Page 57 of Dysfunctional

“Let’s eat.”

* * *

The rest of the afternoon,my mind is spinning with theories and churning with questions. She said she ran into him, but if I know anything, I know that was probably calculated on his part. He’s a stalker. He knows where to find people if he wants to. I know that’s how he ended up at the club that night in the first place.

He asked her out, not the other way around. Why would he do that? If Willow is just wanting to get to know him on a date before jumping into a threesome she’s clearly assumed will happen, then what is the reasoning behind him asking her out? It’s not like I’m aware of anyone else he may be dating or fucking, but to be honest, I’ve assumed it was just me. My only issue is I know about his tendency to get fixated on women, and Willow is too close to me to become a victim. I can’t have people questioning me about my relationship with her. We work together and we’ve been seen out together multiple times. I don’t want to be looked into too deeply, and that’s the only reason he can’t choose her as his prey.

My first instinct is to confront him and simply ask, but I keep myself from being hasty. I’ll find out on my own, which is how I end up outside a small shop on Saturday evening. Willow texted me excitedly about where their date would be. Apparently he’s taking her to a sip and paint class.

I was hoping it would be easier to spy and eavesdrop, but unfortunately, the shop they’re holding this class in isn’t very big, and you have to reserve a spot, so I won’t be able to get in anyway.

Instead, I hang out across the street under a small overhang that covers the recessed door of a women’s boutique. It only doesn’t look too strange because the rain is pouring down and everybody is seeking cover hoping it’ll slow down. I have an umbrella to both protect myself from the rain, and to keep my face from being seen.

I watch as Kaspian parallel parks half a block away. He goes around to her side with an umbrella and opens the door, attempting to shield her from the rain. They laugh as they jog down the street, holding on to each other as the wind whips the rain into their faces. It’s a scene out of a fucking romcom.

Willow walks through the door while Kaspian closes the umbrella, but he follows her inside shortly after. I can only see them through two rectangular window cutouts in the door. They’re laughing while Kaspian shakes water from his hair. They’re only there for a minute, just long enough for Willow to remove her coat and put her hair into a ponytail, then they walk away and head to the class that I don’t have access to.

I know this particular class is three hours long, so it gives me time to visit Kaspian’s house before I need to be back to see where they go next.

* * *

It’s nothard to get into his house. Removing a screen is nothing, and his window was unlocked. Inside, I look everywhere I can to find any bit of information about Kaspian. My main reason for wanting to get to know him was because I wanted to know why he is the way he is. He told me about previous girlfriends and what made him snap, but something has to happen to you to get you to that point, right? Sociopaths—and I truly believe he is one—are typically created with some sort of trauma in their childhood.

While I suppose it doesn’t matter why, I’m still curious as to how we ended up the way we are, and now I’m probably interested in him in more ways than one.

My personal experience is different. My mom and dad were decent people. They owned a couple of local mom and pop grocery stores, so we had a good amount of money. We lived in a nice neighborhood surrounded by kind neighbors. I had nearly everything I wanted. I was an only child, so it could get boring, but I couldn’t complain too much.

We always had food to eat, even if it wasn’t together. Mom and Dad worked late sometimes, and I’d be with a babysitter until they thought I was old enough to be left alone, which was probably around eleven. But I always felt a little sad, even if there wasn’t anything to be sad about. Eventually, that sadness turned into anger and frustration. I acted out, but my parents didn’t really do much. They chalked it up to being a preteen boy who was likely starting puberty.

Later, I’d overhear whispered conversations about me. They were concerned when I beat up a boy in the neighborhood. However, I lied and said he started it and I was defending myself. They could understand self-defense, but the boy was hurt pretty badly. Truth is, he didn’t do anything but look at me weird and whisper something to his friend. I snapped, and you know what? Afterward, I felt better. Less sad.

My parents brought up my dad’s brother—an uncle I wasn’t aware I had. Apparently he had what they called, “mental issues.” So they started to wonder if I was like him. Dad seemed concerned about this, so one day I brought up his brother to see what he had to say about him. He looked shocked that I knew about this brother. He questioned how I found out and then got onto me about eavesdropping. He ended the conversation by saying he was dead and not to ask about him again.

