Note Author: Today, we learn a little about a new character, Cain. Part one of his story. By the way, I know this is another point of view, and a new one at that, and maybe some of you won't like it so much, but that's how this story will be. The lore is explained as we see Adam's life in hell. Anyway, Cain will be another important character.
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Cain's Point of View.
The mirror stared back at him with eyes he knew too well. Too familiar. Too painful.
Cain stood motionless in front of the bathroom sink, his hands resting on the cold marble as he observed his reflection with a mix of resignation and disgust. Water dripped from the faucet in a constant rhythm, each drop marking time like a metronome of guilt.
His dark golden hair (it had been bright blond, but had degraded over time) fell disheveled over his forehead, his chiseled features and square jaw gave him a noble appearance, almost regal. He wore a blue jacket from the human world, and underneath a white shirt, black pants, and red boots.
But it wasn't his clothes that bothered him.
It was his face.
Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw his father. The same high cheekbones, the same strong facial structure, the same eyes that could be golden and bright in Adam, but in him were a deep brown that seemed loaded with shadows. It was like looking into a temporal mirror, seeing the man he would become if he had lived in Eden, if he had been the favorite, if he hadn't...
[Imagen]
"If I hadn't killed him," he whispered to himself, closing his eyes tightly.
The mark on his forehead, symbol of God's cross, burned as a reminder of what he did.
The memory came without warning, as it always did. Like a punch to the stomach that left him breathless.
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FLASHBACK
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The sun shone with perfect intensity over the fields outside Eden. No, it wasn't technically Eden—that paradisiacal garden was lost forever after his parents were expelled. But this place, these lands that God had given them to cultivate, was the closest to paradise that humanity would ever know.
Cain was eighteen years old, perhaps more. Time was difficult to measure in those days when humans lived for centuries. He was tall, strong, with muscles formed by years of hard work in the fields. His skin was somewhat tanned by the sun, his hands calloused from the plow. He was the firstborn of Adam and Eve, the first son born of woman, the first human who had not been created directly by God's hands.
And that was precisely the problem.
"Father! Look at what we harvested today!" Abel's voice echoed across the field, full of youthful enthusiasm.
Cain looked up from his work, clenching his jaw as he saw his younger brother running toward their father with a lamb in his arms. Abel was sixteen years old, two years younger than him, but while Cain was sturdy and earthy, Abel was... different. Thinner, more agile, with a face that seemed illuminated from within. His eyes shone with a light that Cain had never been able to replicate.
Abel, unlike Cain, was much more like their mother. With the same features as their father. Blond hair and golden eyes.
Adam was sitting under the shade of a large tree, resting after helping Cain with the heaviest plow. Upon seeing Abel, his face lit up in a way that made something twist in Cain's stomach.
"Abel, my son!" Adam stood up, opening his arms to receive his younger son. "What do you have there?"
"The first lamb of the season, father! It was born this morning, perfect and without blemish. I thought of offering it to God in our next sacrifice."
Adam's face softened with paternal pride. He took the lamb in his arms, examining it carefully and meticulously, as if he were valuing a precious jewel.
"It's beautiful, Abel. Absolutely beautiful." Adam stroked the lamb's white fur, smiling widely. "God will be more than pleased with your offering, son. Your heart has always been in the right place. You have the Lord's favor, I have no doubt about it."
Cain felt how the earth beneath his feet suddenly seemed less solid. He looked down at his own hands dirty with soil, at the fruits of his labor scattered in baskets around him. He had worked since before dawn, plowing the cursed earth that resisted each of his efforts, sowing with precision, harvesting with care. His hands bled from blisters that had opened and formed again and again, his back ached from the constant effort of bending over the furrows.
And what did he have to show for it? Vegetables. Grains. Fruits. Things that grew from the earth cursed by God himself when he expelled his parents from Eden.
Cain never understood how his parents, especially his father Adam, still viewed God favorably, when it was because of his negligence and his own angels who deceived his mother and then expelled both of them from God's promised land.
"Father," Cain called, trying to keep his voice steady and not let the bitterness he felt growing in his chest show through, "I also have my offering prepared for God. I've harvested the best fruits from my field. The largest, the most perfect. I've worked very hard to..."
Adam turned toward him, and Cain saw something in his father's eyes that hurt more than any physical blow. It wasn't exactly contempt, but... sadness. Adam had always tried to increase his faith in God and his father spent time with him in the fields talking about Eden and the fields and how beautiful it was. Cain knows how busy his father is with his responsibilities, but sometimes he wishes they could talk about father and son things and not about his time with the angels or God.
"That's fine, Cain. I'm sure your offering will be... recognized. I know how hard you've worked for it. God will surely love it." Adam told him with a kind smile.
Cain grimaced and felt a knot in his stomach. He didn't know if his father was telling him the truth, not when Abel's congratulations were much better than his own. And the brief hesitation in his words didn't help and only increased his disgust toward Abel.
Adam immediately returned his attention to Abel, stroking the lamb's fur while talking animatedly with his younger son about herding techniques, about how Abel had managed to raise such healthy flocks, about how his connection with animals was almost supernatural.
Cain stood there, alone among his fields, feeling how something dark began to grow in his chest. It wasn't the first time he had felt this. No, it had been growing for years, slowly, like a poisonous seed planted in his heart that germinated little by little with each small slight, with each preference shown toward Abel, with each moment when he was invisible to his parents.
He remembered when he was ten years old and had built his first mud house for the family. He had worked for weeks, mixing straw with mud, forming the bricks, drying them in the sun. When he finally finished it, he ran excitedly to show his parents.
"Look, look at what I made!" he had shouted with a child's high-pitched excited voice.
Eve had looked at the structure, had nodded absently. "Very good, Cain. Now go help your father with the fields."
That same day, Abel, who was eight years old, had found an injured little bird and had brought it home. Eve had cried with tenderness, hugging Abel and proclaiming that he had the kindest heart in the world. Adam had smiled with pride, saying that Abel clearly had a special gift with God's creatures.
