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They said that it was an unusual case. Her body was soaked with cancer, and apart from feeling a little tired, she had no symptoms, except for the obvious one, death. That day, the principal broke the news to me and sent me home where my father was waiting. I found him, with tears running down his cheeks, eyes beading with emotions. He was ripping the wallpaper off the living room wall. He had sprayed hot water on the walls, and was pulling off large sheets with the snap of a matador; he dug his dirty nails into small stubborn stamp-sized pieces that wouldn't budge. Sadness, frustration, anger, a disoriented sense of loss, they all crept across his face and powered his hands. He screamed, kicked, and did not stop until every piece of paper lay on the hardwood. I screamed at him, crying, to stop, to talk, to acknowledge that I was even there, to know that I'd just lost my mother and he'd lost his wife, but my only choice was to sit on the sofa in the center of the room and watch, terrified, trying to understand what was happening to him. Why was he more important than me? Some say this is the day that my father, now a single father, "went crazy". He and I only mentioned it once, and I optimistically called it "a new beginning". His emotions were tearing a hole, opening a box. The box was full of personality that gradually crawled out. He quickly evolved into something different - he became, surprisingly, not a demon, but almost instantly, an artist, and a very creative one. The box was our living room, and it was explored by us both until the day my dad died.