Twist of Cain

"We were going to have a child." The man spoke to Hans.

He was wheelchair bound, an oxygen tank strapped to him like a muzzle. He looked young; it was evident in his boyish face and thick hair. Hair which was all windswept and beautifully golden with some type of ageless character. A strong jaw hanging off of him suddenly; angular like carved stone. Under the scars he was still very much a beautiful man.

He kept his legs under a blanket and his hands at his side, clutching the armrests on his chair as if waiting to be propelled unexpectedly. There was strength behind those arms. Muscle running deeper than all of those wounds.

"I didn't even know I had it back then. Or perhaps it developed, I don't know. I think secretly I probably didn't want to die at the time. Perhaps it transformed the desire for life into something raw. Energy..." He trailed off, unable to finish his thoughts without the vocabulary to support them. His mouth trying to guide the ghosts of theories through his mind.

Hans made a face followed by some noise.

"I'm getting a little ahead of myself," the man said "sorry. It comes to me as it is." The oxygen tank hissed like the lid of a coffin, centuries old.

Between them there were moments of audible, mechanically-driven breath as the man searched for inspiration. But he captured none. He always wished he could talk better than he did, but now he spoke, letting uncultured terms guide his thought. The words were articulated with purpose, and he found them suitable. "It didn't make it. The baby. I was told it was a girl, but I'm not sure. I didn't see anything. The funeral was close-casket. Susan couldn't stop crying. She was always a delicate kind; unable to handle that type of weight. Those days, she just stopped working. She..." breath from the tank cutaway his thoughts and he waved off the notion of a statement with a start.

"I don't know." The blond man continued. "Could you continue after something like that?"

Another pause. The man was straining to even speak; scorched lungs; burned with cancer; but he always healed. Pain that was organ-deep, far under his muscle and mind. The redolence of tears somewhere in his eyes, rheumy and sick and sad. "In the end I think I was the reason behind it. It was my genes, the power. It wouldn't let the baby develop properly. Sealed over any progress. I guess. I don't know. I'm not even sure if we could be the same like that."

The man rose a hand. He carried a corded knuckle through his hair, feeling the sericeous texture hidden within its gold form. With the same hand he pinched the bridge of his nose and brought the palm over his mouth, sweeping the stubble of his chin. Blue eye closed with memory.

"It doesn't heal them all the way." Breaking the silence, he continued. "It doesn't reshape the body; it can't fix bone; I still have scars; my nerves stay damaged, the grip in my right hand is weak because of it." He clutched a loose fist and brought it up for Hans to see, as if he needed evidence for his claims. Hans humored him a glance. The blond man eased the arm back to its provenance.

"Suze. She couldn't take it." Breath. "I couldn't help her; I don't know why I couldn't, the words to help just fell through me. What could you have said in my place? Could there have been something to say?" A long, deep cough shook his voice frail, stealing the thoughts fast. He lurched in his chair at the vehemence of its effect.

In some moments afterwards he picked up his monologue again, swallowing the pain and the heat in his throat."I think she hated me. I think she knew about the Pnumonic; knew it in that half-aware, subconscious way. Like how dogs sense ghosts."

Hans listened to him, uninterrupting; nodding to show his acknowledgement in intervals.

Sometimes the host returned his gesture, unsure why; secretly hoping further for a comment, something beyond the mechanic responses, but he received none. And yet there was a type of feeling in the action; something of compassion. The motions kept him talking despite himself, and soon he was eased. Eased by his guest's warm eyes and biblical ardor; something lovingly human in him. But what kept the man talking was the pain in that facade. Pain of the empathetic; human as well.