Raising a Psychopath

FIFTH

I couldn't help the worry and excitement  that tangled within me, leading to an endless cycle of adjusting and readjusting the bed sheets. The anticipation of his arrival had woven itself into every action, every thought, leaving me with a restless energy.

The formalities of his release had been settled the night before, yet he remained at the institution until another layer of official approval confirmed the legality of transferring his care to me. My unique position as both his aunt and a psychotherapist had certainly played in our favour.

I hadn't broached the unsettling revelation tied to Greg's business card, nor had I sought Roman's company after the paperwork was finalized. I was keen to avoid any of his potentially smug comments about the success of his elaborate ruse. To him, the victory was already in the past, no longer a source of satisfaction.

The sound of the doorbell snapped me away from my trail of thought, prompting a final, nervous glance at the setup of the room.
Smaller than his quarters at FMRC, it was nonetheless a space that aimed to mimic the average teenage bedroom, despite its dull grey walls and minimal furnishings. A bed with dark blue sheets, a wooden study desk, and a few essentials — nothing extraordinary, but it was a start.

The door swung open to reveal Roman, his usual institutional attire replaced by a casual ensemble of a black shirt and dark jeans that lent him an air of normalcy, momentarily obscuring the tumultuous reality of his nature.

Accompanying him was an unfamiliar man, carrying a nondescript black backpack reminiscent of school days. As the threshold to a new beginning widened, I stepped aside, watching Roman take the backpack with a lightness that spoke volumes of his minimal belongings. Likely just a few articles of clothing and essentials, leftovers of a life put on hold.

A silence filled the room, a breath held between past and future, before I motioned for Roman to enter.
This marked the start of a new chapter, one fraught with uncertainty but also the promise of something resembling average, a chance for Roman to find his place in a world beyond the confines of FMRC.

"I whipped up some spaghetti," I mentioned casually, setting his bag on the kitchen counter while observing him ease into a chair with deliberate slowness. Roman remained silent, his keen gaze sweeping over the new environment, reminiscent of a hawk surveying its territory.

Within minutes, I presented him with a plate of microwaved spaghetti, garnished with a generous sprinkle of Parmesan cheese and a dollop of salsa. He observed his meal with an intensity that was almost disconcerting, his light blue eyes tracing every detail before shifting his attention to the rest of the kitchen.

His gaze eventually landed on the clock positioned above the doorframe. "It's one p.m.," he observed, turning his attention back to me.

I was perplexed. "And?" I inquired, unsure of where he was leading.

"And it's too early for lunch-type food. Breakfast is at eight a.m., lunch is at four p.m., dinner is at 9 p.m.," he stated matter-of-factly, devoid of any trace of humour in his tone. This wasn't a jest; he was dead serious.

"You can't be serious," I countered, my hand resting on the smooth surface of the mahogany table, but Roman remained stoically unbothered by my disbelief. "Remember, Roman, this was your choice," I reminded him gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear in a futile attempt to maintain composure.

His gaze flickered momentarily towards the door, as if contemplating an escape, but then settled back on me with renewed intensity. "You wanted me to be here," he retorted softly, the low timbre of his voice carrying a weight that seemed to fill the room, a subtle reminder of the complex dynamics that underpinned our relationship.