2. Cain
Cain
The glass was still clouded with the heat of Julian’s palm, a smudge of imperfection that irritated me.
Sentimentality was a parasite my brother had carried since the womb, and lately, it was gorging itself on his spirit.
I took a linen handkerchief from my breast pocket and wiped the pane clean, erasing the last trace of his touch. I preferred my view unobstructed.
The move to this dead town wasn’t an act of mercy.
It was a calculated decision. Julian had whined about the “necessity” of caring for our sick grandmother, pointing out that our family wealth could have staffed a private hospital for her.
He never understood that our poor grandmother was merely our camouflage.
She provided the narrative: the “Blackburn Boys,” the grieving grandsons returning to their roots.
It gave us a fortress and a mask. When the old woman finally stopped breathing ten months later, the town’s sympathy became our permanent shield.
I didn’t stay because of the inherited manor; I stayed because the proximity to June was a non-negotiable.
When I stood in the back of that stone chapel. I was looking for a specific frequency of vulnerability. I saw it in the third pew. The way the stained glass fractured the light, creating that golden circle around her head, it wasn’t a halo. It was a target.
She was a girl being erased by her own life.
Parents who viewed her as a burden, a community that looked past her.
Neglect creates a hollow space, and I knew I could fill that space with whatever I chose.
She was the perfect, unblemished vessel for the Ritual.
I didn’t choose her because she was “special”, I chose her because she was available for the taking.
Julian is a necessary complication. He plays the role of the doting hero with a terrifyingly natural grace, weaving a gilded cage of poetry and lies.
He thinks he’s being exactly what she needs when he borrows those dusty poetry books from the library.
He thinks he’s being a Saint of sorts when he sits in the garden and listens to her babble about her paintings and her day at school.
I allow it. In fact, I encourage it.
The Ritual requires a sacrifice that is whole, devoted, and willing.
Terror is a primitive, unstable fuel, it burns bright and then consumes the subject.
But devotion.. Devotion is a slow, steady burn.
Julian provides the love that fattens the calf for the slaughter.
Every time he reads her Annabel Lee, he is just adding another lock to her door.
He thinks he’s keeping a secret from me, but he doesn’t realise he is merely my most effective instrument.
I’ve watched him stare at her, captivated, when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ve heard him laugh at her juvenile little jokes. He’s becoming addicted to the girl he thinks he’s saving. I will let him keep his delusions for now. It keeps him compliant.
Julian still haunts me about that one night before we moved, the night he found me in a room painted with blood.
He called it a nervous breakdown, and maybe he was right.
That blood was the down payment on our eternity.
I have already paid the price in advance, stripping away the useless parts of myself, like mercy, hesitation, and regret, to make room for the power to come.
June thinks we are her salvation from a broken home. She didn't escape her cage. She was just moved to a new one.
“Six years, Julian,” I whispered to the empty room.
“Don’t starve her of her innocence too quickly, the fall is much sweeter when it’s slow.”