Confessions From The Subconscious

The Boy Who Thought About Murder

I don't understand why people don't talk to me. What's wrong with me?

Is it because I look different? Is it because I have a thick accent when I speak? I escaped my war-torn country and sought refuge here to live a better life, but I'm still miserable.

Girls don't even notice I exist. If one happens to see me walking down the school hall, she'll either ignore me or throw a dirty look. The guys are more blatant about their views, and mock me as I walk by. Some even went as far as pushing me down a flight of stairs, where I split my head open. They've made it crystal clear that I'm not wanted.

I've been humiliated and dehumanized in my new 'home'. I hate everyone here. They don't have a clue of what the real world is like. Give them one day to live in Iraq, Mozambique, or Vietnam, and maybe they'd stop fucking complaining about their privileged lives. If they had to escape from a war, maybe they'd learn that refugees can't "go back to where they came from".

But I'll teach them a lesson.

I'll show those ignorant boys and girls what it's like to have a gun pointed to their head. I'll educate them about the real gangster world.