The Cute Psycho (Morally Ambiguous Duet #1)

1. Vlad

1

VLAD

AGE EIGHT

" Y ou're sure there's nothing wrong with him?" My father paces around the small office, glaring at the doctor.

"We've run tests. Considering his condition..." The doctor looks me up and down, pursing his lips as his eyes focus on my naked chest. "He's in spectacular health. It's quite extraordinary, actually." His hand goes up to stroke his chin.

I tilt my head, returning his scrutiny with my own, my eyes meeting his gaze and holding the contact. Unnerved, he quickly looks away.

"Look at him and tell me he's normal," Father continues, pointing his finger at me.

I don't react, since I don't care about his opinion. And as I glance around the room, my eyes zone in on a sparkly glint of metal. Mentally, I do an estimation of the time and amount of movements it would take me to reach it.

"There's something wrong with his eyes, I tell you," my father says, and my attention switches to him momentarily. He comes closer, but still keeps a distance. I can see it in his expression and the way his lip curls slightly at the corner as he looks at me. I disgust him.

I have since I came back.

I don't react when he suddenly brings his fingers in front of my face, snapping them twice. Unblinking, I turn my eyes toward him, regarding him curiously.

"See? He's fucking soulless. Whatever they did to him..." he trails off, shaking his head. The doctor is quick to assure my father that I am perfectly healthy and that it may be residual trauma.

"Trauma, my ass. He doesn't talk! All he does is stare at me like a fucking mute!" my father exclaims, throwing his hands in the air and pacing around the room again.

The doctor comes closer, his eyes narrowing at me as he prompts me to say something.

I watch in annoyance as he slows his speech and uses oversimplified words as if I were mentally challenged.

A small frown appears on his face as he brings his hand up to check my neck. His fingers don't reach their destination, as I catch them mid-air, folding them backwards until he's yelping in pain.

One swift movement and the sharp, steely object is in my hand. The doctor doesn't even get to react as the blade makes contact with his skin. A clean line from ear to ear appears just beneath his jaw and blood comes out in spurts like a jet spray, painting me red from head to toe. The doctor's body falls to the ground with a thud, and my father snaps his head around, his eyes widening in horror.

One hand goes to his forehead as he's massaging his temples, all the while cursing out all kinds of obscenities.

Me?

I only have eyes for the redness of the blood, the mesmerizing color that seems to remind me of something.

The liquid is dripping down my face, the feel of it on my skin intoxicating and liberating.

I close my eyes, honing in on that feeling. My tongue sneaks out to lick my lips, tasting the forbidden substance and reveling in the metallic taste.

So familiar.. .

"You're a fucking monster," my father spits at me. I open my eyes to regard him with a bored expression and it seems to fuel his anger further, as he starts throwing stuff at me.

One mug hits the side of my head.

What should have been a blinding pain is muted by my already dead pain receptors. My skin breaks and opens to let out even more red liquid. It flows down my face, coating my lashes and blinding my right eye.

Father is breathing harshly, his gaze fixed on the gash next to my hairline. Slowly, his eyes find mine, and we stare at each other in a contained battle of wills.

" Bozhe !" he whispers, three fingers going to his forehead before descending to his torso, to make the sign of the cross. Finally, one hand settles on the handle of his gun, and he seems to debate whether to kill me or not.

I make his decision easier as I hop off the bed, advancing toward him while still holding his gaze. Wrapping my fingers over his, I take out the gun and point it toward my head, the cold butt of the pistol making contact with my flesh.

" Davai !" I bark, my voice groggy and ragged from disuse. My eyebrows are drawn together in consternation as I urge him to do it. Kill me.

" Ubei menya ," I utter again, and his eyes widen in shock before his hand tightens on the handle, wrenching the gun away from me.

"Clean yourself," he mutters before leaving the room.

Taking a deep breath, I allow myself to feel disappointment for a moment before I turn back to the doctor's corpse.

Father may not know it, but he just left me with a gift. And I plan to take advantage of it to the fullest.

Hours later, my father's guards show up, and they find me elbows deep in the doctor's chest cavity as I reorganize his organs.

Bummer...

" W e can't let him stay here, Dima," my mother whispers to my father, thinking I can't hear them. I turn my head to the side, my gaze fixed on the bird hopping around the windowsill.

