Page 82 of Cain
“Do you think I’mthatsavage?”
“I do.”
He stands up and puts his hands in his pants pockets. “Well, you’re wrong.” I raise an eyebrow, unsure whether I believe him or not. “I didn’t kill him. I’m not some mindless animal.”
“Then why do you keep me here?” My voice raises. “Huh? Answer me! For once, be completely honest and tell me the truth!”
His eyes linger on mine for a few more seconds, intensifying my anger. “Do you believe in ghosts, ružicko?”
“What?”
“Do you?”
My eyes roll back involuntarily. “No.”
“I don’t either,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on me. “But lately, I’ve started to. Because if ghosts aren’t real, then I have to believe I’m losing my fucking mind.”
“What do you mean?” My anger dissolves as I realize I have a bigger issue to deal with right now.
His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he wants to do something instinctively. I bet he wants to light up a smoke. I hope he doesn’t … although when it comes from him, the smell doesn’t bother me so much.
Instead of caving in his habit, he exhales sharply and presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
“I killed him. I swear I did.” He sighs.
“Who?”
“My father.” He raises his dark green eyes and gazes at me.
“What did you just say?”
“I killed that motherfucker!” he shrills. “There’s no way he survived the fucking explosion!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I made sure,” he mutters, his eyes darting all over the room. “I made sure.” His hands tremble. His fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He shakes his head, the words tumbling out. “I made sure …”
But then, his brows furrow, and his mouth tightens. “Fuck, I didn’t make sure!” he hisses through gritted teeth. He pants, almost choking on the rage and panic clawing at his insides. “I was so dead set on ending him. I was so fucking sure I had it! I thought I had him right where I wanted him, and I was a goddamn fool. I thought I’d end him with a simple bomb in his car,” he growls, turning red. “I was a fucking fool. A stupid fool.”
He staggers back, his hands pulling at his hair like he can’t escape the madness of his mind. “How could I be so fucking careless?”
For the first time since he brought me here, he seems so … vulnerable. Scared, I’d dare to say. But why?
“Why did you kill him?” I ask, choosing my words perfectly, aiming to get under his skin and make him confront it all without losing control.
“Because he deserved it!” he spits, widening his eyes even more. “He was worse than my brother. My brotherwas a lying, manipulative, twisted bastard, but my father—oh, my father was pure evil. He had nothing to win from me, and yet, he took everything.”
His voice cracks as he keeps his gaze on the ground now, refusing to lift it.
“What did he do?”
“He wasn’t violent. Violence was too simple for him, you see. He never beat me or shouted. He just hollowed me out in ways my brother never could.”
I don’t talk. He needs to relive every moment of it. I know. To some extent, I feel what he feels.
“That’s what you deserve,” he growls, his eyes vacant as he repeats the words his father told him. “You don’t deserve to die. You deserve to be tortured. Every single day of your pathetic and meaningless life. A life that this cheating, lying whore gave you. I’m generous enough to let you live in my house and carry my name. But that comes with a price.”
“That’s what he told you?” I ask, my eyes welling up. My dad is cruel and cold, but nothing can compare to the monster he describes.
