1 — Buried
----------------------------------------
An angry hiss was buzzing in his skull. Like a sick cross between TV static and a horde of disturbed hornets. It drowned out all other thought, leaving only those damnable words ringing in his ears. It’s a waste of money. His future. A waste of money. Says the one who blows it all on alcohol. What would you even do with it anyway? Oh, nothing much. Just secure a job good enough that he could actually hope to live comfortably, and maybe even support a family.
A dismissive voice briefly cut through the noise. You, support a family? No degree will help with that.
But Cain was too angry to acknowledge that particular truth. In the pouch of his hoodie, he repeatedly twirled the folded pocketknife. Greedy, lazy hypocrites! The hissing grew louder, creeping into his blood and causing a horrible itch under his skin. He wound through the filthy alleyways he knew this town for at an agitated pace. But nothing happened. The real world didn’t care about tropes, and it wasn’t about to drop a mindlessly hostile thug in his lap just so he could vent his frustrations. No, that sounds too violent. I simply want to… redirect my anger. Cain’s halfhearted protest did little to cleanse the malice from his thoughts.
Eventually, without thinking too much about it, he changed course. Grimy brick and asphalt gave way to worn-out pavement, and soon that too gave way to rough footpaths. Cans and plastic bottles were half-embedded in the ground every few meters, along with other discarded waste materials. The surrounding grass was pale and patchy, as if strangled by the foreign contamination — but it was probably just that they were approaching winter. Mostly. Green little shits had it coming, anyway. The particular subspecies of grass that grew where Cain lived had thick, tough roots for water retention. That came with the unfortunate hazard of extra tripping hazards where the roots rose from the soil. Or maybe this particular grass just doesn’t like me.
Despite the rather bleak landscape surrounding him, getting away from the noise of the glorified gas station people called a town had already been helping his mood. His anger was somewhat diminished, like a boiling pot that had lost steam. Further corroborating this was that his train of thought was now capable of being hijacked by grass, of all things. Lily would have laughed her ass off if she could’ve heard that bit. Maybe I would’ve laughed too.
Cain chose not to look at the buildings behind him. Instead, he fixated on the sun; it hung low, but not enough to turn red just yet. If this time of year didn’t have the effect of seemingly draining the color out of everything, this would be the day’s golden hour. Under the present circumstances, though, he felt his ability to appreciate it would have been limited anyway.
I’ll… find a way. His mind flashed back to the cruel words of his mother, his gut twisting at the memory. I don’t need their help to succeed.
With a sigh, Cain finally released his grip on the knife.
----------------------------------------
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“—are fine, but the problem is how many assignments you’ve missed. Your chances of—”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“—some of your teachers for extra credit opportunities, but there’s only so much you—”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“—know teenagers need to be independent, but asking your parents to cover the—”
TICK. TICK. TICK.
“—how much potential you have, it would be a shame not to take any of the—”
“Tick,” interrupted the clock.
Cain’s patience ran out before the man’s lungs did. He abruptly rose from his seat and made for the door.
“Wh—Hey! This is an important conversation, Cain. Sit back down.”
“No.” Without another word, he left Mr. Herth gaping in his cheap office chair. The walls bled together in a surreal fusion of dull white paint and multicolor splotches of posters. The faces he passed looked vaguely annoyed as he did so, seemingly displeased by his speed. They can all fuck themselves. He couldn’t care less whether he inconvenienced someone right now. All he cared about was getting away from here. There weren’t many better places he could be, but neither were there many worse. His only stop was to grab his bag on the way out.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
I know you meant well, old man, but you’re not helping.
Walking through the doors, Cain saw students piling into buses and cars like rabid dogs. The main difference, really, was that rabid dogs tended to smell better. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. Still don’t want to sit next to the soccer team. He would normally take the bus with everyone else, but he wasn’t in the mood to be buried alive today. He’d rather just walk the twelve-ish miles and use the extra time to clear his head. Recently, it’d been more difficult to keep his thoughts in line. The more he lost focus, the more he’d lose control. Can’t allow that.
As he walked, the number of students around him gradually thinned. Soon, he was alone on the side road that gave him the quickest path back to his house. Cracks and potholes riddled the aged asphalt. The old road, like many things, seemed steadfastly determined to fall apart. Only when the school and its surroundings were finally below the horizon did he slow down, beginning to take deep breaths. As Cain began to calm down, his thoughts ordered themselves.