I know I'm not wanted in the house, and everyone has made it clear that they don't wish to share a space with me. Not that I blame them, since I've noticed the fear in their eyes as they look at me. They are all afraid I'm going to snap somehow, but even that fear is not enough to make them kill me.

I am a child after all, and even seasoned killers frown upon killing the young. If only they knew what's in my mind... they would certainly not hesitate.

"Are you my brother?" I look down into the curious eyes of a little girl. Her hair is parted in the middle, two pink ribbons holding the strands together. It looks oddly reminiscent of something.

"Hey," she pokes my side, frowning when I don't answer. "You're my brother. I know you are," she says with more confidence, folding her hands across her chest.

I shrug at her, and my gaze returns to the bird. Foreign information starts flooding my brain. I seem to have read somewhere that birds have hollow bones, their structures different to allow for flight. I wonder how they would look on the inside...

My hand shoots out, my fingers wrapping around the slim body of the bird. I'm quick enough that she doesn't have time to spread her wings.

Bringing her toward me, I study the way her eyes close, the membrane serving as her lid inciting my interest. Sharp... I need something sharp.

I'm about to reach for a knife when the little girl's hand covers my own. She looks terrified as she glances between me and the bird.

"What... don't..." she stammers, her lower lip quivering.

I tilt my head to look at her, my eyes narrowing slightly.

She tries to pry my fingers off the bird, her efforts futile. When it finally dawns on her that she won't be able to do it, tears gather at the corners of her eyes.

I still, the sight shocking and foreign. It awakens something uncomfortable in my chest. For the first time, as I weigh the options, I find myself leaning toward making her stop crying, even if it means passing up on satisfying my curiosity.

"Katya!" my mother exclaims in outrage, tugging her away from me. My eyes follow the trail of her tears, already entranced by them. My fingers become unwittingly loose until the bird flies away, unharmed.

"Never do this again, you hear me? Never approach your brother alone. He's dangerous!"

My mother continues to scold Katya, telling her just how awful I am, but as I look into her eyes, I see some type of understanding.

My parents decide to place me in the attic, as far away from their other children as possible. It's funny because for as much as my past before a couple of months ago is a void, I don't think I've ever felt particularly close to my family — even before.

There's only ever been one person who's been by my side through thick and thin—my twin, Vanya. And she's the only one who is not afraid to interact with me, even risking our parents' anger if they found out.

To everyone else, I'm just a necessary evil.

What they don't seem to understand is that my behavior isn't intentional. I don't just set out to do harm. It just... happens.

Like a haze covering my mind, I forget about my surroundings and I focus on one object only—my prey. I hone in on my target and everything else falls away. It suddenly becomes only about the unanswered questions.

How many pumps of blood does the heart have left after death? How do organs look from the inside of the body? So many questions, and so many situations to explore.

"Like that, cut through the stomach too," Vanya advises and I take heed, slicing the blade and making a straight cut from sternum to pubis. The fat under the skin is making it hard for me to get to the inside, but as Vanya urges me on, I can only dig the edge of the knife deeper, a sharp sound signaling I've hit bone — the ribs.

One of my father's men had come to bring me food. But just at that time, Vanya had a different idea. While I don't always indulge her, this time she'd pouted at me and I couldn't find it in me to say no to her .

"Why didn't you ask when I killed the first man?" I mutter under my breath. I'd already accidentally killed one man in the morning. It would have been easy enough to perform an experiment then. But when Vanya gets something in her head, it's hard to dissuade her.

"He wasn't interesting." She shrugs, going around me to plop herself on a chair. She's looking curiously at the body, her black eyes focused on the blood pooling on the floor.

It's a condition we both share... this thirst for blood.

I get to work, opening up the chest, the flaps of flesh folded on either side of the body.

"What now?" I look up briefly and Vanya purses her lips, regarding the open cavity with interest.

"The stomach. Let's see what he had for lunch!" She jumps up, her feet connecting with the wood floor and making a harsh sound. Her lips stretch into a wide smile, signaling the excitement is getting to her.

I shake my head slowly, but a smile plays on my own lips.

