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It had been that way the night of the shouting. John's mother was away visiting her sister, and the child's nanny had washed and settled him into bed for the night — although with none of the customary care that was usual.There had been a stiffness in her aspect, that evening, a preoccupation. She hadn't even bothered washing behind John's ears (for which he was secretly glad).She tucked him into his bed and gave him a formal peck on the cheek before quenching the lamp and closing the door.And there was The Face at the window, looking at him, illuminated by the moon above.Then the screaming started.John looked towards the door and could hear the nanny and something else, a strange strangling sound, coming from somewhere within the house."Will you shut up!" he heard his father say, and then there was silence.The boy turned back to The Face, and looked at it, wonderingly, waiting for it to speak, but it remained motionless and speechless; in precisely the same old way it had. I am a control freak until I am not.Chapitre 2 Far from the realm of my digested thoughts, this is what happened when I met Master in the flesh. A Patrick Bateman, in his corporate accoutrement, he appeared as if out of nowhere. He greeted me politely, if not coolly. I couldn’t help but notice that his cherubim face jarred with the rest of his presence and demeanour. It was confusing. It only served to make him psychotic in my eyes, as if it were perfectly plausible, nay natural, to expect a moment of kindness immediately followed by a moment of utmost cruelty, exquisite yet frightening cruelty, from that figure that loomed over me. Anything else wouldn’t have made sense. Only because I can just make sense of it now, he lulled me into a false sense of security as we sipped coffee and spoke about the mundanities of life. Between us was a square-shaped table and his propensity to speak about everything in a calm, composed manner. I couldn’t concentrate. I found myself confused at the.
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