Raising a Psychopath

TWENTY FIFTH

Lying there in the quiet of my room, a heavy weight settled on my chest.
My eyes fixed on the ceiling as waves of disgust and self-loathing washed over me. I felt hollow, every piece of the puzzle that was my life suddenly fitting together in the worst possible way.

What did I really know?
Gregory, the man I had once called boyfriend, the man I had shared too much of myself with, was entwined with my family's darkest moments. He had been one of Susanne's clients during her days of forced prostitution. He was the father of Leo, the child she never got to raise. He wasn't Roman's tormentor; he was just another ghost from the past. A past he recognized in Roman's surname the day he left in a haste.
I had dated the man who contributed to my sister's degradation. I had been intimate with someone who had exploited her, possibly even laughing with Avery over whatever sick pleasures they took from her despair.

The realization made me sick to my stomach.
How had I been so blind? How had I let myself get so close to someone so deeply embedded in the trauma that tore my family apart? The questions circled in my mind, each one a strike against the life I thought I had been rebuilding.

The tension from last night hadn't fully dissolved, but Susanne's decision not to press on about the first rapist offered a temporary reprieve. After some back-and-forth, she agreed to stay in Roman's room, insisting she'd leave to fetch her belongings from the hotel later. Roman, ever the persistent one, took to the couch for the night, while I retreated to my own room.

I had tried to erase the memory of Greg, his panic-stricken dash to his car, fleeing from Roman's wrath.
I'd blocked his number after sending a few curt messages—regardless of my strained relationship with Susanne, she was still my sister, and loyalty, however twisted by past grievances, anchored my actions.

A nauseous sensation clawed at my throat, exacerbated by the scent wafting up from the kitchen. Was Susanne actually cooking this early?

Dragging myself downstairs, the scene in the kitchen brought a semblance of normalcy.
Three plates laid out, each adorned with toast, eggs, and bacon—breakfast for Susanne, Roman, and myself.

But then, my gaze caught Roman's form on the couch.
He sat upright, his attention fixed on a scrap of paper in his hands, completely absorbed.
My approach seemed to startle him; he looked up, and I was struck by the redness in his eyes.

"Morning," he muttered, setting the paper aside as if to shield his emotions. His voice carried a heaviness, a raw edge that hadn't been there the night before.
I paused, caught between concern and curiosity, the morning light casting shadows that seemed to emphasize the distance between us.
"Morning," I echoed back, watching as Roman shifted uneasily on his feet. "How'd you sleep?" I ventured, noticing the tension in his posture. His eyes flicked towards the staircase, suggesting Susanne might already be up. "Is Susanne awake?"
"Yeah, she's been up for a while," he replied, pushing a folded piece of paper across the table towards me.
His movements were hesitant, as if every action was weighed down by thoughts he couldn't voice. "I made breakfast, but..." His voice trailed off, and he seemed to struggle with what to say next. "Cassius is picking me up soon."
"Where are you going?" Concern laced my voice as I unfolded the paper.
"I just... I need some time alone," he murmured, nodding more to himself than to me. "Just a few hours. I'll be back before lunch."
"Are you okay?" The question felt hollow, knowing the depth of the chaos that brewed beneath his calm exterior.
He gave a short, humourless laugh. "Please. It'll be a cold day in hell before I'm ever okay," he said sharply, then turned and walked away, leaving me with the unsettling sense of his deepening struggles.

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence wash over me before my curiosity drew me back to the piece of paper in my hand. The elegant cursive handwriting unfurled a simple message from Susanne:

'I'm so sorry.
I thought I could stay.I really did.
I can't.
Maybe one day I'll come back and we'll be a family again. You're doing so well without me. I love you, son.
Mom
Xxx'