Mr. Herth was right, you know. You’ll never get into college like this.
He let out a small sigh and kicked a loose chunk of asphalt off the road, sending it clattering off into the grass.
I mean, what would it change anyway? Having a diploma won’t fix things.
He knit his brow, bitterness seeping through his expression.
Your family life is royally fucked, and you have no friends to rely on.
A strange, dark feeling washed over him.
A better job isn’t worth much if a single bad stroke of luck will be enough to ruin you anyway.
As Cain realized the futility of his efforts, a smaller, analytical voice managed to pin down the dark feeling.
“Those grapes are sour anyway,” he chuckled mirthlessly.
----------------------------------------
It was nearly evening now, and Cain was meandering about in the grassy wastes outside the Town. He refused to acknowledge that it had a name, and did his utmost to forget it entirely. The Town didn’t deserve a place in his heart or his mind. Nor did Mother. Nor did Father. Nor did Stepfather. If he could only erase them entirely, the world would be so much brighter. But he couldn’t do that. So instead, he’d try to bury their memory as deep as he could, and place them behind so many walls they’d suffocate.
That would have to do.
Ah, but he had to go home soon. His Mother would undoubtedly have been called by the school, and have a whole slew of new colorful nicknames for him once he returned. It was funny, really. She was so uncaring for his education, right up until he did something that even slightly inconvenienced her. He idly turned the folded knife over in his fingers.
Everyone seemed to collectively refuse to understand the world around them. The world’s churches called each other liars. The world’s governments called each other liars. The world’s peoples called each other liars. And I’m part of the problem for feeling like I’m the only one who understands things. It was a horrible, terrible cauldron of blind judgement in which all were found guilty. And it was time for him to go home; to throw himself back into the stew.
You don’t have to go home.
Cain froze in place. What?
Just use it.
His gaze fell to the knife in his hand — supposedly his grandpa’s old knife.
Click.
The knife’s blade looked back at him through his own eyes, and they looked… sad. Sad, but too tired to change it. The world went still around him; grass stopped swaying, birds no longer cried, and the wind stopped dead in its tracks. Cain looked around, and thought the world looked awfully dead from here. Grass was pale and patchy, trees were withered and bare, and the sky was a dull white void. A voice in his head whispered sweetly, telling him what a wonderful day it would be to lay down and dream a pleasant dream. For a long while, he simply stood in the open field, letting the whispers envelop him like a cool blanket. But another voice broke the reverie.
What about Lily?
Oh. That was a sad thought.
Click.
I don’t want her to have to see that.
Something deep in his soul cried out, and Cain turned around to go home.
----------------------------------------
He woke up in the morning and felt broken.
Like he could lay there and wither without a care.
His emotions refused to stir, no matter how he prodded them.
Only routine managed to lift him out of bed at all.
“I feel weird,” he said, his brain too unresponsive to allow for internal thought.
“Whuss… what’s happening…?” He dazedly slurred.
And like him, the rest of the day seemed to slur and drift by.
Time stretched and warped and bled into itself.
Noise and light filtered through a brain too tired to parse it.
A vague sense of numb horror persisted through it all.
Forming independent thought was a Sisyphean task; most everything else was just a reaction.
In that long, blurry moment, “Cain” was reduced to an animal.
Like many animals, some would have debated whether he was truly even conscious.
But as he felt the moment nearing its end, something happened.
“Cain” looked in the mirror, and had an independent, fully-formed thought.
That is not my body.
In one truly horrifying heartbeat, he felt his lucidity restored. In one heartbeat, he overwhelmingly understood that this was not his body. The same body he’d grown up with all his life now felt like a beaten, battered, poorly-fitted shoe. His hair was too short, his bone structure all wrong, his teeth improperly placed, his nose the wrong shape, his fingers too long, his palms too wide, his everything utterly wrong. Objectively, his body was fine. On someone else, he would have no problem with it. But it was on him, and it did not fit — seeming to conceptually clash with the colors of his soul. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Wrong.
Click.
It’s missing some red.
I’ll find a way to fix it.