For days, I would sit in my room staring at the wall, at this painting. I think it was an M.C Escher painting. I would study every nuance of the picture. Whilst I stared at the painting, I would think about all the people I hated. Even those people I didn't know, but hated. I imagined all those people were trapped inside the painting. Everyday I would watch them squirm around. Then, one day, I would turn the painting around, so I couldn't see the people. They couldn't see me.
Sometimes, I would begin to cry. Thinking of all these people, and the lives they had, and the people they knew, it made me feel insignificant. That I had no right to hate them.
Whenever I thought of this, about the picture, I would always think about my dad. He would be in the picture, and I sometimes felt sympathy for him, but then I would think about killing him again. Why I killed him. I wish I had killed him some other way. Swinging an axe into his skull, shutting him up. Blood spattering all over his shirt. I would swing again, this time into the neck. His head would collapse onto the floor. Then, I would play my dad's Phil Collins CD and dance.