Page 147 of Cain
After all these years, I’m finally going to see him.
My trainer. My maker.
I can’t lie; I’m a little tense about it. Stressed, I’d dare to say.
While I was gone, hiding, my cousin trained me as Grayson took the heat and covered for me back home. That man has done more for me than most fathers ever would. Not mine—just … in general. A regular kind of dad.
He paid for my college as if he believed I could walk a straight line. He thought an everyday life might fix something in me. I hated it, but I showed up anywayfor him. I worked jobs I didn’t care about and studied things that meant nothing.
So, by day, I was just another kid with books and bills, trying to look the part. And by night, I was in the dirt with my ex-military cousin, learning how to move like a snake and hit like a beast. Just an animal that learned how to wear a human face.
I owe Grayson a lot. But I owe my cousin way more.
My temper, my ability to kill without a shred of remorse … all of that comes from him. He’s the one who taught me how to handle an axe, and not just for chopping wood. He turned it into an art. Something brutal. Something precise.
After a couple of hours’ drive, I’m finally outside his new house.
House.How pathetic.
“Is this the one, boss?” Landon asks, scanning the place. I nod. He usually drives, but today, I felt like taking the wheel.
I turn off my SUV’s engine, and for a moment, I stare at the church. The place seems quiet and peaceful, just as every church should.
“Do you think he’s hiding here?” he asks again.
“I know he’s here.”
I step outside and take off my sunglasses, scanning the place for potential threats. It seems clear. “Stay here.”
My cousin has done a decent job hiding behind that collar. Playing priest. Pretending he’s something clean. But I know better. I know what he is. He’s a Manson, just like me.
As I inhale my smoke, I raise my eyes and look at the imposing cathedral. The sun is still bright on my head, making my eyes squint as I observe the building.
This church seems too peaceful and pure for someone like me. I’ll probably burn to ashes the moment I step foot into it. Either that, or I’ll contaminate every inch of this giant place.
Here I am, standing at the door of God’s house, ready to drag one of His loyal little servants back into the dirt where he came from.
How foolish of him to think he’s done with the dirt.
I enter the church, and as anticipated, it’s deserted. However, I know he’s here. I know he thinks he’s done with everything that burdens his filthy soul, though he spares no effort to conceal his true nature.
I stroll into the cavernous church and make my way to the right, where I find the confessionals.
I enter the right booth—such irony—and take a seat.
I sit in silence until the small panel slides open with a soft scrape.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit …”
A low chuckle escapes, too hard to hold back. If my stepping into His house is ironic, then his pretending to be a priest is blasphemy. But who am I to judge?
Let’s start with the basics.
“Forgive me, Father, for I’ve sinned,” I say, crossing my legs.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Oh, I wish I could tell you a date, but that’d be a lie. And I hate liars.” I click my tongue. “So I’m gonna say never.”
