Untitled: suggestions are welcome

I wrote this piece when I was 16/17 after I read an article about the massacre of 32 children in Houla. I have only recently re-discovered it, and although I never normally share my creative writing with people I thought I would post it on here to see what everyone thought. I still can't think of a title so feel free to give me some suggestions, and yes this is a fictional short story. How you enjoy!

I see him in his office. Balanced on my father’s Tuscan leather armchair, resting his guilt splattered shoes on the desk that used to belong at the foot of my staircase. Disgust. The Assad name reduced to the ashes that are scattered around us. I am ashamed. My blood is scorching as he waves an ignorant hand to the approval of more murder. How could this be? My own uncle whose elongated nose I used to stroke with my once frail fingers. How can I live in the knowledge of his malevolence?
Streams of red skies overhead paint the setting of the disaster that is occurring beneath God’s Earth. The jet-black clouds of Assad’s Olympus swarm through the heavens from the East, battling with the scarlet red streams to create a sight of visual ecstasy. How can this picture of beauty above watch over such evil below? A sharp steel light tears violently through the menacing clouds. The lightning shakes through my very core. I am witnessing my wicked uncle’s serrated dagger plunge into the heart of hopeless Syria. Shards of glass reflect the edges of his sword. One careless swoop and it shreds through fragile skin, ripping through the towns of women and children. The single rose of Syria. A façade of beauty and political correctness: only I know the extent of his thorns.
Reluctantly, I peek through the door. A waft of stale death floods out from the room, singeing the tips of my eyebrows. It follows me, clinging to my blazer like the stale smell of fish. She grips on to my backpack, sinking her curled nails deep.
I drag my feet with the weight of a thousand deaths on my conscience. Can I let any more innocent blood be spilt? It’s flowing through the streets like the River Jordan. Where is hope in this desolate Arabian Peninsula? She is quivering in a hollow tree in the Syrian Desert no doubt.
I sit snapping toothpicks at the dinner table, staring across to see his slender and bony figure, sneering at the thought of his power; I dream of the day I see blood seep through the bottom of his office door. He eats like a gluttonous pig, barking orders whilst food spills out the sides of his mouth. I hardly eat when I sit with him. Even just the sound of him devouring his food sickens me to my stomach. The dining table is a warzone of missile foods propelling from his mouth whilst he persists to talk and eat. Yet this is not the thing that repulses me the most about dinner. It is his arrogance. Everyone is beneath him. He yells insults at the servants with his food in hand, pointing the poultry leg at them as if they are his slaves. He has forgotten his creator is watching.

Every Thursday at precisely 7:00 pm for approximately 37 minutes, I must withstand a game of chess. With him. One might call it family bonding. Except the loving connection between an uncle and his nephew evaporated. He gets so engrossed in this game of strategy; each figurine that he moves is thrust forward with slightly more intent. Eventually, he slams each game-winning manoeuvre down with the smirk of Faraon.
I can hardly tolerate the proximity of my parents’ killer. However, it is an opportunity. One great moment to seize revenge for my country and my family. I will drive the dagger through his throat after he places down his rook to spit out “check-mate”. His filthy blood spurting out like a burst sewage pipe. The screams of despair as his reign of terror comes to an end at the hands of a ten-year-old hero. I am dripping with pride. My white Hilfiger sweater soaked is through with his blood, and the shape of his hand imprinted on my face where he is desperately pushing against my face for freedom. Then on his forehead, I pierce through the skin with my knife drawing a crisply cut swastika.
As I rise from my knees in glory, I pick up a photograph of my parents. I envision their faces brimming with pride at the sight of this event. So, delighted to see their son take vengeance.
Anyway, I move my last rook into position to protect my King from his fatal blow. And then the cackles start. It is rather amusing how one can get so much joy from winning against a ten-year-old boy. No humility. No lessons in how to win with honour.
I am stranded on a desert island that was once my country. Cut off from the world. I look out my bedroom window and see the panoramic view of Damascus. The window has a sheet of dust coating the pane from his cloud of ash and annihilation. The sunset casts darkness over the destruction he has created so, the West can sleep easy in their bed of ignorance. But the light exposes his brutality. My vacant stare into the dimming light of the Sun paints the picture of hopelessness on every innocent Syrian. I can see the ruins of my old home in the distance painted in red. And as the darkness takes control once again, and the view of my home fades away into pitch black he reassumes the reign of terror. I close my eyes and pray.