Original Fiction: Flies (short story)
He was not the strongest or the happiest or the richest in his fourth grade class, but he was the smartest, and the smallest, and the most bitter. Other children would approach him and ask him to answer homework questions, and smile and call him their friend. He'd smile too, a smile that was trained as well as restrained, and in return ask to stay over their homes for as long as he possibly could in order to avoid his father.
He went to many sleepovers, some more pleasant than others, all out of necessity, regardless of whether or not he viewed these people as his "friends" or "enemies" or anything else in between. That didn't matter so much when a monster lived in his house and drank beer and threw bottles in his general direction, howling like a common dog. That didn't count at all when he hated and feared returning home from after-school classes, counting all the extra-curricular activities that a nine year old could manage.
If he had a dime for every time he wished his father dead, he would be able to buy the sun.
Make a shelter for yourself. You know the warmth, and forget the shelter.
Make a trap for a kill. You cook the animal, and forget the trap.
Make words for speaking. You learn the fear of man, and you forget the words.
Make a child afraid. Let him learn hate, but he will never forget his fear.
"Why doesn't your father ever come for parent teacher conferences?"
"He's a busy man."
I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him