If it hadn't been for that last surge of heat, she might have hovered near 90ºC and never boiled over. She might not have gotten in trouble or sprained her wrist or broken her mother's second favorite vase. But the problem was that her cousin Benedict was visiting for the first time in five years, and he had grown into a devil of a boy. He was not tall or strong or intelligent, but he was downright malicious. Like any good angel of darkness he could pass for an angel of light – his parents thought he was a miniature saint.
Benedict and Ophelia taught each other many new things on the first day of his visit. Most notably, she learned what hatred tastes like, and he learned the taste of blood. Both these tastes are rather metallic, and neither is entirely pleasant, but more on that to come.
The day started innocently enough. After Benedict's carriage arrived, the adults gathered in the parlor while the two children went out on the lawn for a match of croquet. Ophelia played because it was polite, but she found the game rather boring. Benedict only won because he earned extra strokes by aiming more often at Ophelia's balls than his own. Besides, he spent half the game distracting her with stories about the new prep school he was attending in the fall.
When his last ball sailed through the final hoop, he chuckled and glanced sidelong at Ophelia. "I'm going to tell the boys at prep school how easy it was to beat you," he said rudely.
"What's that?" said Ophelia in surprise.
"I said you play like a lousy girl." He grinned wickedly and hoisted his mallet over his shoulder.
"Well that's not very nice," Ophelia threw back, feeling a hint of color rise in her cheeks.
That little bit of red counted for about 30ºC in the climb to boiling. It was only the beginning.
That little bit of red counted for about 30ºC in the climb to boiling. It was only the beginning.
Ophelia decided they had better tour the near section of forest that stretched along the east side of the estate. She tried pointing out to Benedict her favorite trees for climbing, and telling him about the time she learned to swing upside down by her knees, but he wasn't listening. He was scanning the ground around the trees with a great sense of purpose.
"Ah, here we are," he murmured. He reached down and picked up a long, pointy stick.
Ophelia stopped her tour and turned around, not without a little agitation. "What's that for?"
Benedict didn't say anything. He just smiled, put the stick behind his back, and nodded that she continue the tour. Flabbergasted, Ophelia went on.
"And this is– Ouch!" Something sharp jabbed Ophelia in the back. She turned and found Benedict brandishing his stick like a sword.
"Go on then," he ordered, "move ahead, or I'll do it again."
"No, that hurt! You can't– ouch!" He jabbed her in the belly this time.
"Go on," he said bossily.
Ophelia turned, but instead of walking, she ran. Benedict chased her hungrily, but contrary to his jibe about Ophelia being a girl, she was far more athletic than he. Benedict only got in two more jabs before they were both too worn out to continue. By the time they flopped down near the house to rest, Benedict had tossed his stick back into the woods and Ophelia's chest now registered 55ºC.
"You can't do that, you know," Ophelia panted.
"I can do whatever I want," he panted back.
She wanted to retort, but she got the sense he was right. He really could get away with whatever he wanted.
Ophelia's mother called them in to eat, and after lunch Ophelia decided to change tactics.
"Come on, Benedict, I'll show you the garden."
"Oh, lovely," said Benedict's mother, "he loves plants, don't you dear?"
"Oh, yes mum," said Benedict politely.
No one but Ophelia saw the smile licking like fire at the corners of the boy's mouth. Her stomach sank. She didn't know what he was up to, but it couldn't be good.
When they got to the garden, Benedict feigned interest in the spring peas.
"These look nice," he said warmly. "Ophelia, which plants are your favorite?"
"Oh," she flushed with pleasure, "the radishes of course!"
"Show me?"
"They're right here, silly! Don't you know your plants? Of course, I don't like to eat the radishes, though father says they'll grow on me, but they look so– hey!"
Benedict grabbed a handful of radish stalks and yanked them from the dirt.
"Those weren't ready yet! Don't do that!"
"Who's going to stop me?" he said casually. He bent down, staring at her all the while, and tugged another clump of radishes out of the earth.
"You, you stop!" she sputtered. "Please," she begged, "no more."
He hesitated, then pulled up another clump. He sniffed them. "These are rubbish." He dropped the radishes all in a pile and began stomping them with his prim leather shoes.
Ophelia had no words. There was steam gathering in her throat, but she had nothing to whistle. She knew what it felt like to be angry, but only the 70ºC sort of anger. Benedict had her pushing 90ºC, and it was downright uncomfortable.
At this point Ophelia made two miscalculations. First, she thought she could step back from the precipice of anger, and second, she thought Benedict must have some small thread of decency in him. She was wrong on both counts.
"I see you don't like the garden," she said carefully. "But I know something you will like."
His foot stopped in midair over the bruised and broken radishes. "Oh?" he inquired.
"Yes. I've got a secret place I can show you. Even my mum and dad don't know about it."
"Show me," he said firmly.
She led him back around the hedgerow that lined the garden.
"There," she pointed to a small hole that opened between the bottoms of two hedges.
Benedict bent and peered into the hole. "You go first," he said.
Ophelia knelt and army crawled into the hole. She felt the familiar thrill she always had when she climbed into her hideout in the bushes. The spot was secret for more than one reason. Ophelia's parents thought she had outgrown dolls, but in truth, Ophelia's obsession had only gone into hiding. She kept a small box with her two favorite dolls cradled in the hedges' roots.
Benedict crawled through the hole and found Ophelia sitting quite comfortably in an opening among the branches. The space had about the footprint of a closet but half the height. It was brilliant watching the sunshine stream through all the dark green leaves. At least, Ophelia thought it was brilliant. The only thing Benedict noticed was a small grubby box lodged in the roots next to him.
