crave | 16+

XLI

ELIJAH

I STALK CLOSER TO the bleeding man. Jean Miller. Last descendant of the Miller's. Something Cain promised his father on his deathbed that he'd get rid of. A bloodline he'd end. And here I stand, with an axe in my hand, and a bleeding Miller.

I place the axe on my shoulder, the blade facing upward. Jean looks at me, and if only his glare was enough to kill me. Sadly, it isn't.

"He'll kill you, for stealing this opportunity from him," Jean estimates, obviously in a poor attempt to have me spare his life. Little does he know, he's been on my list to get rid of. Cain doesn't bother with these kills, unless it's someone who's wronged him or his wife personally. Jean hasn't; he was just born into the wrong family. Bad luck.

But I can't have Jean knowing that. So instead I say, "Let him kill me. I have nothing to lose."

I swing the axe after Jean, once more, nicking his lower arm. He cusses in french, before squirming away from me. He backs into a corner, and hisses at his amateur mistake. Dragging the bloody axe along the wooden floors, I cage him into the corner.

"Please," he pleads. How I love when they beg. A smile plays on my lips, as I watch the fear on his face.

I tsk at him. "Save your last breath, Miller." Tapping my finger to my forehead, I continue; "there is nothing in here" –moving the finger from my head to my heart– "or here. I won't spare you. Save the last piece of dignity you have, even if it leads you to death."

"I-I sneaked out, even though my adoptive mother told me to stay put," he hurriedly says. "She doesn't know where I am, man, please don't do this to her. What if it were your son!"

The mere idea of me having to raise a child, and a son for the matter, causes my blood to run cold. But only for a minute. I smile again at Jean, shaking my head. "Good thing you aren't my son then."

I don't let him say another word. The axe slices his head off perfectly. Blood splatters onto my face, I run my tongue along the metallic taste, before turning on my heel. I walk back toward my car, and throw the axe into the trunk, before taking a seat into the driver's seat. The sound of my cell ringing slices through the air, and catches my attention.

Grabbing my phone, I see the unsaved number, and answer. I don't say a word, as I wait for the other line to make the first move. In all secrecy, I anticipate her voice, and I despise myself for it.

"This is Devina Baqri, am I speaking to Elijah?"

A sigh escapes my lips. For fuck sake. "Yeah, this is him. How may I assist you, Baqri?" I reply in a bored tone. I can hear the girl hesitating on the other side, but alas, she speaks, freeing me from the silence.

"I'm just calling to inform you that the psycho-therapy will begin Monday. Are there any ways you'd like me to approach Mr. Christ? Or is there anything he may be sensitive to? Any triggers?"

A dry laugh edges out of me. Fucking Josephine. Always there to help, always there to mend, always there to fix, always just fucking there, haunting me in my head, in my dreams, everywhere. Of course she'd ask her friend to help my brother. Of course.

"I'd like you to enter with a loaded gun, and plant a bullet right through his skull."

Before she can retort, I hang up the phone, and bang my fist against the steering wheel, the realisation hitting me. No matter how many bodies I take, or how many heads I detach from their bodies, she'll always be there in my head. The image of her kissing my brother will always be there. 7 days. I haven't been home, heard from her, or seen her in 7 days, and it's making me as insane as I feel.

But at the same time the careless demeanour is playing nicely into my life as it is. The list of people in debt to the Familia is already long, and with no distractions I'm getting my job done. A maniac-like laugh leaves my lips, and I lean back in the seat. No matter how hard I try to be good, to be loving and caring, it isn't enough.

Because the one person I worshipped, the one girl I've ever put on a pedestal betrayed me. And despite that, I still turn the car on, and make a turn, so that I'm driving toward the penthouse she's sleeping in.

. . . 
HECK YEAH