The mud house that Cain had built never received more than a "very good." Abel's little bird was a topic of conversation for weeks, leaving him with a bitter taste.
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Later that week, the day of sacrifice arrived.
The family gathered at the altar that Adam had built with his own hands years ago, when Cain was barely a baby. It was a simple but solid structure: carefully stacked stones, with a space for fire in the center. Adam had positioned it on a hill, saying that way it would be closer to heaven, closer to God.
Eve was there, beautiful even after years outside Eden, with her brown hair pulled back in a braid. Next to her was Aclima, Abel's twin sister. Aclima was of ethereal beauty, with hair that seemed to capture sunlight and eyes that shone with intelligence and kindness. Cain had loved her since he was old enough to understand what love was, but had never dared to tell her directly. Not when she clearly preferred Abel's company.
Seth, the third male son, was also present. He was fourteen years old, younger than Cain and Abel. He was quiet, observant, with a wisdom in his eyes that seemed inappropriate for his age. He had always been the family peacemaker, the one who tried to keep peace among everyone. Now he kept to the side, observing in silence, as he always did.
There was also Azura, the other sister, twelve years old, shy and sweet, who stayed close to Eve.
"Abel, you first," said Adam, his voice full of anticipation and something more... hope. Hope that his favorite son would receive divine approval once again.
Abel approached the altar with his lamb. The animal was perfect, exactly as he had said: white fur without a single blemish, bright and healthy eyes, the personification of innocence. He placed it reverently on the stone, his hands trembling slightly as he took out his sacrificial knife.
"Lord God," said Abel, his voice clear and full of genuine faith, "accept this offering from your unworthy servant. This unblemished lamb, the best of my flock, the first of the season, I offer it to you with a grateful heart. Everything I have comes from you, and to you I return it with gratitude and love."
Abel's prayer was perfect. Humble but confident. Grateful but not servile. It was the kind of prayer that came naturally from someone who truly felt a connection with the divine.
Abel cut the lamb's neck with practiced precision. Blood flowed over the altar, red and bright under the sun. The lamb didn't suffer; it was quick, merciful. Abel placed the body on the flames already burning on the altar.
And then...
The sky opened.
Not literally, but it was as if it did. A golden light descended from heaven, enveloping Abel's altar in a divine radiance that made everyone have to squint. The fire burning on the altar rose in bright golden flames, consuming the sacrifice in seconds with an intensity that wasn't natural. The smell of burned flesh filled the air, but it wasn't unpleasant—it was sweet, pleasant, like sacred incense mixed with flowers from the lost paradise.
A warm breeze blew from above, caressing everyone's faces. It was as if God himself had extended his hand to personally accept Abel's offering.
"The Lord has accepted your offering, Abel!" Eve exclaimed, with tears of joy running down her cheeks. She covered her mouth with her hands, overwhelmed by emotion. "My son, my precious son! God has favored you!"
Adam had that expression on his face again, that look of pure paternal pride that Cain desperately longed to see directed toward him sometime. It was an expression of unconditional love, of total validation, of deep satisfaction.
"My son," said Adam, placing both hands on Abel's shoulders and looking directly into his eyes, "God has favored you once again. Your heart is pure, your faith is unwavering. You are truly blessed among men. I am so, so proud of you, Abel. So proud."
Proud.
That word resonated in Cain's mind like a funeral bell, like distant thunder announcing a storm. Proud. Proud. Proud.
When had Adam said those words about Cain? Ever?
Abel smiled, blushing from the attention, and hugged his father. It was a perfect moment of father-son connection, the kind of moment that should be carved in stone, remembered for generations.
And Cain had to watch it all from the margin, invisible as always.
"Cain, it's your turn," said Eve, her voice soft but less enthusiastic than Abel's, though always with a mother's unconditional love. Cain never liked that tone; it was clear to him, the favoritism toward Abel.
With legs that felt like lead, with a heart that beat painfully in his chest, Cain approached the altar. He had brought the best of his harvest, and he had done so with such care: the most golden grains, perfectly dried and free of pests; the juiciest fruits, without a single bruise; the largest and most perfect vegetables, plucked that very morning so they would be fresh. He had worked for months to cultivate them, pouring his sweat and blood into each plant, talking to them as they grew, caring for them as if they were his own children.
With hands that trembled more than he would like to admit, he placed his offering on the altar. The golden grains gleamed under the sun. The fruits gave off a sweet and tempting aroma. The vegetables were works of art from nature.
"Lord God," he began, and his voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears, less confident than Abel's, less assured, "accept this offering from your servant. The fruit of my labor, the fruit of my sweat, the best of my field that I have cultivated with my own hands, I offer it to you with... with gratitude." Cain grimaced at his hesitation.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The fire on the altar crackled, but it didn't rise. There was no golden light. There was no divine sign. There was no warm breeze. The smoke rose, but it was gray, common, ordinary. It dispersed in the wind without purpose or direction, simply disappearing into nothing.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cain felt how all eyes settled on him. He could feel Eve's pity, which made his stomach twist. He could feel Adam's disappointment, which was worse than any blow. He could feel his siblings' confusion.
And worst of all, he could feel Abel's compassion. That damn compassion that made everything even more unbearable.
"Why?" Cain whispered, looking at the empty sky that didn't answer him. "Why isn't it enough? What more do you want from me? What more can I give?"
There was no answer. Only the cruel and relentless silence of heaven.
Adam approached, placing a heavy hand on Cain's shoulder. But it wasn't comforting. It wasn't the same gesture he had given Abel. Cain could feel Adam's hesitation as he tried to find the exact words to console him. Cain could only grit his teeth with rage toward his father.
"Cain, son..." Adam stopped, as if searching for the right words and not finding them. "The Lord has his reasons. Perhaps your heart wasn't in the right place. Perhaps your faith needs strengthening. Perhaps..." he stopped again, sighing. "Don't give up. Try again. Work harder. Be more devout. I still believe in you, yes?"
