Raising a Psychopath

SEVENTH

Somehow, pressuring my own self not to go into deeper though regarding last night, I kept myself distracted.

Rushing to the closest store, I grabbed a pair of plastic gloves, determined to tackle the remnants of the previous night's chaos with haste. The task left me reeling, with multiple frantic trips to the bathroom where I retched up my meagre breakfast, overwhelmed by disgust.

Following our routine, Roman and I had breakfast promptly at 8 a.m., adhering to his rigid dietary regimen, after which he returned to the realm of sleep.

In the wake of the previous night, silence hung between us.
I found myself hesitant to broach the harrowing tale he had shared. I didn't want to think about it. 

The morning light seemed to cast a shadow of regret over him for having divulged such a memory. It was clear he intended to bury it once again, convinced that such a moment of vulnerability, a fleeting lapse in his usually impenetrable mask, was not to be repeated.

As I wrung out the once-white cloth into a bucket filled with water and antiseptic, my gaze drifted over the grim mixture of blood and water staining the floor.

The unexpected chime of the doorbell snapped me out of my trance. Glancing at the kitchen clock, it read 10 a.m.—a full two hours before my scheduled appointments were to begin.

I stripped off the gloves, tossing them into the sink, and quickly adjusted my ponytail before heading to the door. There, I was greeted by the sight of our middle-aged neighbour—Mrs. Miller—a plump, red-haired woman with her face heavily adorned with makeup, even in broad daylight. She was clad in a pantsuit, as though she were on her way to an essential meeting, perhaps with the president himself.

"Mrs. Miller," I greeted her with a smile, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind my ears.
Her gaze swept over me, taking in my less-than-presentable attire with evident disapproval before she managed a strained smile. "Good morning, Ally," she remarked, her eyes briefly flicking to my pyjama shorts with a clear 'isn't-it-a-bit-late-for-pyjamas' look.
Dispensing with any small talk, she dove straight into the matter at hand. "Our cat, Mitsey, seems to have gone missing last night. Have you by any chance seen her?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, a sense of dread washing over me. That name struck a chord, echoing from the previous night.
Oh, God, no.

Wasn't Mitsey the name Roman whimsically bestowed upon his victim last night?

Stammering slightly, I managed to muster, "I'll, uh... I'll let you know if I see her," while inching the door closer to a shut. But Mrs. Miller's attitude shifted as her eyes caught a glimpse of something—or rather, someone—behind me. Her smile broadened genuinely as she peered past me.

Turning, I found Roman returning her peer, his hair wet, glistening like obsidian from a recent shower.

"I didn't know you had a son," she remarked, craning her neck to get a better view of the freshly cleaned teen. Beyond me, the relics of our chaos were still in plain sight, with the kitchen's open layout offering a clear view of the disorder, including the table and the incriminating bucket.

"I don't," came my terse reply, retreating slightly as she stepped forward for a closer look.

"What a handsome young man," she cooed, her attention fixed on Roman with an unsettling intensity. "Oh, Claire would absolutely adore meeting you," she mused, referencing her daughter.

Roman wasted no moment, his demeanour instantly shifting as he flashed his most captivating smile and reached out with a porcelain hand towards her. "And I would be delighted to meet Claire, especially if she's anything like her mother." His charm was undeniable, radiating a magnetic allure and charisma that he could summon at will.