"Well now, what's this?" he said, reaching for the box.
"It's nothing," Ophelia said quickly. Her hand shot out to grab the box but Benedict was too quick.
"I see," he said slowly, looking at the box with glee. "Nothing is always something."
"Don't," she said, her voice going dry. "Just drop it."
"No," he said, looking up at her, "I don't think I will."
"Then what're you going to do?"
"I think I'll take it up to the house and ask my mum to open it."
Her words were gone again. She shook her head angrily.
"You don't want me to?"
She shook her head again, furiously.
"Fine," he said, "just let me get out of this rotten bush." He worked his legs out of the hedges and made as if to leave the box behind.
Ophelia was preparing to let out a sigh of relief, but in an instant Benedict tightened his grip on the box and disappeared from view.
For a split second Ophelia froze. This was boiling point. At room temperature, anger is a fairly stable liquid. Below freezing, anger turns into resentment. At boiling point, anger turns to hate. Ophelia's vision went red, and not the mild, flowery red of a radish, but the fevered, ugly red of murder. She was out of the hedges before she even had time to think.
The adults were sipping tea under an umbrella on the lawn. They laughed as the children burst from behind the hedgerow. Ophelia was chasing Benedict toward the house. In the humor of the moment no one took the time to notice Ophelia's face. Veins pulsed near the outside of the skin on her forehead. Bubbles whistled from her mouth in silent curses. Blood steamed from her heart, powering the gears of her arms and legs, pumping faster and faster until Benedict was inches out of reach.
He sped into the entryway and made for the parlor. He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Ophelia was practically on top of him. Once through the parlor door, he threw the box clattering into the far corner of the room and fell down in a heap of giggles on the floor.
Ophelia stopped over him and her eyes were knives.
"You could have broken my mother's favorite vase," she whispered through the acid in her throat.
Benedict glanced to where the box lay, next to a wooden stand holding an ornate Oriental vase. He sensed the danger in Ophelia's voice, he saw the red fire in her cheeks, but he had gone too far to hold back now. There was another vase on a table next to Ophelia's arm. It was white with pink flowers and had a flowery lip at the top. The legs of the vase's table were dangerously close to Benedict's foot.
"What vase?" He said casually, looking up at her from the ground. "You mean– this one!" He kicked out at the table legs and the vase tilted in slow motion.
Ophelia swung her arms in horror, trying to stop the vase, but she was too quick. She backhanded the vase and it slid off the table and shattered on the floor.
It is a dangerous moment when fire turns from red to white. It is perhaps more dangerous when a young girl's skin does the same in anger. Ophelia went stark pale. The red fury in her cheeks crystalized into its purest, most concentrated form. As the heat spiked, the kettle in her chest stalled.
There is a point beyond boiling when water appears to be static. Bubbles are absent, steam is absent, but in truth, the solution is wildly unstable. The slightest disturbance can cause an explosion of scalding water and steam. This situation is called superheating, and so it was with Ophelia when the vase hit the floor.
Benedict smiled awkwardly and moved one arm to push himself upright. That was all it took. The illusory calm broke and water and steam shot screaming out of Ophelia's mouth. She leapt on top of Benedict and tore his shirt and grabbed his throat and gave him a square slap on the cheek with her right hand.
Benedict got lucky for a moment. Ophelia was left-handed.
"Get off me, you wench!" he screamed, flailing his arms to protect his face.
The adults heard the commotion from outside and rushed toward the parlor, but they were too late.
Ophelia was screaming like a banshee raised fresh from the grave. The blood in her body had all turned to hate and it gave her the strength of four girls. She knocked away Benedict's arms with a swing of her right hand. Her left fist saw the opening and took it; the fist fell like a hammer and blasted Benedict in the side of the face.
At the point of contact on the inside of Benedict's cheek, tooth met flesh and warm blood exploded out into the boy's mouth. At this point he stopped calling Ophelia names and began to cry. He covered his face and wouldn't let go.
When Ophelia's father pulled her off of her cousin, it was like pulling the kettle off the stove. Her temperature dropped rapidly, enough so that she noticed the sharp pain in her left wrist. The solid contact with Benedict's cheek had sprained it dreadfully.
The four parents finally got Benedict to calm down, but their interrogation of the two children was a total failure. Neither Benedict nor Ophelia would say a word. While the adults argued, both of the cousins pondered the tastes in their mouths. For Benedict, it was blood, and it tasted like warm metal melting out of his cheek. Ophelia had a similar metallic taste, but her's, of course, was hatred, and it had a bitter, frothy edge to it. Benedict found his sensation rather tantalizing. Ophelia found hers appalling, but she knew it had to stay. If God didn't have to forgive the devil, there was no reason she had to stop hating Benedict.
"What's this old cigar box doing in the corner?" Ophelia's father picked up the box and turned it over in his hand. "I haven't smoked these in years."
"Leave it, papa," Ophelia said quietly without looking at him.
"Oh?" he raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Hmm. I suppose I will."
All of a sudden, Ophelia's mother screamed.
"Dear, what is it?" said her husband in alarm.
"They've broken my second favorite vase!"
Benedict broke into a wide, bloody smile. No one saw him, not even Ophelia. A second favorite vase wasn't bad for day one, and he would be there until the end of the week. Oh, the possibilities.
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This post is part of a synchroblog (folks post on the same topic every two weeks). The topic this week was 'Hatred.' To read the other bloggers' posts, go here: The Creative Collective.
