[Or] Untitled No. 3

[Yami]

[Word count = 890]

Feel free to leave any comments, etc.

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Words. Words make up the soul basis of language. Without words, we may be stuck making hand gestures at each other. Primitive, maybe, but smart nonetheless. Language is probably the single most important thing in the world, and of course, everyone can relate to it. Language allows people to communicate, to make friends or enemies. Language allows people to express feelings, of hate, of love, of destruction, or of joy. People can use language in song, in prose, poetry, or just in life. Words make up this fundamental structure of language, which everything pretty much uses. Now, in relation to this piece of writing, words will be the subject of each chapter or stanza, if you will. A word, probably a feeling, emotion, or maybe a random word from the dictionary will be the central point. I will probably select 10 words, and I shall write around 3,000 words for each, if I feel up to it. Of course, I may do more stanzas, less words, but in the end, I hope that each of these will somehow relate to each other in some sort of universe, each with different themes based on the word, but in the end I just want to write a nice few stories that somehow intertwine.

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Hate
–verb (used with object)
1.
to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest: to hate the enemy; to hate bigotry.
2.
to be unwilling; dislike: I hate to do it.
–verb (used without object)
3.
to feel intense dislike, or extreme aversion or hostility.
–noun
4.
intense dislike; extreme aversion or hostility.
5.
the object of extreme aversion or hostility.


Dante hated that word. 'Of course', he said to himself, 'how a person can bring himself to hate a word, I don't know'.

He closed the dictionary with a satisfying and loud clap, dust brimming from the pages. The hardback cover was bare, just boring and blank, navy blue, and seemed to lack depth. Dante put the large-esque book under his arm with a discontented grunt, and dragged out his large black coat from his rather small and box shaped locker. Other kids had full size rectangular lockers, but starting school mid-year has it's upsets naturally.

Another thing he came to despise.

This didn't stop him though, from quickly putting it on and hurrying down the corridor, through the large school doors, and into the cold, winter-wonderland of the school playground. The day was nearing it's end, as the sun was slowly starting to droop it's dormant head. The skies were pale, startled at the sun's daily ferocity, yet as if angels themselves took charge of maintaining the skies complexity, where clouds covered the sky's soft face like carefully placed ornaments. If it had a face. Yet, as Dante grabbed his scarf from his coat pocket, the sky itself seemed to glare down on this child. Barely even 12, the young boy had a cold disposition, probably from the frown he always seems to wear on his cold face.

The seasons themselves seem to cry, as Dante steps foot into the outdoors. Summer's start to get brisk and dark, Autumn leaves fall even more than normal, leaving the trees bare and naked, as if in discomfort. Spring itself, normally a joyous occasion, seems to whither like an autumn flower, whenever Dante takes a breath. Poison itself seems to manifest from the steps that Dante take, leaving destruction of ant hills and flowers. Yet Dante takes no notice of whatever is going around him. As if he was wrapped inside his own little world, where no one knows what is going on. Wrapped tightly like a carefully orchestrated birthday present. Yet no one celebrates Dante's birthday, as no one knows when it is.

The black and white scarf weaved its way around Dante's neck like a python. Although it looked tight, Dante gave no feeling of anything. As all that seemed to consume him was the thought of that word. Hate. The only thing that seems to please Dante is to look through his old dictionary, and find new words that either strike a chord within him as being “loving”, or cold disheartening words that fill Dante with a depressing feeling. 'Hate' seemed to be one of these words. It surrounded him, he thought, as he walked past the school gates. Puddles of dark and grim water look back at him in disgust. Likewise, for Dante. His main objective was to get back to home. Although no one would be waiting for him there. His parents were killed shortly after he was born, his elder brother was driven to suicide, consumed by hatred and disgust of himself, and his younger sister was shot a few years ago by an unknown person. The cold and harsh feelings he felt shortly after his sister was murdered caused him to be a solitary being.

Solitude was what he preferred, as he feels that people just get in the way, and are useless attachments. Binds that will eventually be broken, one way or another. Dante feels that it is useless to bind himself to someone, when they are going to die someday. All that comes from it would be pain. Pain that he has felt before.