Heart in the right place? Faith that needs strengthening? Work harder?
Cain had worked until his hands bled. He had sweated under the scorching sun until his skin had burned and peeled. He had put every gram of his being, every ounce of his effort, every piece of his soul into that offering.
And it wasn't enough? Would it never be enough?
Eve approached, but didn't hug him. She just looked at him with that expression Cain had come to hate—that mix of pity and resignation, as if she had always expected Cain to fail, as if it were inevitable.
"Try to be more like Abel," she said softly, and each word was like a knife in Cain's heart. "Watch how he does things. Learn from him. He can teach you."
Be more like Abel. It was always about being more like Abel.
Seth approached Cain when the others had dispersed. His younger brother put a hand on his arm.
"Brother," Seth said quietly, "don't let this consume you. God has a plan for each of us. Yours is simply... different."
Cain didn't respond. What could he say? That different was just another word for less than? That a different plan meant a worse plan?
Aclima also approached, and for a moment, just for a moment, Cain thought that maybe she would say something that would make everything better.
"Cain," she said, her voice gentle, "I know this hurts. But you can't let bitterness take hold of you. That will only make things worse."
Azura also tried to console him, but Cain didn't even listen to her.
But she didn't understand either. No one understood.
That night, Cain couldn't sleep. He stayed awake, looking at the stars through the small hole in the roof of his mud house—the same house he had built and that no one had truly appreciated. He felt how something dark solidified in his chest. It wasn't just envy. It wasn't just pain. It was rage. It was the overwhelming feeling of being invisible, of not being enough, of never being able to reach the standard that Abel seemed to meet effortlessly, simply by existing.
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Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
The tension grew like a poisonous plant in Cain's heart. Every time Adam talked with Abel about his flocks, about his plans, about his dreams, Cain felt the stab. Every time Eve smiled at Abel with that pure maternal love that never seemed directed toward Cain with the same intensity, Cain felt the poison grow. Every time Aclima laughed with Abel, sharing jokes that Cain didn't understand, Cain felt how something in him broke a little more.
There was a day, three months after the failed sacrifice, when Cain was working in the fields under the scorching midday sun. Adam approached, and for a moment, Cain's heart jumped with hope. Maybe his father was coming to help him. Maybe he was coming to talk with him. Maybe...
"Cain," said Adam, "have you seen Abel? I need to discuss with him the plans to expand his flocks."
Cain felt how something inside him froze.
"No, father. I haven't seen Abel."
"Ah. Well, if you see him, tell him to find me." Adam began to walk away, but Cain couldn't contain himself.
"Father," he called, and Adam stopped. "I've also been thinking about expanding my fields. I've found a new area of land that could be fertile if we work it correctly. I thought maybe you could help me to..."
"Oh? I've been thinking about that too, I know how hard you work on your fields and I'm glad, though we'll talk about it another day because I'm busy. Understood?" Cain nodded bitterly. "I love you son." And so, Adam left, leaving Cain alone once more.
Another day never came.
There was another occasion, during a family dinner, when Eve was distributing the food that the women of the family had prepared together.
"Abel, here's your plate," said Eve with a smile, serving her favorite son a generous portion of stew with the best pieces of meat. "You ate enough today, after working so hard with your flocks."
Then she turned to Cain and served him a smaller portion, though the meat still seemed to be the same as Abel's only in lesser quantity. "Here, Cain."
"Mother," said Cain carefully, "could you serve me a little more? I've been working in the fields since before dawn and..."
"Cain, don't be gluttonous. We have to ration food. You never know when a bad season will come."
But Abel had received double without even asking.
Seth, observing from his place, served part of his own portion onto Cain's plate when Eve wasn't looking. Cain gave his younger brother a grateful look, but also felt the humiliation of needing charity from someone younger than him.
The small slights accumulated like drops of water filling a container. Eventually, the container would overflow.
One day, Cain found Abel and Aclima together near the stream. They were sitting on the rocks, talking and laughing. Aclima was braiding flowers in her hair while Abel told her a story about one of his lambs that had been born with a star-shaped mark.
Cain stayed among the trees, watching them unseen. He watched how Aclima's eyes shone when she looked at Abel. He watched how Abel smiled at her with that easy smile that seemed to come so naturally.
And he felt how his heart broke a little more.
That night, Cain tried to talk to Aclima. He found her drawing water from the well.
"Aclima," he called, approaching carefully.
She turned, smiling. "Oh, Cain. Hello. Do you need something?"
"I... wanted to ask you if maybe tomorrow you could accompany me to check the new fields I'm cultivating. I thought you'd like to see..."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Cain. Tomorrow I promised to help Abel with his flocks. Maybe another day."
Always another day. Always tomorrow. Always later.
Never now. Never today. Never for Cain.
Seth became Cain's only consolation during those dark months. His younger brother had a wisdom that defied his age, an ability to see the good in everyone, even when it was difficult to find.
"Brother," Seth told him one night when they were alone, "I can see the darkness growing in you. I can see how it's consuming you. Please, don't let it. You're better than this."
"Better than what, Seth?" Cain responded bitterly. "Better than being invisible? Better than being a constant disappointment to our parents? Better than being the son God rejects?"
Everything was God, here. God there and if it wasn't that, it was the clear difference in how their Mother favored Abel. His father, too innocent sometimes, failed to observe the difference between the treatments between them. And he didn't want to think about the other problems in his family.
"You're better than bitterness," Seth said firmly. "You're better than resentment. I know it hurts, brother. I know it's unfair. But if you let this consume you, you'll lose more than God's favor. And maybe you'll commit something you'll regret."
Cain wanted to believe Seth's words. He really did. But each day brought a new wound, a new confirmation that no matter what he did, he would never be enough.
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And then, one day in the field, when the sun was high and the heat was oppressive, Abel approached Cain.
Cain was working, as always, pulling weeds that seemed to grow faster than his crops. Sweat ran down his back, his hands were stained with dirt and blood from open blisters.
