FEEL

24. Querinous

Querinous ~ longing for a sense of certainty in a relationship.

~ The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows ~

~°~

When a child hates their parent, I wonder who is at fault.

Is it that of the person who brought them into this world? Who fed them, clothed them, sheltered them, who did all such things that leaves them abundantly indebted and unable to do anything to return such favors? Could someone who provides for another in that manner possibly be deserving of the hatred of said person? Is that biting the hand that feeds you?

Or would it be the fault of the rotting child? Who is incapable of showing gratitude for everything provided for them? Who disregards what they were given and looks only at what they want? Who grew a selfish mind and a heart so filthy that it composed spite on its own?

For the longest time, I thought that my parents hated me. I thought that they regretted keeping me, that their lives would have been so much better had I not been born. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I might be the one that hates them. I don't remember hugging any of them affectionately, or telling them I love them.

I look over at Mr Pierce on the driver's seat, staring concentratedly into the road. I can't imagine him as a little boy, being confined in a room a little similar to his study, forced to write and being robbed of the simplest joys that a child gets to experience. Could that be called love? Can love, with its nature so gentle and patient, harbor such cruelty?

“Mr Pierce?”

He doesn't look at me. “Hm?”

“Do you hate your parents for what they did?”

Now he looks at me. It's brief, for acknowledgement, then he focuses back on the road. His eyebrows are drawn in when he replies, “I used to hate my father a lot. Maybe a part of me still does. But not my mother.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know,” he sighed. “I guess if my father had never killed himself, I wouldn't have hated him either.”

His fingers tap on the steering wheel. I wonder what triggers the habit. If it was nerves or discomfort, or maybe even both. “But why not her?”

“It's hard to hate the person who let you live in her womb for nine months.”

“She exploited you.”

He shrugs, “She did what she thought was right at the time.”

I don't know why his answers agitate me. They don't satisfy me, that's why. They aren't what I want to hear. Maybe it was because I wanted to know why I couldn't love my own parents. If it's the way that they treat me, or don't treat me, or if I was just born with it. If, by nature, I'm just both unloveable and unable to love.

“Do you think it's ever justified for a child to hate their parent?”

Mr Pierce looks at me again, scans my expression briefly when the lights go red. His reply is carefully spoken. “I don't think anybody should bear hatred for anybody. It's an ingredient for vengeance”

“What do you mean?”

“Like love, it's a consuming emotion. When felt, one can't help but act on it. We act on love with affection, and on hatred with vengeance. Sometimes, you can hate someone so much that you allow yourself to suffer just to punish them, because you're so intent on getting revenge on them that you disregard how your own emotions would be affected in the process.”