The paint's just a shade or two darker, but it could be bright yellow, or red, like blood spatter on the wall, on the floor, on your face, for all the good it almost matching does. Maybe it's better that it's obvious, so you don't forget. So you don't forget the weight of the hammer in your hand, the clench of muscles as your arm swung it in an arc that slammed it through plaster, through Sam's skull, leaving a gaping hole that spackle and a touch up will never fully heal.
You should have taken that instrument of wood and metal and hurled it off the nearest cliff, but you didn't. It's back in the drawer, with the hatchet, not your brand, and it'll never see the light of day again if you can help it.
It comes out at night, though, in the dark, when every bad thing you've ever done swirls through the crimson and black of your dreams. Alastair, mocking as you slice into him morphs into Benny, willingly letting you take his head morphs into Abaddon, reduced to a bloody smear beneath your blade morphs into Sam, disintegrating as you smash his bones to smithereens and laugh while you do it.
You wake, hand curled as if around a handle, and the sounds crawling from your mouth may or may not be negation. Your sins are already legion. What's one more nightmare after all?