PSYCHOPATH

chapter 21: part 1

Chapter 21: PART 1

A FALLEN SON & A FORGOTTEN CHILD

~ "We keep burning ourselves – and others." ~

alexander blok, 'there's a game'

When the Code Killer was little, he wasn't the Code Killer.

He was just a boy.

He did what most boys did, what most children did. Playing outside and getting covered in dirt, fooling around with worms and bugs, scraping knees and elbows, receiving a nasty burn from a playground's plastic slide. All those simple childhood days that seemed to go on forever.

One of his earliest memories was of play. He was five years old. It was in wintertime, the first snow of the season. His brother and him were outside to catch every second of it. He remembered that day vividly. About never wanting to go inside, wanting to stay out there in that white snowfall for eternity. He remembered the snow dancing in light, choreographed ballets. He remembered his eyes growing that tiny bit wider in amazement at the scene, right as his brother threw a handful of snow in his face. It exploded against his cheek in a display of frosty pieces.

It hurt but it was fun. They chased each other round and round, chucking and hurling ice towards one another, innocent laughter twinkling in the gentle wind. They were just children. Happiness could never last though, that was what made it special.

"William!" a male voice resounded, stopping them in their tracks. "Come inside, you're going to catch a cold."

The two boys blinked at each other, frozen. The wind howled. Berlin watched as his older brother sent him an indecipherable look before trudging across the lawn and up the wooden steps of their house. He watched as his father brushed the snow and ice off of William's curly mop of dark hair, patted him on the shoulder and brought him inside. The door shut behind them.

Berlin stood there in the stark white snow, nose red and numb. Teeth starting to chatter, the snow began to feel like a cold and brutal thing rather than a friend, so he followed the path William made in the snow to the front door.

He tried the handle. It was locked. He knocked on the door once or twice, called out his brother's name, but all he got in return was the whistling gust of cold air rapping against the porch.

Frowning, he burrowed further into his oversized coat and slid down the front of the door to sit, huddling his small body for warmth.

His mother would get him eventually.

"I had only gone to take a nap. When I woke up and found the boy, he-he was nearly turned blue. He had to sit in front of the fireplace for hours to thaw out. I should have never shut my eyes."

"Stop babbling. I don't care."

"You have to understand, you have to understand, he's had a hard life. He's been disadvantaged from the start."

The intrusive thoughts started when he was around eight years old.

He would sit on the wooden porch, knees bent up to his chin and watch the neighbor's cat lazily stroll the street. Fog creeped across the front lawn as the morning sun blinked over the horizon: another day was starting, and the cat did his morning ritual.

Berlin watched it closely and paid attention to all the things it did. It was predictable. Walk down the street. Stop to watch the birds at Ms. Walter's birdfeeder. Stalk the squirrels. Get free pets from the tiny kid ogling him from his porch.