Though I hate myself for the reaction, I can't stop the fear that boils under my skin. I don't speak, and Cain finds my eyes.
"My father was a bastard," Cain continues. "Everyone in Pox knew that. But no one knew it like my brother and I did. He had two loves, and neither were his sons." Cain laughs darkly. He holds up a pointer finger. "My father loved to drink." He holds up a second finger. "And he loved MMA fighters. You know those guys who fight in cages? He thought they were like Roman gladiators." Cain lowers his voice like he's emulating his father and beats a closed fist against his chest. "You boys need to be more like them. You're too soft. You're too goddamn soft."
Cain drops his arm and sighs. "He started making us fight each other. Training, he called it. Said maybe his pansy boys could make him some money one day like those gladiators he saw on TV. At first we refused to do it, but my old man found ways to motivate us."
He runs a hand over his head. "My dad wasn't one to smoke cigars often, but occasionally he'd pair them with whiskey. So one day he's smoking one and he got this idea to use them on us after we fought."
My stomach turns hearing Cain's story, and though I don't want to hear more, I'm afraid this may be the first time he's ever told this story. He needs to expel this memory the same way he would poison. So I remain silent.
"He let the winner of each round choose who got burned," Cain continues. "So I fought harder, because even though I didn't want to hurt my brother, it was my father's hand on him I dreaded most. So I won. Over and over, I won. And each time I chose to take that burn."
"Cain-"
He raises a hand like he needs to finish this. "One day I hit him too hard. He fell and slammed his head onto the fireplace ledge. He was dead. He was dead, and I killed him."
Cain's voice breaks, and I can't stand it any longer. I get up and cross the distance between us. He doesn't cry for his lost sibling, only breathes harder like he's trying to prevent a breakdown. But when I twine my arms around him, hesitantly, I feel the change. His breathing slows and I hear an aching sound deep in his throat.
"Your father killed your brother, Cain. Not you." I wrap my hands around his cheeks, force him to look at me. "Your father was a monster. You are not. Do you understand?"
He pulls his face away, and because I know how hard it is to accept forgiveness for something you've owned for so long, I take a different approach. Taking his arm, I guide him toward the mattress. I crawl on and he crawls behind me, keeping a river of space between us. It takes every ounce of courage I have to-gently, slowly-take his heavy arm and wrap it around my body like a blanket made of steel. Several minutes pass before he moves a touch closer.
We stay like that for a stretch, neither of us saying anything. And though I don't prefer being touched, it's okay with him. It's okay.
Can I say something? Wilson asks gently from the back of my mind.
I don't reply.
If I found Cain's father today, he says. I'd show him what it means to hurt.
Hush, Wilson, I respond. Just once, let's focus on recovery instead of revenge.
I'm just saying …
Cain murmurs in my ear. "Madam Karina knows what happened with my brother. The cops didn't believe my dad when he said my brother and I were just messing around, and that him hitting his head like that was an accident. But Madam Karina said she could give me a place in her home, and that full-time work would make the cops stop asking questions about me."
Uneasiness pulls on me like a noose. "That's why you work for her? Because you think the cops would arrest you if they knew the truth?"
Cain doesn't respond, so I turn and face him. The thunder sounds again, but it can't touch me here. Not with him lying so close. "Cain, your father would be the one arrested. No one would ever blame you."
His face scrunches. "But it was me who hurt him."
"But that's not what-"
"Domino," Cain says, cutting me off. "It was my fault."
I press my lips together and turn back around. I know this guilt. It's the kind we want to hold on to long after the pulse is gone. So I let him have it. Cain may not want a reason to leave Madam Karina's. He knows what to expect here, and it's a big improvement over where he came from. It's a big improvement for me, too. But it isn't enough. Not for me, and not for Wilson.
Ten minutes of silence pass. Ten minutes of thunder and lightning and rain pelting the roof. Ten minutes of warmth and safety and dreadful secrets. It feels like forever before I hear Cain speak again.
"I'm glad you didn't hurt her," he says. "I know she probably did something awful to you, but I'm glad you didn't hurt her."