Page 119 of Cain

“That’s true.”

Her head jerks spasmodically as her face turns red, the pain in her soul taking over.

“You know, sometimes I’d hear them late at night when they thought I was asleep. Whispered fights between them. “‘You should’ve gotten rid of it.’ ‘It wasn’t my choice.’” She mimics their conversation. “It!Not even her!” she snaps, her voice becoming louder. “They never saw me. Not when I cried so hard my throat gave out. Not even when I got sick and laid in bed, burning up, waiting for someone to notice. No one came! And noone ever answered when I asked why. All I wanted was at least a fucking reason!”

She and I have more in common than I ever realized.

It’s not just the brokenness we carry like old scars. It’s the silence. The patience. The resilience.

She breaks into inconsolable sobs. She’s broken, just like me. Undone.

I pull her into my arms and bury her deep into my embrace, trying to drown my urge to fly to Czechia and choke them with my own hands. Such people don’t deserve to breathe. Those people don’t deserve to be called parents. Not by her. Not by anyone.

She needs to understand that I’ll never leave her. Never turn my back on her. I’ll always be there—in her life, in her dreams, in every trembling breath she takes. She’s mine to protect, mine to own, mine to break—if I must.

Forever.

Then, she raises her reddish, glistening eyes and looks at me. “Your mother was proud of you. It wasn’t your fault that she died.”

My breathing grows more erratic as I hear her say the words. I never realized I was blaming myself for her death. I knew it deep down; I could just never put it into words.

“Pray to her, Cain. Go to her grave,” she whispers, her bright eyes locked onto mine.

I run my fingers over her wet cheek and wipe her tears away. And as her words fade, I finally see that some prayers are just the beginning of the end.

Iwant to see him. I don’t know why, but I feel an invincible need to see him. My spine is tingling, as if something invisible is pushing me to go and find him in his room. I know he’s in his room at this hour. He’s not always away after he comes back from his work, and lately, he’s not there very often either. That’s weird for him, but for some reason, I can’t complain. For some reason, I feel safe when he’s around. Safer than I feel when he’s not.

Why did I tell him all these things, though?

Perhaps they’re true, and I’m trying to fool myself, too?That might be thecase.

I make up my mind to go to his room and find him. I linger outside his door for a while and hesitate. Should I knock or not? He never does, as if my privacy doesn’t matter to him.

That’s a lie—lately, he knocks.

Besides, he’s different these days. He’s more … civilized.

Maybe I’ve changed, too.

Ugh, who am I trying to fool? I’ve changed a lot, and I hate to admit it, but I’ve come to like him. I want him more than I thought was possible.

Still, though, he won’t like it if I don’t knock, but I’ll act the way he used to. I’ll barge into his room like an asshole.

So, I do. I open the door and walk forcefully inside. I don’t know what I expected to find. Him smoking? Thinking? Scrolling on his phone? Jacking himself off?

I don’t see him anywhere, yet something tells me he’s here. What the hell is this feeling?

I stroll through his big bedroom, darting my eyes around, hoping to find some hints of where he might be. His room, contrary to mine, is painted in dark tones, just like the rest of the house. Dark, nearly black, but not in a suffocating way. His house exudes modernism and elegance, just like him, reflecting his refined taste.

Ahead of me, there’s the bathroom door.Last chance.

I walk up to it and hold the knob in my palm. The creeps on my spine intensify without knowing the reason.

I finally find the courage to twist the knob and open the door.

The bathtub ahead of me is filled with water, and he …

Oh my God, he’s submerged!