Page 81 of Cain
And now, here I am on my bed—my bed—drowning in feelings I can’t even explain. Maybe it’s because I finally understand the depth of that word—not for me, but for him.
Mine.
Perhaps it’s because the truth is clawing its way up my throat, whispering what I’ve been too afraid to admit: this is what I wanted all along.
Someone to consume me, to tear me apart and still cradle the ruins like they’re something sacred.
Someone to need me so much they’d rather shatter me into pieces than ever let me slip away.
Someone to care about me. Unconditionally. Madly. Insanely. And the more I hide it, the weaker to resist I become.
How sick does this make me?
A knock on the door makes me jump in surprise. I hesitate for a few seconds, debating who it could be, but eventually, I speak.
“Yeah?”
The door opens.
“Hey.” It’s him. Why did he knock? He never knocks.
My heart jumps. I don’t speak; I merely look away, trying to hide my feelings once again. But why does his presence make me feel so strange? Like a shiver crawling up my spine?
His footsteps draw nearer, and suddenly, my breathing becomes shallow.
Slowly, he takes a seat on the bed, facing me, and lets out a deep breath through his nostrils.
“This is for you,” he murmurs.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see him extending a ruby-red rose.
I don’t react. I don’t reach for the rose. Instead, I lift my gaze, locking eyes with him. How can someone be such a two-faced bastard? One moment, he makes metremble in fear, and the next, he feels like the safest place I’ve ever known.
“It reminds me of you,” he exhales. “You, like the rose, are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Elegant. Radiant. You seem fragile, but only because you’ve wrapped yourself in thorns, begging someone to bleed for you.”
“But you’re not afraid of getting pricked.”
“I am not, little rose.” He sets the flower on the beige, sand-colored duvet, its velvety petals brushing against the back of my hand.
“Thorns weren’t my choice,” I mutter, feeling my eyes well up as I recall all the awful nights I spent locked in my room, neglected by my parents.
He lets out a soft chuckle and looks away. “No one chooses their thorns,” he says quietly. “But you wear them so well. It’s why I find you so fascinating. You’ve been broken, but you’re still standing.”
“Just like you.”
His response is a soft hum, and his face turns solemn. I can tell he doesn’t like talking about his past, and from what I’ve heard, I understand why. It still haunts him because of the awful things he’s been through.
Sometimes, it seems we’re more alike than I thought. Just like he said, we’re both the unloved child. The ones cast aside, left to wither in the neglect of others, forgotten and broken by those who should’ve cared. Left to fend for ourselves in a world that never wanted us. It’s as if our existence was nothing more than an accident. A burden. Something to be overlooked and erased.
Maybe…
He had his mother’s love even for a while. I had none.
He had something to lose. I had nothing at all.
But I didn’t turn wild and butcher, threaten, or kidnap people.
“Is the cop alive?” I ask.
