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I have vengeance in my heart. I really want to lash out at the ones who’ve harmed me. I want to psychologically torture them. I want to meticulously explain to them why they should not go on living. I want to convince them to kill themselves. That’s when my thoughts turn violent.
When my vengeful heart turns violent. I imagine killing people. I mean, I really imagine it in detail.
I have a great imagination. It’s my only true talent.
I’ve imagined shooting people’s faces off and watching the way the body reacts. Imagine with me a frightened, faceless, soon-to-be corpse, stumbling around and finally falling—some motherfucker twitching on the floor. In the fantasy, I’m usually laughing.
If you piss me off, I can assure you, I will sic my imagination on you. I’ve imagined running people down with my car. I’ve imagined clubbing people to death. I’ll carve off your hands with a rusty old saw. I’ll tie you to a chair and stab you slowly. Slide the knife in. Slide the knife out. Oh, isn’t that awful. But you shouldn’t have cut me off. I didn’t deserve it.
He started laughing. Then he turned to me:
“Shut up! All of this is your fault. Stop crying, Tommy. Stop blubbering. You brought this on yourself. You pissed me off.”
Now you’re in trouble. Now, Daddy’s angry. Now, Daddy will throw you to the ground and rip your shirt off. He’ll kick you, Tommy. He’ll kick you in the stomach. He’ll grab you by the back of your neck and push you against the wall.
Beware him, Tommy. Fight him. Then run away. He’s crazy. He’s violent. He has vengeance in his heart. And you are his son.
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