hate- n. (chiefly poet.) Hatred~ v.t. Have strong dislike of; bear malice to. hateful  adj. Exciting hatred. hatefully adv. hatefulness n.

Frodo hated the rain. He hated it with a cold ball of rage that could be quite frightening to strangers.

And when it rained, he would stand in the garden glaring up at the sky and would ignore Sam's protests. And with every drop that hit him, Frodo would hate it even more, 'til he could readily scream with rage and hate.

Then he would go inside and sit by the empty hearth and hate anyone who tried to light the embers. He would drip, and hate every drop that fell.

Frodo had an old teddy on the shelf of his study, a harmless memory of a long gone childhood. One of it's eyes was missing, and an ear, and a tail. Most of it's limbs were held together with hat-pins. Frodo hated it. He hated it more than anything.

Sometimes he'd get it down off the shelf, and sit it on his desk and glare at it.

"You're a mess," he'd snap, hating the teddy for being so. "A dreadful mess. You've let yourself go. You should be ashamed. I'm embarrassed for the both of us."

And he could sort it out. He could give it a good wash, and sew up the holes, and even give it a new eye! He could make it a teddy worth remembering.

And the teddy would sit there, and with one eye it would almost seem as if it were winking. Then Frodo would hate it again, and he would throw it against the wall and gain no satisfaction from his tears of hatred.

Sometimes Frodo hated his neck. He would sit and scratch at the hollow in his throat, though not from an itch, and would hate every single bit of skin and blood that was torn away.

And he hated his blood, every single drop of it that stained his nice white shirts. Sometimes he would hate the shirt too, and would rip it off and feel like shouting at it, and hate himself for not knowing how to get the redness out of the collar.

He hated Sam for not getting all the blood out in the wash, and hated Sam for not stopping him from bleeding in the first place, and hated Sam for letting him stand in the rain and throw his childhood around and let everything fall apart before his eyes.

Sometimes Frodo would stand before the mirror, and hate what he saw. And he would hate the scabs and scars around his neck, and pick them away until the blood flowed down his chest, and he would hate every scarlet drop.