Mark of Cain

by Juliet Benson

"Mother… deceased… Father… convict…"

Sweat, grime. He was covered in it. He ran the back of one filthy hand across his forehead, accomplishing nothing but smearing the dirt. Work… Just work, don’t think…

Mother was inebriated again. Storming around the house, his meager wages clutched in her hand, she was yelling, screaming, cussing at him.

"Worthless!" she yelled finally, finishing her slurred speech. Turning suddenly, she flung the money at him. Taken aback, he didn’t have time to protect himself. He flinched when it hit him. One coin struck his eye and he cried out, hands going up to his face.

"Oh, toughen up," She spat bitterly and staggered from the dark room to get another bottle. Jack took his hand from his eye and blinked frantically. If he believed it would have done any good he would have prayed. Prayed to every saint, every deity imaginable. Prayed his eye would be fine. Prayed his father would stay with whichever partner he choose for tonight. Prayed for his mother to pass out drunk. Prayed it would stop. Prayed for real money, money that would stay in his hand. Prayed for a better job. Prayed they would both die. Both of them. Prayed, even, that he would die himself. Tears splattered down his face, leaving a trail in the grime. But they couldn’t wash it away, wash him clean. Odd, they were pouring from both eyes when it was only his right that had suffered from the blow.

"Stop wallowing in your self-pity," he flinched. No, please no, let her be gone… She waved the empty bottle in his direction and lurched toward him.

"Useless… Selfish little twit! Ingrate!" she yelled. Jack retreated against the wall, biting his lip, and tried to stifle his erratic breathing. People only breathed like that when they cried. He couldn’t cry, he was too old. Besides, he’d tried to cry once before, he’d wanted to, but couldn’t. There was nothing in him, no tears, only ache. She slammed the bottle against the wall next to him and broke the bottom. Jagged, green edges sneered at him, baring their teeth. She swung clumsily and collapsed, sliding from the wall to the floor. Jack yelled as the fangs sank into his upper arm. Ripping, tearing his muscles. He fell down next to her, this time making to effort to calm his weeping. It hurt. A red haze covered his vision, something sticky, warm and wet stained the hand he held to his arm. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there.

"Get up!" a coarse voice hollered at him. A large hand grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. His father had large hands. Jack looked down at his own as his father whirled him around, so that his back was to him. Maybe he’d be doomed to always carry a mark from his folks. His hands were large, too… and red, both of them now.

When his father was done with him, he fled from the room. Went outside, to the streets, the home of his heart. If he still had one.