Page 169 of Cain
A dirty plastic container behind the altar, next to a broken crucifix. A gallon of pure paraffin lamp oil. Flammable as hell.
I walk up to it, grab it, twist off the cap, and take a whiff. The smell of absolution.
Katerina is still watching me, drenched in blood, her hair red from it, no longer blonde.
He is crawling, trailing blood across the floor like a slug. His mouth keeps talking, choking out some prayer or apology. He can cry to whatever god he wants. No one is listening. He should’ve learned by now that God doesn’t answer from inside these walls. And He sure as hell won’t save him from me. Not when I am the one dragging him to the grave.
I grab him by the collar and yank him upright, my cigarette dangling from my lips. He still fights me—I give that to him—but I slam him against the altar. His eyes go wide when he sees the bottle.
“No,wait?—”
“What’s the matter, Daddy? Afraid of fire?”
I tilt the canister and pour it all over him, drenching him from head to toe.
“Cain, wait. Please, don’t do this,” he sobs, praying like it’s gonna make a difference. “No, not again …”
I suck the smoke and remove it from my lips.
“Not again, you say. Funny … almost word for word what I used to scream at you and that obedient little son of yours.‘Let me go. Please, just let me go.’But no, neither of you ever listened. And now look how the tables have turned.”
“I’m sorry,” he stammers through missing teeth. “No, no, no, please, Cain.”
Cain …
Some names carry pride.
Others carry shame.
Mine carries history. Not the kind they tell in church or bedtime stories. It carries a history of a deranged mind and a corrupted soul. A name that becomes the bane of those who speak it.
I toss him down and drag my cigarette one last time to ignite its flame again.
“See you in hell.”
I flick the cigarette into his lap.
For a half second, nothing. Then whoomph.
The flames eat him alive, and this euphoric feeling of revenge consumes me once more.
The chaos instantly stops. As if they know there’s no reason to keep fighting. But Judas and Adam are insatiable and execute every last one of them anyway.
I watch Wade’s burned sack of meat until it stops moving. I need to be sure this time. Only then do I turn my back on the fire and walk away from it.
Katerina is still there, waiting for me.
I extend my hand, inviting her to come with me. And she does. She extends her blood-soaked hand and rests it on mine.
“You did it,” she mutters, blinking slowly. “You can find your peace now.”
People might say I was born with blood on my hands. That I was marked before I ever sinned.
They’re fucking right.
I didn’t fall from grace. I was never given it.
But she’s still here. Here with me. Here for me. Mine. All mine.