"Brother," said Abel, his voice gentle, concerned, "I've noticed that you've been... distant lately. Quieter. More..." he stopped, searching for the right words. "Sadder. Is everything okay? Is there something you want to talk about?"
Cain continued working, not looking at his brother. Every muscle in his body was tense.
"Everything's perfect, Abel. Just working. Someone has to do it."
"Cain, I know you're upset about the sacrifice." Abel moved closer, his face showing genuine concern. "And I understand why. It must have been painful. But brother, God has a plan for you too. Your time will come. You just need to have faith and..."
"Faith?" Cain dropped the hoe he was using. The sound of metal striking the earth resonated in the silence. He turned slowly to face Abel, and in his eyes there was something that made Abel instinctively step back. "I've had faith, Abel. I've worked harder than anyone. I've given everything I have, everything I am. And what have I received? Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"That's not..."
"While you," Cain took a step toward Abel, his voice rising in volume, years of resentment finally finding an outlet, "you just have to exist and everyone loves you. Father loves you. Mother loves you. God loves you. Aclima loves you. Azura admires you. Even Seth, who tries to be neutral, clearly prefers you. And me? I'm just the older brother who works the cursed fields. The son who's never good enough. The forgotten firstborn."
Abel stepped back another step, his eyes wide. "Brother, I... I didn't know you felt this way. I love you. Mother loves you. Father loves you. It's just that... it's just that sometimes it's hard to see what isn't openly expressed. But I'm sure that if you talk to father, if you tell him how you feel..."
"Talk?!" Cain let out a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. "I've tried to talk. I've tried to approach. I've tried to be the perfect son, the perfect brother. But no matter what I do, I'll never be you, Abel. And that's the problem, isn't it? That I'm not you."
"That's not true, Cain. I..."
"It's just that what?" Cain interrupted, his voice now trembling with contained rage. "Just that I'm not good enough? Just that I was born first from this cursed earth while you were born with some kind of special grace? Just that God sees me and says 'no, not this one, this one is defective, this one is insufficient'?"
"That's not true! Cain, please, brother, listen to me. It doesn't have to be this way between us. We're family. We're blood. Please, let's talk about this. We can fix..."
"No," said Cain, his voice suddenly cold, almost calm. And that calmness was more terrifying than the rage. "It can't be fixed, Abel. Because the problem isn't you. The problem isn't me. The problem is that in this world, in this existence, there's only room for one favorite son. And that son is you. It's always been you. It will always be you."
Abel extended a hand toward Cain, a gesture of reconciliation, of brotherhood, of genuine love.
"Brother, please. I love you. You're my older brother. I admire you. I've always admired you. Please, don't let this separate us. We're all we have in this world. You, me, Seth, our sisters. We're the first family. We can't..."
And something in Cain broke.
All the rage, all the envy, all the contained anger, all the pain that had been accumulating for years, for his entire life, exploded in an instant. There was no thought. There was no reasoning. There was only pure, raw, destructive feeling.
He saw a large stone at his feet. He grabbed it without thinking, feeling its weight in his hand, feeling its rough surface against his palm.
"SHUT UP!" Cain shouted, and the rage in his voice was so pure, so intense, that nearby birds took flight frightened. "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU! IMBECILE! I HATE YOU!"
And he threw the stone.
He threw it with all the strength of years of frustration. With all the rage of being ignored. With all the pain of being last. With all the envy of seeing another have what he desperately desired.
The stone flew through the air in what seemed like an eternity. Cain watched it move in slow motion, spinning, approaching his brother.
Abel raised his hands instinctively to protect himself, but it was too late.
The stone hit Abel directly on the temple with a horrible sound—a wet crack, a crunch of bone, a sound that Cain would never, ever be able to forget.
Abel fell.
There were no dramatic words. There was no last look of betrayal. There was no accusation in his eyes. There was just... nothing. His eyes became glassy immediately, his body collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Time seemed to stop.
The wind stopped blowing. The birds stopped singing. The entire world fell silent, as if creation itself was holding its breath, horrified by what it had just witnessed.
Cain froze, looking at the stone on the ground, now stained red. He looked at his own hands, still trembling from the effort of the throw.
What... what did I just do?
Realization came slowly, like a cold wave spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body.
"Abel?" His voice sounded small, childish, terrified. "Abel, get up. This... this was a mistake. I didn't mean to... get up, please."
He ran to his brother. He knelt beside him, turning him over with trembling hands.
Abel's eyes were open but glassy, looking at the sky without seeing it. A trickle of blood ran from his temple, staining his blond hair, dripping onto the thirsty earth that absorbed it eagerly—the first human blood spilled by human hand.
His chest didn't move. He wasn't breathing.
"No, no, no, no, no," Cain began to moan, shaking Abel. "Wake up, brother. Please, wake up. It was an accident. I was just angry. I didn't mean to... I just... I was so angry. Wake up, please. Please, Abel. Please."
He pressed his hands over Abel's wound, trying to stop the bleeding that had already stopped because there was no heart beating to pump it. He brought his ear to his brother's chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat that didn't exist.
"ABEL!" he screamed, his voice breaking into sobs. "PLEASE! DON'T LEAVE ME! I'M SORRY! I'M SO SORRY!"
But Abel didn't respond. Abel would never respond again.
Cain sat on the blood-stained ground, with his brother's body in his arms, and for the first time in his life, he truly understood what he had done. Not the horror of being rejected or ignored, but the horror of having taken a life. The horror of having destroyed something that could never, ever be repaired.
The first human life taken by another human hand. The first murder in human history. And he, Cain, the firstborn of Adam and Eve, was responsible.
"What have I done?" he whispered, looking at his blood-stained hands. "God, what have I done?"
And then, making the entire world tremble, a voice spoke. Not with sound, but directly in his mind, in his soul, in every fiber of his being. A voice that contained the rage of creation itself.
"CAIN."
