The portrait turned so ugly that my eye seemed to ache when eye contact was made with the painting. The me in the picture had aged with eyes of a cunning look and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. Blood had spread over the fingers, onto the feet and even the hands. I was traumatized. I wondered whether i should confess, well maybe not. 
I decided to get rid of history. I had with me is a dagger and the past. Now allow me to kill the past. 

I have let far too many suffer.

I hate myself. I don't know what these hands of mine are thinking and what they are doing. They caused the death of not one but three totally innocent people that I know. I deeply regret it. I just hope me and the portrait would stay young together. I did bad deeds after bad deeds, I son realized that no matter what I do the painting would not be revered to the youthful appearance again. Everyone thought I was the cheerful and innocent type, little did they know about the death of three people were all caused by me. Only me. Now only my conscience and the painting is bugging me to confess my wrong doings. I could not imagine myself doing that. I shall now go up to the attic and look at the portrait.