Raising a Psychopath

FIRST

The familiarity to the cadence of our encounters had woven itself into the fabric of routine, yet a thread of impatience began to unravel within me. Positioned across the sparse room, my gaze lingered on the deliberate dance of Roman's slender, pallid fingers. A ballet of distraction, they moved, ensuring the chasm between our eyes remained unbridged. It was not anxiety that fueled his avoidance; Roman was a stranger to such trivialities. His composure was as steadfast as the ancient oaks.

A sharp intake of breath preceded his casual swing of arms, the metal chair beneath him tipping precariously backward.

"You know I don't like it when you do that," I finally pierced the silence that had stretched too long between us.

His response was immediate, not in words, but in the way his cold blue eyes fixated upon me. They were like shards of ice, piercing and freezing all at once. Those eyes, otherworldly in their intensity, seemed to harbor secrets too profound for the ordinary mind. They lacked warmth, yet they weren't entirely devoid of feeling; not completely detached, but certainly elusive.

Despite knowing better, I found myself locked in his gaze, desiring, foolishly, to decipher him — a task that seemed Sisyphean at best, especially when he guarded himself so fiercely.

"Then don't look at me," he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face for a fleeting moment. His tone carried a hint of amusement, as though my discomfort was a prize to be polished and admired. He savoured it, relished in it, as if each instance of my unease added lustre to his collection.

"I can't, we're in the same room, Roman," I retorted, though my words lacked the wit I hoped for.

His chuckle was dry, almost dismissive, as he suggested, "Then leave."

"I can't do that. I only have one hour with you every other day —"

"How's Birth Giver doing?" His abrupt change of topic took me aback. He seldom inquired about Susanne — his mother. The moniker he chose for her, stripped of any filial warmth, was as much a statement of detachment as the rest of his demeanour.

The query hung in the air, delicate yet laden with potential consequence. I paused, allowing the weight of his unexpected interest to settle, conscious of not revealing the extent of my intrigue. In Roman's world, to display concern was to invite destruction.
"She's alright. She's in Chicago with —" I started, only to be interrupted by his dismissive gesture.

"Yada, yada, yada," he said, abruptly halting the rhythmic dance of his chair on two legs, hands coming to rest on his lap. "Don't care where she is, that wasn't my question," he declared, his gaze wandering to the barren walls of our 5 X 9 sanctuary. The room, stark and uninviting, housed only the essentials: a neatly made bed, a floor lamp, and a corner toilet, more reminiscent of a cell than a place of healing.

I nodded, silently acknowledging the rules of our engagement. "She's fine." My response was succinct, crafted to meet his expectation of brevity.

Roman offered a nod, his expression unaltered.
"Mother Fucker?" The term he used for his father was jarring, yet I masked any reaction. "He's alright." My knowledge of his father was limited, and I preferred not to extend our dialogue unnecessarily. A frown marred Roman's dark brows, a silent expression of his discontent. "You don't seem to like the news of that," I observed.

His attention snapped back to me, his demeanour unchanged. "Are you a psychic? You're so insightful." The sarcasm was palpable, a tangible force that filled the room with tension.

An uneasy silence then took hold, a stark reminder of the discomfort that had become a constant companion over these months.
"Your release date is soon," I ventured, attempting to pierce the veil of our strained communication. The effort felt futile. Yet, I persisted, hopeful for a connection.