It was God's voice. And there was no mercy in it.
Cain looked up at the sky, with tears running down his face, with his brother's blood on his hands, with the realization of what he had done weighing on him like a mountain. He quickly stood up and "hid" Abel's body, covering it with his own body while hiding his hands behind his back.
"WHERE IS ABEL, YOUR BROTHER?"
And despite knowing it was useless, despite knowing that God had seen everything, Cain tried to lie. He tried to escape from the truth that was tearing him apart from within.
"I... I don't know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Am I my brother's keeper?"
The silence that followed was more terrifying than any scream. It was the silence of divine disappointment, of imminent judgment, of absolute knowledge of his sin.
"YOUR BROTHER'S BLOOD CRIES OUT TO ME FROM THE EARTH. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, CAIN? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
And there, standing in the field with Abel's body near him, his brother's blood soaking the earth, Cain broke completely. All the walls he had built, all the rage he had accumulated, all the bitterness he had nurtured—everything collapsed, leaving only the pure horror of what he had done.
"It was an accident!" Cain shouted, his voice breaking. "I didn't mean to kill him! I was just angry, I just wanted... I don't know what I wanted. But I didn't want this. I never wanted this! Please, God, you have to believe me. I didn't want him to die!"
"BUT HE IS DEAD. BY YOUR HAND. BY YOUR RAGE. BY YOUR ENVY."
"I KNOW! I KNOW!" Cain sobbed, hugging Abel's body against his chest. "Fuck, I KNOW and I'm sorry! I'm sorrier than anything in the world! Please, bring him back. I'll do anything. Take my life in his place. Take everything I am. Just bring him back. Please, God, please."
"DEATH CANNOT BE UNDONE. WHAT IS DONE, IS DONE. THE FIRST MURDER HAS BEEN COMMITTED. THE WORLD'S INNOCENCE HAS BEEN LOST."
"Then kill me," Cain begged, his voice desperate. "If it's just, if it's right, kill me right here. I don't deserve to live. Not after this."
"NO."
That simple word was more terrifying than any threat, more devastating than any physical punishment.
"YOU SHALL BE CURSED ON THE EARTH, CAIN. THE EARTH THAT OPENED ITS MOUTH TO RECEIVE YOUR BROTHER'S BLOOD FROM YOUR HAND. WHEN YOU TILL THE EARTH, IT SHALL NO LONGER YIELD ITS STRENGTH TO YOU. NOT A SINGLE CROP SHALL GROW FOR YOU. A WANDERER AND A STRANGER YOU SHALL BE ON THE EARTH FOR ALL YOUR DAYS."
The weight of those words fell on Cain like stones. No more fields. No more crops. No more home. Only eternal wandering.
"Please," Cain sobbed, "Don't do this to me, it's not fair. You must know I didn't mean to do it. If you expel me, if you send me to the desert alone and marked as a murderer, anyone who finds me will try to kill me. Although maybe... maybe that's what I deserve." Cain reflected on that at the end. He even considered killing himself to pay blood with blood for his sin.
"YOU SHALL NOT DIE, CAIN."
A strange sensation ran through Cain's body. It began on his forehead and spread through his entire being like electricity, like cold fire, like something that was both part of him and completely alien. When he touched his forehead with trembling fingers, stained with his brother's blood, he felt something there. A mark. Visible to the whole world, but intangible to touch, burning on his skin with an ancient and terrible power.
"I HAVE PUT A SIGN ON YOU. ANYONE WHO ATTEMPTS TO HARM YOU SHALL BE PUNISHED SEVENFOLD. YOU SHALL LIVE, CAIN. YOU SHALL LIVE WITH WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. YOU SHALL NOT KNOW THE PEACE OF DEATH. YOU SHALL NOT KNOW THE REST OF OBLIVION. YOU SHALL WANDER THE EARTH, IMMORTAL, CARRYING YOUR GUILT FOREVER. EVERY DAY YOU SHALL REMEMBER THIS MOMENT. EVERY NIGHT YOU SHALL SEE YOUR BROTHER'S FACE. THAT IS YOUR PUNISHMENT. THAT IS YOUR CURSE."
"No," Cain whispered, feeling the weight of immortality, understanding what it meant. No death. No peace. No oblivion. Only eternal memory. Eternal guilt. Eternal pain. "Please, no. Not that. Anything but that."
But God didn't respond. The divine presence withdrew, leaving Cain completely alone with his brother's body and the crushing weight of what he had done.
Cain didn't know how long he stayed there, after God left. Cain remained hugging Abel, crying, begging for forgiveness that wouldn't come. The sun began to descend in the sky, painting the world in reds and oranges that seemed to mock him with their beauty.
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The hours that followed were a blurred nightmare of screams, tears and accusations.
Eve arrived first, drawn by the unnatural silence. Normally, she could hear her sons working, talking, moving. But that day, there was only silence.
When she saw the scene—Cain covered in blood, rocking Abel's body in his arms—her reaction was something Cain would never, ever forget.
The sound that came from her throat wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul breaking, of a mother losing her child, of the world's innocence fading forever.
"What have you done?" she shrieked, falling to her knees beside Abel, tearing him from Cain's arms. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BABY? ABEL! MY BABY! MY SWEET BABY!"
"Mother, it was an accident, I..."
"LIAR!" Eve lunged at Cain, hitting him with fists that were physically weak but somehow hurt more than any real blow. "MURDERER! MONSTER! YOU KILLED YOUR OWN BROTHER! YOUR OWN BLOOD! HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO MY BABY?"
Cain didn't defend himself. He let the blows fall, feeling he deserved them, wishing they could hurt him enough to equal the pain in his soul.
Adam came running, alerted by Eve's screams. Upon seeing the scene, he stopped short, as if he had hit an invisible wall. His face went through a series of expressions: confusion, understanding, disbelief, pain, and finally... horror. Something broken. Something that could never be repaired.
