Ryan was a psychopath. 

A psycho who behaved normally for most of the time but would go wicked at odd circumstances. Like a trigger, and he would lose all his control. 

Someone like him could never be trusted. He lived and blended perfectly amongst others like a normal person because he was cunning.

He would burn his skin sometimes, make cuts on his body, only to laugh and feel proud, that he couldn't be hurt. That he couldn't feel pain.

He had killed men, sometimes women, just for sport. But his grandest achievement was when he burnt his friend's entire family alive, in their own house after intoxicating them by their own wine.

That night was such a memorable one for him, he had tied them together – his friend, wife, and two children. He had wrapped a thick cloth around their mouth, so they couldn't cry out. And then he put them on fire, and watched them burn. 

He watched them for long and filled his lungs with the smell of their half burnt fleshes. He tasted the roasted meat, but he didn't like it. So he left their corpses behind and left the city, next morning. Else he would have packed the meat along with him.

There was no redemption for him, not even from the gods. His sins wouldn't be counted, no matter what. And so he ran away.

Ryan felt so proud, leaving his old city, and coming a thousand mile away from it.

Here no one knew him, what a shame! He should make friends – he thought.

His eyes fell upon a beautiful young girl and his cunningness was at work again.

Five years later, he was married and living his life in this beautiful city. He had committed no sin for all these years, and he felt odd about it sometimes. Perhaps that was because of his wife. She was gentle and always forgiving, and maybe her love for him would turn him human one day.

But Ryan was a demon walking amongst men, and the blood lust of demons could get suppressed with time, not lost.

One afternoon Ryan was angered because of his four-year-old son asking for ice cream repeatedly in the street. Some strangers laughed at him, and some smiled. One of them bought ice-cream and gifted to his son. That's what a normal stranger would do.

But it hurt Ryan, it ragged him and it drove him mad again after so many years. He couldn't take the humiliation lightly. His blood boiled inside his veins and he had to let that rage come out.

So he beat his son after coming home. His wife wasn't around, so he kept beating his son until he broke his right hand. Then he took him to a hospital where his wife came too.

Ryan was cunning and the child was asleep—wounded, broken and abused. His brain had gone shut, he wouldn't speak. Not for at least some years ahead. No way Ryan's wife could find the truth.

But still, she argued, and wanted to know what had happened? She was a mother, after all.

And that angered Ryan. He felt humiliated again, for being argued and being repeatedly asked the same question. He wanted to teach a lesson to his son, because it was his fault, from the beginning. Why repeatedly ask for ice-cream when he had said no.

A bad lesson Ryan wanted to teach, a lesson so bad that he would never forget in his coming life.

After a week, the hospital had discharged the son and they returned.

It was raining. There were thunders that night, just like the night when he had burnt his friend's family, five years ago.

Ryan waited for midnight. Then he woke, put his hard palm on his wife's mouth so that she couldn't cry out. Then he stabbed a knife into her chest, repeatedly. But it was no fun, so he went to the kitchen and brought the meat cleaver.

He first butchered her with hard strokes. Then he made small pieces of her body and stuffed them into the fridge.

It was blood, everywhere. On the bed, on the floor, on the door, and long finger marks of drag everywhere. Mashed limbs and intestine had thickened the blood pool around the door. Also, the fridge looked strange now, because of all the blood. It just didn't stay inside, like the way he had wanted. It kept dripping out.

He locked all the doors, blackened all the windows and sat gently on the common room sofa.

He felt a profound silence, so gentle and beautiful. He was a god, he could punish anyone, everyone. There was no redemption or punishment for him because he felt no pain.

Next morning he unlocked his son's room. He laid there gentle but wasn't sleeping. He must have heard screeches and cry for help – Ryan thought.

'Where is your Mom?' Ryan asked petting his hair gently.

The son didn't answer, his eyes were wide open and he kept starring across Ryan's shoulders. Like he didn't want to see his father's face.

'Where is your Mom?' Ryan asked again.

His voice was gentle and loving. He sat there and waited for his answer. But his son didn't reply and his eyes remained transfixed across Ryan's shoulder. He was lost, the child was lost.

Ryan left his son after kissing his forehead. He came back again to the common room and switched on the T.V. He liked the old songs and there were a couple of channels playing them.

He hadn't washed his hands and the blood had dried on him, everywhere. His shirt, hands, and face.

He kept humming along with the songs. His eyes went to some books kept on the corner table. He tried to read the titles.

''Tears of a lost soul by Lekro.' Hmmm,' he said.

Nice read, he whispered again. He had read it many times and it was a book about sin and redemption. Perhaps that's why he liked it. Next one was called 'The night of Demons', it had only a few pages but he didn't want to read it right now.

It was twilight and getting darker. The rain had come again along with low thunders. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since a day and neither did the child.

Ryan went again to his son. He was there on his bed, lying exactly on his bed like he had left him in the morning.

'Where is your Mom?' he asked again.

But the child didn't reply, he appeared still and pale like a dead except he was still breathing; and his eyes fixed across Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan pulled over a thin sheet over him and patted his head gently.

Next morning was rainy again, and thick dark clouds kept the sun hidden for most of the day. The same exact routine of watching T.V. and asking the question followed, and the same silence followed.

The corpse had started to rot in the fridge around midnight because it wasn't closed properly. It was making Ryan sick and the third day he vomited a couple of times. Also, he constantly felt his shoulders and back heavy.

In the fourth morning, he asked the same question again. This time his son whispered out few words, in reply.

'Where is your Mom?'

'S...She... i...is...'

Ryan felt so proud that he didn't want his son to even complete his words.

Who could take care of his son, who, except him? Now he had no mother, so he would ask for everything from him. And he wouldn't argue, or he would break his hands again and there would be no one to save him.

He felt so proud like he had achieved so much. And what a lesson it was for his four-year-old. How would he ever forget?

He thought of going out and bringing ice cream for his son again. But he wanted to ask again; as he would for countless times again in the coming years.

'Where is your Mom? Why don't you ask about her?'

'I...I don't know f...father, but w...why is M...Mom always standing behind your shoulders?'

****

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