Page 1 of Cain
Peace. Serenity. A pause in the chaos.
For a fleeting moment, my mind feels calm. Finally quiet. But peace is a fragile illusion, and I know better than to trust it.
It never lasts.
It never stays.
Three. Two. One.
Gasping for air, I raise myself from the water-filled bathtub. Some might sayfinally.I saythat was close enough.
Two minutes. That’s how much time I need to drown my anger. How long it takes to dissolve my fury so I won’t snap one more time and act like a serial killer.Again.
They say time heals and wounds close. That you can outgrow the pain if you pray hard enough.
Time didn’t heal me. It gave me space to be corrupted.
But under the water, everything seems peaceful. Quiet. There is only me in the universe. A weightless abyss where nothing matters.
I step out of the bathtub and wrap a white cotton towel around my waist.
The mirror is fogged, and I can’t see any reflection in it. My hands almost crack the porcelain sink in their firm grip, and my muscles are still tense as the adrenaline rush courses through my veins. The sinking didn’t help this time. At least, it wasn’t enough.
My body feels heavy, and so does my breathing. My lungs are almost incapable of drawing in air, as if they’re filled with water.
I raise my hand and wipe the fog off the mirror, revealing a man behind it. I wish I could say that I can recognize myself, but I can’t. All I can see is two dark green eyes staring back at me and the two arched brown brows framing them.
Empty. Cold. Merciless.
My tousled and damp dark blonde hair falls around my forehead, dripping droplets of water on my face and body, and somehow, that tickling feeling on my skin seems the only proof that I still feel alive.
Waking up from a nightmare is familiar to me. But as the years have gone by, the feeling I have after a bad dream or a memory of them has changed. It’s darkened.Been corrupted. Just like they corrupted my life. My childhood. My soul.
Now, fury has taken over. The kind of fury that swallows you whole and dissolves you into nothingness. A fury that turns into madness. Sickness. Delirium.
Recently, I’ve found myself able to purge these poisonous feelings from my mind when I see her—especially when I’m able to see her face. Smiling. Talking. Crying. Oh, how I want to slaughter every single bastard who dares to put tears in her eyes.
And so I have done, once or twice.
She doesn’t know it, but that’s not the point. She doesn’t have to know. She doesn’t have to know the depth of my obsession and how my twisted love for her has become dangerous to the people around her.
Have I become paranoid? Perhaps.
Obsessed? Undeniably.
Do I care?
Not at all.
Normal people would call me a stalker. Maybe I am. I just don’t give a fuck.
A knock on the door sounds, interrupting my vain attempt to find just a shred of kindness in my reflection.
“Boss?” Landon’s voice sounds behind the closed door.
I open the door and see him standing straight and puffed, like a soldier waiting to be told he’s a good boy.
“What do you want?” I ask.
