Page 35 of Cain
“I saidin.”
I took a slow step back, then another, my body moving on its own. We passed the family portraits on the walls. Those smiling, frozen faces that had never felt like mine. They were never genuine or honest. We passed the living room.
Then we were at my bedroom door. He opened it and motioned inside.
I hesitated. That was one more mistake.
I felt his hand press harder into my wrist, just enough to remind me that he could. That I would do as he said, no matter what.
I stepped inside. The door shut behind me. The lock clicked, making my eyes well up yet again.
I knew how this would go. A day, maybe two, and he’d come back. Or he wouldn’t. Sometimes, it was the whole week. Sometimes longer. He never starved me or hit me; however, that made it worse somehow.
Because it meant he knew exactly what he was doing. He forgot about me and treated me like a dog he simply couldn’t leave dying on its own.
I turned to the window, but it was locked. Of course. I sank onto my bed, curling my fingers into the fabric of my sheets, pressing my pillow against my face to keep from making a sound.
Then I heard footsteps, but not his.
My heart thudded. “Mom?” I whispered.
A pause. Then, finally, her voice was so soft I almost didn’t hear it.
“Go to sleep.”
It wasn’t comfort or sympathy. It was an instruction. A plea for me to make this easier on myself. On her.
Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
She wouldn’t open the door. She never did. She never went against him, not because she was afraid, but because she always saw me as a problem as well.
I lay down, curling into myself, staring at the ceiling, at the nothingness.
And I waited for the time to pass or for something to change.
But I knew it wouldn’t.
They never paid attention and never really cared for me. They never flinched at my screams when I said I wished they had never had me or at least given me up for adoption. It was evident that these people couldn’t love their child.
They couldn’t love me.
As if I wasn’t enough.
As if I wasn’t capable of being loved.
My fists clench, gripping the sheets tighter, just like that night. But the memory is stronger than me.
A whole day has passed—an entire day of thinking and remembering, hating and cursing.
A whole day without seeinghim.He didn’t come to my room, and I avoided going out after evening because I knew he’d be back.
I’m wondering who he is, and how he has so much money and power. He can’t be a celebrity; I’d have known him. I’m guessing he’s an “ordinary” businessman, and I don’t know him because I’m not native. Emily didn’t know him either; she’d have mentioned something. Probably, he’s in the mafia and owns half of the planet, just like we see in the movies.
But on the other hand, the saleswoman at the store where I met him said he reminds her of someone. So inconvenient that she couldn’t remember who.
I still don’t understand why he kidnapped me. Protect me … protect me from whom? And who will protect me from this savage man? What the hell does he want from me?
And this place … it’s like something from a horror movie. Every night, every door locks automatically, and all of his staff remain in their rooms. How can they be okay with it? Don’t they feel like captives as well? Don’t they feel deprived of their freedom?