He slowly approached Abel, so slowly he seemed to be walking through thick water. He took his son's body—the one Cain thinks is his favorite son, his beloved Abel—in his arms with devastating tenderness.
And he walked away from Cain without saying a single word. With Abel's body in his hands.
That hurt more than any scream. His father's silence. The way Adam couldn't even look at him. The way Adam acted as if Cain no longer existed, as if he were already dead, as if he were less than nothing.
Seth arrived next, with Aclima and Azura behind him. When Seth saw Abel, his normally serene face decomposed into shock and pain.
"Brother," he whispered, looking at Cain with eyes full of tears, "tell me it's not true. Tell me you didn't do this. Please."
"Seth, I... it was an accident. I was angry and..."
"An accident?" Seth's voice was barely audible, but it contained a disappointment that cut deeper than any knife. "Cain, I warned you. I told you not to let the darkness consume you. I told you that you were better than this."
"I KNOW! I know, Seth! But I couldn't... I didn't want... it was just a moment. A moment of rage and now he's..." Cain couldn't finish the sentence, his voice breaking into sobs.
Seth approached Cain, and for a moment, Cain thought his younger brother might hug him, might offer some comfort. But instead, Seth just shook his head slowly.
"You'll have to live with this, brother. Forever. And honestly, I don't know if that's punishment enough or too cruel." And Seth walked away to console his sisters.
Aclima approached Cain last. When she saw Abel—her best friend, her twin brother—her face transformed into a mask of horror and betrayal.
"Cain," she whispered, stepping back as if he were a plague, as if he could infect her with his evil. "How could you? How could you do this to Abel? He loved you. He admired you. He wanted to help you and you... you..."
"Aclima, please," Cain extended a hand toward her, still stained with Abel's blood, "you have to believe me. It wasn't intentional. I just..."
"DON'T COME NEAR ME!" she screamed, shielding herself with her arms as if Cain were going to attack her too. "YOU'RE A MURDERER! A MURDERER! YOU KILLED ABEL! YOU KILLED HIM!"
She ran, stumbling in her haste to get away from him, being consoled by Seth who hugged her while she sobbed.
Azura couldn't even look at him, she was consoled by Seth, her head buried in his shoulder.
That night, Cain dug a grave for Abel with his own hands. His parents didn't let him participate in the actual burial—Adam had made it very clear that Cain shouldn't even be present—but Cain needed to do something. He needed to... he needed to try to fix what couldn't be fixed.
He dug in the earth that would soon reject him, the earth that would never again produce for him. He dug until his hands bled, until his muscles screamed, until every part of his body hurt almost as much as his soul.
As he dug, his tears mixing with the earth, with the blood, with the sweat, a realization hit him with the force of lightning: he had never felt more alone in his life.
His whole life he had longed for attention, had desired to be seen, had wanted to be loved. And now, finally, he was the center of attention. But it was the wrong attention. It was hatred, fear, disgust.
He would rather be invisible again.
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The morning of his exile came too soon and at the same time not soon enough.
Adam couldn't look him in the eye. He stood at a distance, with Eve crying on his shoulder, while Cain packed the few belongings they had allowed him to take—some food, water, a blanket, a knife.
Seth helped Cain pack in silence. He didn't say much, but his presence was a small comfort amid the total rejection of the others.
"Cain," Adam finally said, his voice hollow and distant, as if it came from far away. "You must leave. You can't stay here. God has pronounced his judgment. And we... we can't... I can't look at you without seeing..." he stopped, his voice breaking. "Just go."
Cain had never seen his father so devastated. He always seemed to find positivity in life most of the time. Cain felt like vomiting.
"I know, father." Cain kept his gaze on the ground, unable to face his father's eyes.
There was a long silence, heavy and painful.
"I'm sorry," Cain whispered, his voice barely audible. "For everything. I know that doesn't change anything, I know it doesn't bring Abel back, I know it doesn't fix what I did. But... I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than words can express."
Adam closed his eyes, and Cain could see tears escaping from beneath his closed eyelids. For a moment, just for a moment, Cain thought his father might say something, might offer some kind of forgiveness, of understanding, of final connection.
But when Adam opened his eyes again, there was only emptiness. There was only the raw pain of a father who had lost one of his precious sons at the hands of his other precious son.
"Go," was all he said. "Go and never come back."
Eve said nothing. She just cried, her face buried in Adam's shoulder, her sobs filling the morning air.
Azura stayed close to Eve, looking at Cain with fear, as if he were a monster. And maybe he was.
Seth approached Cain one last time before he departed.
"Brother," he said quietly, quiet enough that only Cain could hear, "I know this may seem difficult, but try to improve for the better... please try. No matter how long it takes. No matter how difficult it is. Be better than this moment. Be better than this mistake."
"I don't know if I can, Seth," Cain responded, his voice broken. "I don't know how to live with this."
"You'll have to find a way. God has given you eternal life so you can find a way." Seth hugged Cain briefly—the only one who dared to touch him—and then walked away.
Aclima appeared when Cain was about to leave, with the sun barely beginning to peek over the horizon. She ran toward him, and for a moment, Cain's heart jumped with absurd hope. But when she arrived in front of him, what he saw in her eyes wasn't forgiveness.
It was pain. It was rage. It was confusion.
"Cain," she said, her voice trembling, "how can you leave like this? How can you simply... walk away after what you did?"
"I have no choice, Aclima. God has exiled me. I can't stay."
"You killed Abel," she said, and those words fell like stones between them, each one heavier than the last. "We loved him, he always tried to please us. We were... we were a very close family and he loved all of us. And you killed him. You took him from this world. Why, Cain? Why?"
"Because I was jealous," Cain admitted, the truth finally coming out. "Because I was angry. Because I wanted what he had—the love of our parents, God's favor, your attention. And in a moment of blind rage, I threw a stone. I just wanted to hurt him, make him feel a little of the pain I felt. But I killed him. And now I have to live with that forever."
Aclima looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his, searching for something—maybe remorse, maybe humanity, maybe a reason to forgive him.
