Page 135 of Cain
The night was weird. After I left and came back to my room, the system locked me in, and I have no idea what happened to him. I don’t know if he made peace with his brother, if he killed him, or if Adam harmed him. My God, what am I going to do if Cain … ?
He told me to go to my room tonight because he probably figured it’d be safer for me. But why? Jesus, I need help …
How did this happen, and in such a short period, he becamemy everything? Not that I had much before him. There was only Emily—if you can still call her my friend after whatshe did.
But even if I walked away now, where would I go? Nothing is waiting for me outside this place.
And the truth is, I don’t want to leave. Not anymore. Not now that he’s etched into my skin like a scar I never want to heal.
I should run. I should scream. Instead, I stay, because even when his darkness swallows me whole, it feels like the only place I’ve ever belonged.
I should hate him for it. Maybe I do. But I’d still crawl through hell if it meant staying in his orbit one second longer.
Because whatever this is, it’s mine, and I won’t give it back.
Gosh, I need to go out and find him. Isn’t it still too early, though? Maybe he is still sleeping.
Then, there’s a knock on the door. Is it him?
“Come in!”
“Good morning, Miss Ružicková,” Eleanor says softly.
She’s wearing dark blue pants and a white shirt, with her hair styled in a messy yet polished bun. She doesn’t look as creepy as I think she is.
“Good morning, Eleanor.”
“Mr. Manson wants you to meet him in his office.”
My heart skips at the sound of it. At least that means he’s okay.
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Alright, I need a few minutes to get ready.” I just woke up; I need to look at least decent!
“Please don’t take long,” she says, her gaze vacant and cold.
She wasn’t always like this. Sure, she could be creepy, but she used to be sweet, even a little pretentious in a harmless way. What’s changed?
My eyes land on her arms. “What happened to you?”
She glances down, then quickly hides them behind her back. “Nothing.”
I step closer and gently pull her arms out again.
Her forearms are covered in deep cuts. They’re not along the veins, and it doesn’t look like a suicide attempt. It seems more like self-harm or like someone else did this to her.
She tries to pull away, but I don’t let go.
“How did this happen?” I ask, keeping my voice steady, even though my chest feels tight.
She shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “It’s nothing. I was just clumsy.”
“Clumsy doesn’t leave patterns like this,” I say. “Talk to me.”
She hesitates, lips pressed into a thin line. I wait.