When I got into a couple fights at school, they didn’t know how to punish me. They said I couldn’t go out and play, but that was fine. I hated those kids. They told me no dessert, so I only ate it when they were at work. They told me no TV, but I had books, so I didn’t care.

One night, when I was older, maybe about sixteen, I heard my mom tell my dad that she was afraid of me. Afraid of how I looked at her. Thrown off by my lack of emotion. She didn’t understand why I didn’t cry when her father died. Something about that, about her fear, was thrilling. Powerful.

Eventually, I could see the concern in my dad’s eyes. He watched me carefully, even when I was only sitting in a chair and reading. It was like he was always bracing himself for an explosion. I later realized that silence was far scarier than shouting. To see someone boiling with rage but composing themselves and not acting out…it’s terrifying; you can only assume they’re plotting their revenge. I couldn’t hide my anger completely. You saw it in my eyes or the clenching of my fists, but when you don’t act the way they expect you to, it throws them off.

Dad tried tough love for a while, thinking raising his voice at me would get me to snap out of it. He wanted me to stop getting in fights and getting suspended from school. He didn’t want me out past dark because he didn’t trust what I was doing.

When I turned eighteen, I left home and went to college about two hours away. I hated it. I hated the people. Everyone thought they were smarter than everyone else. I hated the athletes who thought they could do what they wanted simply because they were on a team. I hated the girls who flirted with me to get me to help them with their work. I hated the teachers and their uppity attitudes. My rage was growing.

I nearly killed a guy in a bathroom because he asked why I was such a loner. I had to restrain myself, but not until after I punched him in the face. I was two seconds from slamming his head into the sink when someone else walked in.

After that, I overheard some people talking about how weird it was that I was always alone and quiet. Rumors grew from the bathroom incident and turned into something crazier than it was. I knew then I had to be better at fitting in, even if I had to fake it.

By the time I went home for the summer, I was at my breaking point. Then I heard my parents talking about me again. Which was upsetting because I was fine. At least that’s what I’d have them believe. I smiled at them and hugged them. I expressed myself more than I ever did when I lived with them, but it turns out they thoughtthatwas weird. They didn’t appreciate my effort and instead believed it to be more alarming. Mom would hardly hug me. Dad avoided me. We didn’t eat together; they always had somewhere to be.

I planned and plotted, and that’s how I ended up at a girl’s house the evening I decided they couldn’t live anymore. We went to a party, to be seen. We ate at a diner with a ton of people around. Again, to be seen. I went to her apartment where she lived with a roommate, and the three of us drank some more. Lanie was already three sheets to the wind by the time we went to her bedroom. She hit the bed and was snoring in less than five minutes.

I snuck out the window and walked about three miles; I didn’t want my car to be seen and I couldn’t ask anybody for a ride. There weren’t any guns in the house, probably because they didn’t want me to ever get my hands on one, but the kitchen was full of knives.

Dad went first. It was easier than I thought. They both slept like the dead, and Dad barely made a noise when the knife slipped between his ribs. A gasp preceded a groan, and then my hand was over his nose and mouth as he squirmed. Mom woke up and started screaming, so I had to move fast. She didn’t run out of the room right away. She was too shocked at the scene playing out in front of her. When she finally got up to flee, I reached over and grabbed her arm and flung her back to the bed. Dad wasn’t capable of helping her by that point, and she went the same way as him.

Afterward, I set the scene to make it look like someone broke in. I changed into some new clothes and got rid of my ruined ones on my walk back to Lanie’s. They were torn to shreds, drenched in bleach, and thrown in a bag with rocks and dropped into a lake when I crossed the bridge.

I climbed back into bed with Lanie, slept for a few hours, woke up and took a shower and went back home to find my parents. Of course, I ran to them and touched them, hoping they’d be alive and that’s why there was blood on me. I sobbed and expressed confusion and anger. I did everything you’re supposed to do.

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