I tug the stomach out, severing the connective tissue until I can remove it. Placing it on the floor, I take the knife and I make a few incisions, the pouch immediately giving way to the sharpness of the blade, the contents spilling out.

Digestive fluid and bits of undigested food inundate the floor. I move slightly to the right to avoid getting anything on my shoes. Vanya too scrunches her nose once the smell hits, but still, her eyes are glued to the barely recognizable pieces of food.

"Whoever gets the most right wins." She crouches next to me to move the pieces around, trying to make out what they are.

"Sure," I agree, even though we both know she will win. When have I ever not let her win?

We spend the next hour debating what each crumb could be, a green particle proving to be particularly elusive.

"Broccoli," she leans back, confident in her answer.

I shake my head, but I don't say what I'm thinking—broccolini. Instead, I use the knife to move a piece of the stem toward her, knowing she will put two and two together.

Her eyes widen and she smirks at me .

"Broccolini! I win!" She springs up, jumping around the room and gloating about her small victory.

My eyes swing back to the mess next to me, and I drop the utensils. Using my bare hands, I cup the heart, ripping it from the chest. My thumbs are in position and I start pumping, curious how much blood is left inside and how it will react to an outside force.

Blood comes out in spurts, a squeaky sound permeating the air. Vanya and I stare at the poor, abused heart for a moment, before we both start laughing.

"It sounded like a fart." Vanya crouches on the floor, holding onto her belly with one hand and wiping tears from her eyes with the other.

I can't help but join in.

Our jolly time, however, is cut short as we hear the floor creaking.

"Someone's coming!" Vanya immediately composes herself, rising to look around for a hiding place.

She spares me a glance, her finger going to her lips to tell me to keep my mouth shut.

No one can know she's been with me—least of all our parents.

Eyeing the big closet, she opens the door and sneaks inside, leaving me in the middle of a bloody mess.

When my father opens the door, his expression is already resigned as he takes in the disaster.

He doesn't waste any time grabbing me by the nape and dragging me out. I don't react, not even when his fingers dig painfully into my skin.

We make it to the basement, and father flings me to the ground in front of him.

"If you're such a fucking psycho, better put those urges of yours to some good use." He nods to the man strapped to a chair. His face is already busted, purple swelling taking away any semblance of humanity from him.

"Let's see what you've got." My father folds his hands over his chest, taking a step back and looking at me expectantly.

Gazing around, I note a variety of tools on one side, so I take my time to pick one that would suit my needs.

I don't know what Father expects to see, but I'm not about to waste this chance trying to please him. Not when my mind is already focused on my next experiment.

A few steps and I'm in front of the prisoner, a pair of pliers in my hand. I'm quick to open his jaw and take his tongue out, the pliers settling nicely against the piece of muscle. The man barely has time to react before I pull—hard. My strength may not be that of an adult, but with a good gauge of angles, the tongue gives way.

The man writhes in pain as I tighten my fingers on the handle of the pliers and give one last pull, the tongue slipping from the cavity.

Long and with striations of pink and red, the muscle doesn't seem as interesting as I'd first thought.

With a low curse, I fling it to the floor, approaching the prisoner again and forcing his mouth open, curious about the damage.

He's bleeding, the blood pooling in his throat as he's trying his hardest not to choke on it.

The way clear, I'm suddenly curious about the inside of his throat. Grabbing some metal, I prop his jaw open so his teeth won't come clamping down on my skin. Then, folding my hand nicely around a tiny blade, I insert my arm into his mouth, feeling around the warm channel, before going down his throat. My arm is small enough that it fits down his esophagus.

His mouth is almost touching my shoulder, and I give a last push before I feel the edge of the stomach. Releasing the blade from my hand, I maneuver it around and penetrate the wall from the inside, pushing until the tip of the knife reaches the surface.

The man can't even yell in agony, and it must be quite the pain, because I start lifting the knife, continuing to cut through his tissue.

By the time my arm is out of his body, he's dead, his torso a bloody mess of uncoordinated cuts.

Damn!

It's not pretty. Maybe next time I'll do better. I study my mistakes carefully, already forgetting about my father's presence.

I'm startled by a slap on my back, Father's body next to my own as he stares at my work.

"I'll be damned..." he whispers, almost in awe.