How to be a Sociopath (Editing)

Entry Seven: I'm changing, aren't I?

I felt my head ache as yet another empty thought filled my mind, I've never been this stumped so why now? And why couldn't I just forget about it? Even though it confused me, I couldn't avoid it. Was it that interesting to me? I guess, I've never been involved with death before now. "Come on Chris, it's time to go." My mother said as Richard came in with a wheel chair. Apparently, I have three broken ribs and a heavily fractured collarbone. I got up, stumbling only for Richard to catch me and help me on the wheel chair.
"There you go, bud." He said, patting my shoulder only for me to wince.
"Richard, don't do that!" My mother reprimanded.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I forgot." He apologised as he pushed me out of my room. I was happy to get out of this hospital, nurses kept checking up on me, it was starting to get annoying. When, we got in the car I didn't put on my seat belt as it pressed against my collarbone and instead just sat there, with my head leaning on the window.
"So I talked to your school and they said ayou can take as much time off as you need." My mother spoke as she started the SUV, she would never let Richard drive it because he was too reckless of a driver. "Chris, are you listening?"
"Yeah." I answered absently, the same question continuously floating in my mind.
"And until the investigation is over, you will not be seeing or contacting your dad." My eyes faltered as they shifted towards her, she was holding the steering wheel tightly; means she's either thinking of something that invokes some strong emotion or she's afraid of getting into an accident. The former is more likely than the latter.
"What investigation?" I asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.
"When..." she tightened her grip even more, I looked over at Richard who didn't look too pleased himself. "When they took you into surgery, they found some bruises..." It didn't take long for me to connect the dots. "They said that they were about a week old... which means that they weren't caused by those other guys." She took a deep breath, before giving a side glance. "Chris, I'll be blunt with you, did your father hurt you?" I looked back out on the window, all the fast-passing of the houses was making me a little nauseous, or maybe that's just my pain medication. It's making me light-headed as well, but it's still doing it job, the pain is no longer a repeated agonizing stab but a numb throbbing. "Chris?" My attention was brought back on my mother. "Did- did he hurt you?" I looked her, wouldn't knowing the truth devastate her? Wouldn't lying about it be better?
"Yes." I answered without missing a beat, surprising myself. I watched my mother's arms shake as she held in sobs, yet even then I didn't feel anything.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked, making me meet her gaze, she dirty blond hair and grey eyes, a notepad in her hand.
"Nothing." I answered simply, returning to look at the painting, it depicted a lone house in a barren field, if I looked closely enough I could almost see sparks of a fire coming from it.
"Come on, that can't be true." She persisted, I noticed her voice get distant as I focused more and more on that painting.
"That painting, what's it about?"
"Excuse me?"
"The painting." I pointed at it, the flames were getting bigger and bigger the longer I stared at it.
"Oh. It's actually my childhood home, I painted it myself. You like?" Now this must've spiked my interest as I managed to look away from the seemingly alive painting to meet her gaze. She was youthful and wore an easy expression, much like the one Claire used as her own personal facade. Why can't people just say how they're feeling instead of concealing it? Well, I guess if people actually did that then this world would be twice as messed as it already is now, too many ill-minded people expressing their opinions will only lead to chaos. But who I'm I to judge? If I got my way, I would be rummaging through a dead girl's room just to fulfill my own curiosity. "Chris, what're are you thinking about?"
"The world we live in." I answered absently. "A sexist racist phobic society that hides behind their own self-righteousness to cover up the fact that we're nothing but cowards, cowards that steal, rape and murder for no reason other than to fed our darkest deepest desires. And the ones who claim that they don't have any are even bigger cowards as they refuse to face the truth of what we were and instead just act all high and mighty because actually seeing the truth, admitting it as what it is, hurts. Because the truth is, humans are worse than animals, we're monsters who were born for the soul purpose of being monsters. We use excuses like survival instinct and perseverance to ruin and slowly destroy the already crumbling shithole we live in, just so we can be comfortable, not safe and secured but comfortable. Because in the end that's what we are, monsters who thrive for comfort." I noticed the look she was giving me, like I just said the craziest thing... Crap, I said that aloud, didn't I?
"Chris," she started, much slower this time. "Do you hate this world?" I looked at the painting one last time before turning to answer her question.
"No."