"Did you ever care about us?" she finally asked. "About any of us? Or did you only care about father and mother's attention?"
That question hit him harder than any fist.
"I cared," Cain whispered, feeling new tears burning his eyes. "I cared too much. And that was my curse. I loved this family so much that it consumed me to see it love others more than me."
Aclima took a step toward him, and to his surprise, she hugged him. It was brief, too brief, but in that moment, Cain felt something like forgiveness. Not complete forgiveness, not forgiveness that erased what he had done, but forgiveness enough to breathe.
"Improve, Cain," she whispered in his ear, her voice trembling. "Please. I know there's goodness in you, beneath all this pain and rage. Abel believed it. Until the end, Abel believed you were good deep down. I want to believe it too. Don't let this define you completely. Be better. Find a way to be better."
She separated, and Cain saw tears on her cheeks.
"I promise," said Cain, his voice broken but sincere, "that I'll try to be better. I don't know if I'll succeed, I don't know if it's possible after what I did. But I'll try. I promise, Aclima. I promise on Abel's memory."
It was the only promise he made that day. And it was the promise he would carry in his heart for millennia.
Adam finally approached, keeping a prudent distance, as if Cain could contaminate him just by being close.
"Cain," he said, his voice tense and controlled, each word clearly costing him an effort, he seemed about to cry. "I... I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for not having seen your pain more clearly. I'm sorry for not having been a better father to you. I'm sorry for not having divided my attention more equitably. I'm sorry..." he stopped, swallowing with difficulty. "I'm sorry things ended like this. I'm sorry that my favoritism, my blindness, contributed to this. I'm sorry for many things. But that doesn't change what you did. That doesn't bring Abel back."
Cain nodded, unable to speak because of the knot in his throat. It was the longest conversation he'd had with his father in months, maybe years. And it was a farewell.
"I'll try to be better," said Adam, looking at the horizon instead of at Cain. "For Seth. For the girls. For the other children who will come. I'll try... not to make the same mistakes. I'll try to see each of them. I'll try to love them all equally. It's the least I can do to honor Abel's memory. To make sure his death wasn't completely in vain."
And with those words, words that were both forgiveness and condemnation, Cain left.
He walked toward the desert of the ancient world, alone, marked with God's sign that would protect him from death but not from suffering, immortal and unable to escape his memories, carrying the weight of the first murder in human history.
But he also carried a promise. A promise to be better. A promise he had made to Aclima, to Seth, to himself.
Even if it took millennia to fulfill it. Even if the path was impossibly difficult. Even if he failed a thousand more times before succeeding.
He would fulfill it.
He had all eternity to try.
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The first years were the most difficult.
Cain wandered through the desert, completely alone. The mark on his forehead protected his life but not his sanity. Every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw Abel's face. He heard his voice. He relived that horrible moment over and over.
The earth, just as God had promised, rejected him. He tried to plant seeds in his first year of exile, desperate for something familiar, something that would remind him of who he had been before becoming a murderer. The seeds didn't germinate. The earth swallowed them as if they had never existed.
He tried to hunt, but he was clumsy. He didn't have the patience Abel had had with animals. The animals avoided him, as if they could smell death on him.
He survived eating wild fruits, roots, anything he could find. He lost weight. His body, once strong and sturdy from years of work in the fields, became thin and wiry.
But he didn't die. No matter how little he ate, how much he exposed himself to the elements, how desperate he was—God's mark kept him alive.
Immortality, he discovered, wasn't a blessing. It was the worst of curses.
Five years passed. Ten years. Twenty years. Forty years.
Cain became a legend among the few humans who were beginning to populate the earth. "The Marked One," they called him. "The First Murderer." "The Eternal Wanderer."
Most avoided him. Those who didn't often tried to kill him, frightened by the stories, avenging themselves for some imagined sin. But the mark protected them too—anyone who tried to kill him suffered horribly. Seven times the agony, as God had promised.
Cain witnessed how men fell dead instantly after attacking him. He saw how horrible diseases consumed those who had conspired to murder him like deadly poisons. The mark was protection, but it was also a curse for anyone who touched him with homicidal intent.
Eventually, people learned to leave him alone. And Cain was left with his solitude.
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Eighty-seven years after killing Abel, Cain arrived at a place people called Nod. It was a region east of Eden, more civilized than the desert he had crossed. There were small villages, people who had learned to cultivate the earth (the earth that worked for them, but not for Cain), who raised animals, who built houses.
Cain stayed on the outskirts at first. He watched from a distance, longing for human company but fearing rejection, fear, the violence that often followed when people discovered who he was.
It was in one of those villages where he met a woman.
Her name was Awan, though she wasn't the Awan of later stories—that was one of his sisters. This Awan was a descendant of Seth, granddaughter of his younger brother. The world had already begun to populate in those years, families had expanded, humans multiplied.
It was a festival in the village. Cain had been watching from the trees, as he always did, when he smelled alcohol. Wine, fermented from wild grapes. People were dancing, laughing, celebrating a successful harvest.
And Cain, who hadn't spoken to another human being in almost six decades, who was so lonely it physically hurt, came down from his hiding place and joined the festival.
No one recognized him at first. He had let his beard grow, his hair was long and wild, and the mark on his forehead was invisible unless you really looked for it. He was just another vagabond, just another traveler.
He drank. For the first time in his long life, he drank until he got drunk. The alcohol numbed the pain, silenced the memories. For a few hours, he could forget.
Awan was there. She was beautiful in an earthy way—not with Aclima's ethereal beauty, but with a strong, practical beauty. She had dark hair like fertile earth, brown eyes like tree bark, hands calloused from work.
They talked. Well, Cain talked more than he had talked in decades. He told her stories, being careful to omit who he really was, where he came from. He told her he was a traveler, a homeless man, a wanderer.
She shared her own story. She was a widow, her husband had died in a hunting accident. She had no children. She was alone, like him.
One thing led to another.
And they had a passionate night.
