It was cold. It was always cold.
The kind that crawled under the skin and nested in the marrow, gnawing at him day and night. Cain had grown used to it, or so he thought. But every time it returned, he hated it anew. He hated the gift that had been forced upon him. Hated the life that had been prolonged when it should have ended.
Saved, they called it.
He knew that if someone knew the extent of his existence, some would call him blessed.
But what sort of blessing left him with a leg that dragged behind him like dead weight, an eye that refused to look forward, a brain that betrayed him with fits of madness?
A gift? No. A curse.That was what he was given
His remaining family either pitied him, wrapping their words in soft tones, treating him like fragile glass that might shatter with a touch, other instead looked at him with utter contempt.
