Hater

others. I don't want the kids and Lizzie getting upset again.
    My head is spinning. I'm finding it harder and harder to cope with being trapped inside the safe room with the rest of the family. This intense claustrophobia is killing me. We've been sat together for hours and hardly anyone has spoken apart from the children who fight and bicker constantly. I know they can't help it but they're really beginning to piss me off. Lizzie and Harry don't seem bothered by them. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's the thought of the soldiers outside. I'm getting increasingly anxious sitting here waiting for the inevitable knock at the door.
    I use going to the toilet as an excuse to get up and get out of the room. I close the living room door behind me and lean up against it, relieved. The atmosphere in there was oppressive and the air out here is much cooler and fresher. I stumble down the hallway and pause at the front door. Should I go upstairs and check the streets again? What if the army is here already? How would it look if I opened the door and ran head-first into one of those patrols? They might think I was a Hater. Would they give me any chance to explain before aiming their rifles at me?
    I use the toilet then traipse towards Ed and Josh's room. I climb up onto Ed's bed like I did yesterday and stare out of the window for a while. I can't see anything. If I ignore the bodies then everything looks quiet, still and relatively normal out there. It's deceptive. Under the surface the whole world is tearing itself apart.
    My head hurts. I'm tired of thinking constantly about everything that's happening. I just want to switch off for a while.
    I roll over onto my back, close my eyes and wait for the knock at the door.

    30

    I hear movement inside the flat, away from the safe room. Don't know how long I've been lying here on my own. Must have fallen asleep. I feel sick. I need to get a drink. I sit up, swing my legs out over the side of the bunk and climb down. My body aches as I stretch and stumble down the hallway.
    Someone's in the kitchen. I move closer and see through the open door that it's Harry. He's standing at the sink with his back to me, making a drink or washing up or something. I take a step through the door and into the room with him and then stop. Don't know why. Something's not right. I don't want to go any closer. I can taste something in the air and it makes me feel uneasy. No, it's more than that, it makes me feel unsafe. Harry stops what he's doing. Does he know I'm here? For what feels like forever neither of us moves. Then he slowly turns around. Is he…?
    Jesus Christ. I stare deep into the old man's eyes and I am frozen to the spot with fear. Can this be the same man? He glares back at me with cold, steely eyes filled with an inexplicable hate and disgust. I can sense his revulsion of me coming off him like a stench and I know that for some inexplicable but undeniable reason he wants me dead. He wants to destroy me. My legs become weak with nerves as I realise that the hate has finally arrived in my home.
    Harry moves suddenly and I react at speed. He takes just a single step forward but it's enough and I know that my life is in danger unless I act now. An overwhelming instinctive desire for self-preservation takes over as I move away from him. I look over to my right. On the worktop is our wooden knife-block. I grab the black-handled bread knife and pull it from the block like I'm unsheathing a sword. In a single movement I charge towards Harry and plunge it deep into his flesh, just above his waist. I put my other arm around him and pull him closer to me, forcing the blade deeper and deeper into his gut, twisting it round as I push it forward. I feel its serrated edge slice through his skin and cut through muscles, veins and arteries and I shove it deeper into him until the entire length of the knife has disappeared. I feel a sudden flow of hot blood as it gushes out over my hand and I let go of the knife and push Harry away. He trips back. His legs buckle beneath him and he collapses to the floor, smacking the back of his head against the oven door as he falls. I stand over him. He's still breathing but he won't last long now. I have to be sure that he's dead.
    There's a scream from the doorway - a shrill, ear-piercing yell - and I turn around and see Lizzie and the children. She looks at me with the same cold expression as her father and I sense the hate again. I pull the knife out from the dying