where tourists end up on purpose. I grew up in one of the most dangerous areas in Philly, surrounded by crime and drugs since I was a baby. My parents always talked about making it out someday, but my mother died before that could happen, and my father stopped trying after that. He stopped trying to do anything.
The only way out now is to make it on my own. I was smart enough to get a couple of scholarships to Temple U, and for the last four years, making it out has been my number one priority. Sirens can blare, the stairs to the basement can nearly crumble beneath my feet every time I descend them, my father can choose to wilt away like a dying weed, but I will make it out. All I have to do is manage to not snap and kill somebody first.
I let out a loud exhale before turning on my heel and heading for the stairs that creak with every step, forcing me to take one hand off my books and hold onto the railing just in case one of them gives way. When I reach the top, I step over the threshold and close the door behind me, locking it with a gold key on my key ring before turning to walk down the narrow hall.
“Hiding something?” My father's voice slithers into my ears, making me instantly tense.
I look up to find him sitting in his recliner with his legs crossed at the ankle, a beer bottle in one hand and the TV remote in the other. His clothes are the same ones from last night, and even from the hallway I can tell he hasn’t showered. His thinning hair is disheveled, his skin looks dry and much older than the forty-four years it has existed, and the stench wafting off of him is nearly toxic—a combination of body odor and stale beer on top of a recliner that hasn’t been cleaned in years. I wish all of it was something new, but it’s not.
“No,” I reply, leaving the door locked as I walk down the hall toward the living room. “I always lock my door.”
“Yeah,” Dad mumbles. “Because you're always hiding something.”
I ignore the bullshit from him the same way I always do, and step into the room he hasn't left since last night. I place my books on top of the crumb-covered coffee table and grab as many beer bottles as I can before my hands are too full to carry any more. I make my way into the kitchen and place the bottles in the black trash bag resting on the floor against the far wall, before taking filthy dishes off the counter and placing them into the sink. When I walk back into the living room, my father is glaring at me, his blue eyes bristling with anger and sadness.
“Did I ask you to clean up after me?” he growls.
“You don't have to, Dad,” I say as I go back to the coffee table and grab the rest of the bottles.
From the kitchen, I hear Dad say, “Well, if you're gonna be in there, the least you could do is bring me another beer.”
After placing the bottles in the trash and pulling the drawstring tight to seal in the odor, I open the fridge and stare inside. It’s mostly empty, with the exception of two more rows of beer bottles, an open stick of butter, a half-empty bottle of Coke, and a candy bar that has been there for weeks. The man doesn’t spend his money on anything but beer.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I whisper to myself before closing the fridge. When I step back into the room empty-handed, Dad furrows his brow and sits up straight.
“Hey, did you hear what I said? I asked you to bring me another beer.”
“It’s not even noon and you're already drunk. I’m not bringing you another beer.”
“Then what good are you?” he fires back, his breath foul and his temper flaring.
“Dad, don’t start,” I say, reaching for my books so I can leave.
Dad’s eyebrows shoot to the top of his head. “You think you can tell me not to start? What, because you're about to graduate, you think you're better than me? You think you have the right to judge me because you're going to school? You're the reason I’m like this, Maya. You only have yourself to blame, so get your ass back in there and get me another beer.”
“No!” I snap, cutting my eyes over to look at him. I pinch my lips together, taking a second to try to gather myself and calm down. I haven't even left the house yet and I’m already in the mood to fuck something up. It’s the same shit every single day. I cling to any semblance of composure I can muster and let out an exhale. “You’ve gotta get it together, Dad. Mom would hate to see you like this.”
Dad scoffs. “Well, because of you she’s not seeing anything at all.”
Heat sparks to life in my gut, instantly becoming a fire climbing up my throat. I want to lash out. I want to break something. I want to let all of my anger and emotion out on something, and I want to do it right fucking now … but not on him. My mother is dead, and he’s all I have left. He may get on my last nerve, and I know he’s not a good person anymore, but he’s still my father. So, I swallow hard to douse the flame and walk toward the front door. When I reach it, I cup my books in one hand and use the other to reach for the door knob, but just as I turn it glass shatters directly in front of me. Shards break into a million pieces and explode all over the place, along with lukewarm raindrops of beer splashing my face.