Alcohol clouded his judgment. Loneliness was a desperate abyss that needed to be filled. When Awan offered him her hand and led him to her small house on the outskirts of the village, Cain didn't resist.
It was clumsy, desperate, driven by decades of loneliness more than real desire. Awan was gentle, understanding, probably as lonely as him.
They lay together that night, their bodies finding temporary solace in the darkness. For Cain, it was the first time since his exile that he felt human contact, human warmth, human connection.
When it was over, he cried. He cried for Abel, for his parents, for the life he had lost, for the years of loneliness, for everything.
Awan held him and asked no questions.
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The next morning, sober and ashamed, Cain tried to leave. But Awan stopped him.
"You don't have to leave," she said. "You can stay here. With me. If you want."
"You don't know who I am," Cain responded. "If you knew..."
"Then don't tell me," she said simply. "I don't care about your past. We all have secrets. We all have regrets. You can start over here."
For the first time in almost eight decades, Cain felt something like hope.
Two months later, Awan gave him the news: she was pregnant.
Cain froze. A son. His son. What kind of father could he be? How could he raise a child when he had killed his own brother?
But he looked at Awan, saw the hope in her eyes, the joy mixed with nervousness, and made a decision.
"I'll marry you," he said. "If you'll accept me, knowing I'm a vagabond, that I have nothing to offer except the promise to try to be a good man and a good father to our child."
"I accept you," she said, smiling.
They married in a simple ceremony. Some villagers attended, though many looked at Cain with suspicion. He was a stranger, after all. But Awan was beloved in the community, and they respected her choice.
Cain tried to integrate. But every time he tried to cultivate a garden to provide for his new family, the earth rejected him. Nothing grew under his hands. He had to find other ways to contribute—hunting (though he was never as good as Abel), construction, trade.
Seven months later, their son was born. They called him Enoch, which meant "dedicated" or "initiated." It was the beginning of something new.
Cain cried when he held Enoch for the first time. He was so small, so fragile, so perfect. And Cain made a silent vow: he would be a better father than Adam had been to him. He would see his son. He would love him. He would pay attention to him.
In the years that followed, Cain and Awan had more children. Three more children, one male and two females. They built a life together. It wasn't perfect—Cain still had nightmares, still saw Abel's face, still carried his guilt—but it was something.
When Enoch grew up, Cain did something bold. He decided to build a city. The first city created by human hands. A place where people could live together in safety, with walls to protect them from wild beasts, with houses organized in streets, with a central well for water.
He called it Enoch, in honor of his son.
It took years to build. Cain worked tirelessly, and slowly, others joined him. The city grew. Families came from other villages. Merchants established shops. Civilization began to flourish.
For a time, Cain could almost forget. He could almost believe he had found redemption in this new life.
But God's mark didn't forget. And immortality meant he would have to watch everyone he loved die.
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Awan began to age. Cain didn't.
At first, the difference was subtle. A few wrinkles around her eyes. Some gray in her hair. But as decades passed, the difference became impossible to ignore.
Cain still looked like a young man in his twenties, strong and vital. Awan became fragile, with completely white hair, with hands trembling from age.
"Why don't you age?" she asked him one night, when they had been married for more than two hundred years.
Cain couldn't keep lying. He told her everything. Who he was. What he had done. The mark. The curse.
He expected horror. He expected rejection.
Instead, Awan took his face in her trembling hands and said: "You were honest with me when it mattered. You gave me a family. You gave me love. The past is the past, Cain. What matters is the man you've been to me."
She died almost three hundred years later, at 514 years old, surrounded by her children and grandchildren.
Cain held her as she exhaled her last breath, and felt how something in his heart broke again. Not like when he killed Abel—that had been a violent, sharp break. This was a slow break, an erosion, the realization that he would love and lose again and again, eternally.
His children also aged. Enoch, his firstborn, became leader of the city that bore his name. He was a good man, wise and just. Cain was proud of him in a way that Adam had never been proud of Cain.
But Enoch also aged. And eventually died, at 365 years old, surrounded by his own children and grandchildren.
Cain buried each of his children. And then his grandchildren. And then his great-grandchildren.
The city of Enoch continued to grow, but Cain had to leave. He couldn't explain why he didn't age. People were beginning to whisper, to look at him with fear.
So he left, once again, wandering through the world that was filling more and more with humanity.
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Cain wandered for centuries.
He married again, two more times. Each time, he tried to be a good husband, a good father. Each time, he watched his family age and die while he remained young.
He learned to say goodbye. He learned to love knowing that loss was inevitable. He learned to find meaning in ephemeral moments rather than in eternity.
But it never got easier. Each loss was a new wound over the scars of previous losses.
He witnessed humanity's growth. He saw cities rise and fall. He saw wars, famines, plagues. He saw the best and worst of humanity. Much of the worst of humanity, sins that those beings committed that made him seem like a saint.
And then, more than a thousand years after killing Abel, came the Flood.
Cain was alone when the rains began. He had been living in the mountains, away from civilization, trying to find peace in solitude.
The rains didn't stop. The water rose. And rose. And rose.
Cain tried to swim. The water dragged him, sank him, smashed him against rocks. He should have died a thousand times while the entire world drowned around him.
But the mark kept him alive.
He spent forty days and forty nights under water, unable to breathe but unable to die, in an agony that defied description. He was conscious of every second, feeling his lungs burning, his body fighting for air that didn't come, his mind screaming for an end that would never come.
When the waters finally receded, Cain found himself on a desolate shore, coughing up water, trembling, completely alone in a world that had been washed clean.
"Why?" he screamed at the sky. "Why did you save Noah and his family but left me here? Wouldn't it have been more merciful to let me die?" Cain screamed after learning about the only living humans.
There was no answer. As always.
Cain complained bitterly to God for not giving him a warning, for not allowing him to at least try to save himself the right way. But deep down, he knew the truth: the mark would have kept him alive anyway. It was his punishment. To live. Always to live.
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