They call me crazy. I beg to differ.  I’m sentenced to die only for their lack of understanding.  So, here I sit day after day in this cold, lonely, dark jail-cell.  Fed once daily, I’m slowly thinning away, still filled with the lust of my chosen delicacy and the hatred that was bred upon me.  I don’t know how long I’ve been here or how long I’ll stay.  No windows to the outside world are present to accompany me, only one diminutive hole near the top of the door shining in a small beam of light through from the prison corridor.  I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to this new lifestyle of mine however bleak it may be in comparison to the stirring existence of my past.  
     I was born on August 13, 1974, putting me now at slightly over fifty years old.  My mother unfortunately died during labor, leaving my single father to raise me alone.  My unstable father was traumatized by the death of his wife and inherently blamed me.
     My childhood was a macabre thing to live through.  Even when I was but a mere child, my father would abuse me.  Two times a day these beatings would occur, usually first thing in the morning and once again before bedtime, all the while my father yelling “It’s all cause of you!!! You stole away the only thing that mattered to me!”  Of course, I, being a little kid, was brainwashed to believe these things, believing I was at fault of killing my mother, and would hence cry nightly while praying for her forgiveness.
     Unlike the other children I had at times seen riding bicycles in the street, I was not allowed to visit school.  Rather, my father locked me in my room during the day, letting me out only for the privilege of eating dinner with him, and for the occasional beating outside my bedroom.  I believed this was the way children were supposed to be raised; it’s all I knew.
     One day when I was around the age of 16, my father came into my room furious like usual, pushed me onto the floor, and began madly swinging his booted feet into my ribs.  I suddenly had a strange urge to fight back, something which had never even crossed my mind before.  Instantly I grabbed my father’s leg, twisted it, and hurled him to the ground.  Without thinking, I jumped to my feet and kicked my father as hard as I could in the back of his head.  Not only once did I do this, but instead continued on for near twenty minutes, kicking with all my might.  
     Suddenly, I awoke.  I was on the wooden floor of my bedroom, my father lying motionless next to me.  I jumped to my feet only to discover my father’s head had been cracked wide: the contents of his skull distributed several feet across the floor and onto the nearby wall.  I immediately remembered fighting and feeling quite dizzy just before the notion of waking up.  I looked upon my departed father with a slight feeling of sadness, but nevertheless grinned at the gratification his death had instilled within me.  


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