𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐂𝐀𝐈𝐍 [ 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐧 ]

Cain never had the chance to be soft. He was born holding shards of glass between bleeding fingers. He wore grief and anger like waterlogged clothes, dragging his head under the current until he was unable to breathe.

They sky wept for him, it's tears coming down in the form of rain and thunder. It cried for the loss of his innocence, the loss of a child.

Sometimes he needed to be alone, in the quiet of his room. The world outside of his room was too overwhelming, and didn't exist to him until he opened the door.

He sat on the dusty wooden floorboards of his room, his pants loose and unzipped at the fly. His shirt was being washed, and it required too much energy to find a new one, so he decided to leave it. The thin, silver chain around his neck dangled in the air as he leaned over and twirled a long, stick of charcoal through his slender fingers. It covered his hands in black powder, soaking up all moisture until his hand was dry and rough.

Cain curled his lip contemptuously at the sheets of sketching paper on the floor. Drawing faces with charcoal was hard. He found it difficult to create sharp shadows without making the subject of his drawings look ghostly and haunted, and often he found himself smudging his drawings with the side of his hand.

And so he sat alone in his room, sketching a nameless figure during ungodly hours. He was studying the proportions of the face when he heard a muffled tapping sound on his window.

Cain whipped his head to the opaque window, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. It was much too late for it to be a common bird, but it couldn't be a human either. His room was on the fifth floor, the floor right below Hugo's. There was only a thin ledge surrounding his window and it was not possible or anyone to scale the wall and walk along that ledge, especially not in this weather.

A mass of black shadow appeared behind the window.

The stick of charcoal made a clattering noise as he dropped it.

Cain slowly stretched over to his right, keeping his eyes trained on the window. He felt around until his fingertips met the cold metal of his gun. It felt safe and secure in his hand, anchoring him to the real world.

He didn't care what happened to him, he was far too gone for that. He cared about the people behind him, his family living behind the walls.

A wave of fury roared within him, and he stoked the fire, coaxing it higher and higher.

Cain flung open the window, aiming his gun with a steady arm.

"Who the f-" He began.

"It's me!" Someone shrieked. "Put the gun down, it's me!"

It was none other than Layla, clinging to the window ledge like a frightened kitten. She was soaked to the bone from the rain and was violently shivering, her clothes heavy with water.

"W-what?" Cain breathed in confusion, unable to comprehend what was happening.

"The g-gun, put it down." Her teeth chattered so hard she could barely get her words out of her mouth. "Please d-don't shoot me."

"Oh." Cain said dumbly, putting on the safety and tossing it onto the bed.

She heaved a bag into his room, the lumpy satchel landing with a loud thud. His heart stuttered as she nearly slipped, her hands clawing desperately at the window sill.

"Take my hand." He demanded.

"No."

Cain scowled. Forever stubborn, until the very end.

"I'm trying to help you, I'd rather not see you become a bloody mess outside my window."

She opened her mouth, the words sharp and ready on her tongue, when there was a particularly loud clap of thunder. Her foot slipped on the ledge. Pure fear struck Cain, and he surged forward.