Emperor of Mayhem

09

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I numbed my anger for a second or two, pretended it didn't constantly hurt every time the reality of dad carelessly handing me over to some strange man to save his own life hit me, and decided to miss him because no matter what, he was still my father, I would l say I missed the way we laughed at meaningless things on billboards, crack humourless jokes and play I spy as he drove me to school.

I missed it madly with every ride in Mr Varkov's stupidly flashy cars. Heavens, each silent drive to school with him seemed to be more depressing than the last, making me wish I could fix things with a snap of my finger and return every aspect of my life to the simple and gun-free life it used to be. Just me, dad and the cricket behind the television.

Seriously, carpooling with Mr Varkov could make one lose the littlest of sanity they had left. The driver wouldn't speak, even if it was a small profanity thrown at the driver of the car who literally left his lane to crash into his. Mr Varkov wouldn't curse, or utter a word that showed his displeasure even though the very obvious sway of the car was making the steaming coffee in his cup swoosh around. And since I couldn't be talking to myself, I just sat there watching how he would manage to steady the cup in his hand without as little as a drop, and wondering still, why exactly he must always come to the car with a cup of coffee every day. The man had so many weird habits I couldn't even keep up.

"Mr Varkov." I softly called when the car regained its stamina, the coffee successfully not spilling over him or the polished leather of the chair.

"Mr Varkov." I tried again when he didn't answer for the first time, just sitting there staring out the window, sipping gracefully at the coffee which was already halfway down. He would empty it before we would even reach the city bank we always passed on the way. I knew he would.

"Mr Varkov." I sang, dragging the consonant at the end. That seemed to provoke a reply.

"Just speak." came his very monotone voice with a command to it though. Geez, what was his problem anyway?

"Did you um, go to school? Like are you educated?"

I couldn't believe after much thought overnight, this was the stupid question that came out of my mouth. ButII needed a conversation that didn't include guns staring at me or bodies dropping from left, right and center. So this would just do for now.

"I don't grab. Have I been sounding illiterate to you or something?"

He had finished the remaining half of the coffee before he found it in him to grant me a reply. His face now averted from the window, though staring ahead, not at me. I guessed a glance my way was a luxury right now.

"No..." I trailed off. I should have probably ransacked my head for a better question.

"Graduated with a first class degree in criminology and forensic studies back In Harvard," he began, pride loosely inhibited, "Did masters in Human Psychology and got a doctorate degree in Philosophy."

My jaws dropped to the floor.

"W-what?" I sputtered, almost choking, "Like, are you kidding me? You have a doctorate degree? Like you went to school to a PhD level?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." He gave me a quick glance, then looked away again.

"No wonder your English is so polished. And you don't seem to have that aggression in Russians tone when they converse," I commended, "But wait, how then did you end up as a serial killer with your doctorate degree?"