Cain and Pierrots wife

He was not made for good things, because he was bad. Cain knew this, he must have known this. Why else would the words have left his mouth? 

I won’t regret this. 

I will. 

The ride back with Giuseppe is quiet. The butler prodded only three times. Three times was the number, Cain worked in threes, rules of threes, rules of threes were good. But Cain was not good, because he was bad. Why else? 

Red flag. 

“Master Cain—”

“No questions.”

Strike one. They had already been driving for twenty minutes. Giuseppe did not question the order the first time, and this comes less from defiance and more of a wiggling inquisition. As if Cain was a bomb hiding behind the panel, needing to be maneuvered loose.

“Did you not enjoy the camp?”

“I said no questions. Drive, Giuseppe.”

Strike two. This time he left only three breaths between the questions. Rules of three. 

“What about—?”

“Giuseppe, please.”

Strike three, and Cain was out. Isn’t it funny how that works? His grip tightened and loosened on the knife sitting in his lap. Once and twice and three times. Then four, five, six, seven, eight.

He felt like fucking Count von Count. Just dial Transylvania 1, 2, 3, 4, 5! 

Who’s calling now? 

This wasn’t funny. There were no rules to this. If there were, he set them. Boundaries, the ghost boy would call them. They’re important in therapy, in relationships. Relationships he did not have. For the better.

The world slid past the car like syrup, slow and murky despite the summer season buzzing in the air. The limo was quiet. Cain’s eyes slid closed, hearing cicadas buzz and animals begin to wake, then to road, people, all that came and went in this great disgusting world. 

Well, no use dwelling on it. 

Cain straightened, stretched out his wrists. The blade of his knife flashed in the light, and he sighed. 

“Are we there yet?”

There was still a shroud hanging around his words. Something haunting them, sick and coughing. He shrugs it off, he shrugs it off, he shrugs it off. 

“Almost, Sir.” Giuseppe’s words were stilted and professional, just the way Cain liked them. 

“Good.” He said. He resisted the urge to say it two more times. 

The bus would be heading back now. Something dark moved in the corner of Cain’s vision. He shook his head to clear it, mark on his neck aching fiercely as he did. None of that, not now. He was sick of it always stinging and singing at the worst times, making his teeth itch as if to dive and tear into something. Someone. 

Even kissing her forehead, he wanted to bite. Three times, good things come in threes. 

Him, Abel, her. Him, Abel, Florian. Him, her, Florian. Onwards. One of them is the odd one out. 

Her, Florian, Abel. 

“Are we there now?” He asks, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“Almost, Master Cain.”

Cain bit back a yawn—Impolite.—and sat up straighter. His phone was buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out for the first time since getting in that limousine and finally checked it. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting. Her caller ID appeared, disappeared as it rang through, and appeared again. Almost obsessive, something that would drive Abel up the wall and fawn his ego at the same time. Cain let it ring through again. 

Messages between them. 

First: Hey, where are you? Are you okay?

Then: Cain, this isn’t funny. Where did you go? Did you seriously leave?

And finally: I can’t believe you did this. We had to talk. I’m going to meet you at your house when we get back. 

So quick to jump to anger. What if he had been kidnapped? Held hostage by that cop she demanded they keep alive? He wasn’t, but what if he had been? She would feel dumb, then. As if sitting in a car and watching all those blue-or-green messages sit waiting, unanswered. Only a corpse on the other line. 

The concern melted away into anger. He had known it would, and he was right. All one had to do was find the right buttons to push. In a way, it made him go lax with relief. That was the worst part over, then. Too much, too close, too…icky. She’d see it in time. Better this way, really. 

Another beep of a message. 

You’re a bad person sometimes, did you know that?

He scoffed. No shit. Serial killer is a bad person? Of course he is. What the fuck else could he be? He always knew she looked at him lower for it, but that was just pathetic. 

Something zipped and stung under his skin. His teeth hurt, no, worse, his throat ached. Clogged no matter how hard he swallowed, in that funny-stupid way that meant he was—weak.—about to cry. Swallow once, twice, three times. Hit back. Hit back.

His finger pressed against the cool screen, bringing him through the song and dance until he reaches the block button, and hits it once. 

There. No more tears. That’s better. 

His eyes drifted shut again, hand twitching on his knife handle. Only once, twice, no three times. There were no rules to this, no fairness. No fairytale, no love story. She can go run off with Abel and that ghost boy. See if he cares. He doesn’t care. No, no he does not care. 

Fuck.

He won’t care. He’ll take this knife and carve out this god forsaken heart if he fucking needs to, he can and he will. He will, he will, he will. He’s going to fucking do it. 

“We’re here,” Giuseppe said. Cain’s hand found the latch of the door and all but sprawled out of it onto the mansion’s—Pathetic.—gravel driveway. He fought a brief and valiant battle with the seatbelt before it snapped loose, and he stood and dusted himself off. 

“Don’t disturb me,” he ordered Giuseppe. The butler hardly flinched, barely looked taken aback by the ice underlying Cain’s tone. It sung a familiar tune. 

“Of course, Sir,” Giuseppe said. Cain scowled and moved to the front door. Through the near-abandoned place, up the stairs, into his room, onto his bed. 

His phone was silent. All of it, silent.