The young, handsome man paced the floor impatiently. He ran his left hand through his dark hair; touching the pink patch which was his pride and joy, his mark saying "I�m different; I�m not like you." But dyeing his hair had not been his only uprising against his strict Christian upbringing. He was a womaniser, he smoked cannabis; he and his twin brother had even formed a punk band, which annoyed their parents no end. However, his brother was not like him; his brother got good grades at school, his brother stayed at home, his brother took the beatings their father dished out without a word of complaint.
But this young man had snapped long ago. He had been preparing this for a long time and tonight would be the night his plans finally bore fruit. His fist clenched tightly around the gun, procured easily and with no questions asked from a boy at school. The rain pounded down mercilessly as the dark-haired teenager looked out of the window across the fields; their house was so out of the way, he and his twin had to walk two-and-a-half miles to school every morning, but it was all the family could afford. This ramshackle, run-down roof over their heads was everything they had; this five-room pile of bricks and mortar, slowly crumbling away bit by bit. The insane, angry eyes of the frantic-looking schoolboy roved the tiny, cramped living room in which he paced; taking in the damp patch on one wall and the old sofa with the broken springs leaning against the other wall. He didn�t even want to start thinking about where some of the stains on that sofa had come from.
And after tonight, of course, there could well be one more stain. But he�d clean it up; he might have been rebellious but he loved his mama, and she wouldn�t like bloodstains on her carpet when she came home from her night job, would she? He cackled softly to himself, continuing to pace the floor. He thought about his father, and how he spent all the family�s money on drink. "We�re gonna be better off without him," he thought furiously.
The front door opened, and closed again with a sudden loud bang. The mutinous young man jumped, in spite of himself. He clenched his fists tightly. Just a few more minutes, a few more... and then there would be never be any more loud bangs, any more purple bruises on his mother�s face. His shy twin would never again have to sleep on his front because his father had hit his back so hard his spine nearly fractured. The �bad� twin was going to take care of things, do something right for once in his life... He smiled evilly, his brown eyes hard and glinting in the candlelight. Hearing his father�s drunken footsteps shambling nearer and nearer the living-room, he tightened his grip on the gun.
The older man tottered unsteadily into the tiny room, trying to ask his son where everyone else was, but slurring and stumbling over the words. His son informed him that everyone was out; and so saying, the angry, resentful adolescent lifted the gun, aimed it at his wayward father�s heart...
...and -bang!- pulled the trigger.