Page 3 of Two Sides of Sin

Cain

The glass was still clouded with the heat of Julian’s palm, a smudge of imperfection that irritated me. Sentimentality was a parasite my brother had carried since the womb, and lately, it was gorging itself on his spirit. I took a linen handkerchief from my breast pocket and wiped the pane clean, erasing the last trace of his touch. I preferred my view unobstructed.

I watched the girl, June, as she drifted towards the perimeter of the estate. At fifteen, she was transitioning from a child into something far more useful. Her movements were fluid, unaware of the eyes that tracked her every shift in posture. Julian sees a girl. I see a six-year countdown. By June 14th, when she turns twenty-one, the harvest begins. And I have spent too much blood to allow my brother’s wavering heart to ruin the yield.

The move to this dead town wasn’t an act of mercy. It was a calculated decision. Julian had whined about the “necessity” of caring for our sick grandmother, pointing out that our family wealth could have staffed a private hospital for her. He never understood that our poor grandmother was merely our camouflage. She provided the narrative: the “Blackburn Boys,” the grieving grandsons returning to their roots. It gave us a fortress and a mask. When the old woman finally stopped breathing ten months later, the town’s sympathy became our permanent shield. I didn’t stay because of the inherited manor; I stayed because the proximity to June was a non-negotiable.

When I stood in the back of that stone chapel. I was looking for a specific frequency of vulnerability. I saw it in the third pew. The way the stained glass fractured the light, creating that golden circle around her head, it wasn’t a halo. It was a target.

She was a girl being erased by her own life. Parents who viewed her as a burden, a community that looked past her. Neglect creates a hollow space, and I knew I could fill that space with whatever I chose. She was the perfect, unblemished vessel for the Ritual. I didn’t choose her because she was “special”, I chose her because she was available for the taking.

Julian is a necessary complication. He plays the role of the doting hero with a terrifyingly natural grace, weaving a gilded cage of poetry and lies. He thinks he’s being exactly what she needs when he borrows those dusty poetry books from the library. He thinks he’s being a Saint of sorts when he sits in the garden and listens to her babble about her paintings and her day at school.

I allow it. In fact, I encourage it.

The Ritual requires a sacrifice that is whole, devoted, and willing. Terror is a primitive, unstable fuel, it burns bright and then consumes the subject. But devotion.. Devotion is a slow, steady burn. Julian provides the love that fattens the calf for the slaughter. Every time he reads her Annabel Lee, he is just adding another lock to her door. He thinks he’s keeping a secret from me, but he doesn’t realise he is merely my most effective instrument.

I’ve watched him stare at her, captivated, when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ve heard him laugh at her juvenile little jokes. He’s becoming addicted to the girl he thinks he’s saving. I will let him keep his delusions for now. It keeps him compliant.

Julian still haunts me about that one night before we moved, the night he found me in a room painted with blood. He called it a nervous breakdown, and maybe he was right. That blood was the down payment on our eternity. I have already paid the price in advance, stripping away the useless parts of myself, like mercy, hesitation, and regret, to make room for the power to come.

June thinks we are her salvation from a broken home. She didn't escape her cage. She was just moved to a new one.

“Six years, Julian,” I whispered to the empty room.

“Don’t starve her of her innocence too quickly, the fall is much sweeter when it’s slow.”

Chapter 3

June

At eighteen, the world was a collection of jagged edges that never quite fit together, but the weight of Cain and Julian was heavier than all of it combined. For as long as I could remember, I had been a girl with a hollow centre, a byproduct of parents who had long ago prioritised their next high over their own daughter. I was a ghost in my own home, a piece of furniture they forgot to pack when they finally drifted away into the fog of their addiction.

I never felt like I belonged anywhere until I was left on the doorstep of the only light I ever knew: Nana. She was the most stable person in my life, the anchor that kept me from being swept out to sea. I couldn’t imagine a world without her, but as her knees grew stiff and her hands began to shake, I saw the world starting to fray at the edges again.

Then came the boys from the manor on the hill.

They functioned more like beautiful, ancient shadows that had interlaced themselves into the very fabric of our lives. They filled a gap that had been there since my infancy. It started with heavy bags of groceries left on the kitchen counter and the sound of a hammer hitting nails as they fixed the shutters Nana could no longer reach. They kept the lawn manicured and the house humming with a life it hadn’t seen in decades. They were the family I never had and the protectors I never thought I deserved. They wove their way into my heart before I even realised the stitching was being laid.

They moved through the world with an effortless, liquid grace that made my clumsy teenage life feel dull, in comparison, like a black and white movie playing against a high definition backdrop. It wasn’t just that they were both extremely handsome, it was the terrifying knowledge that they watched everything. They didn’t just inhabit my life... they curated it.

They were magnetic, but they pulled at me in entirely different ways. Julian was attractive in a way that made you feel safe, a heavy, enveloping warmth that promised to shield you from the dark. But Cain... Cain was attractive in a way that made it impossible to keep eye contact for more than a second without feeling like prey being cornered. Looking into his eyes felt like staring straight at a trap you couldn't stop yourself from walking into, a beautiful tragedy waiting to happen. Together, their energies formed a spectrum of ruin I was powerless to escape.

This year, however, I had found a momentary shield, Alex.

Alex was the new kid in my History class. He was a spark of something human in a world that was rapidly going to hell. He lived three streets down from Nana’s house, and for the first time in forever, I had a genuine friendship with someone my own age. It felt like breathing in fresh air after being underwater for too long.

Every afternoon, Alex would wait for me by the school gates, clutching his worn backpack straps as if they were a lifeline. As we began the walk home, like clockwork, the twins twisted protocol of surveillance would click into place, their obsessive need to track my every movement, resuming its predictable familiar routine.

Julian would usually tail us on the opposite side of the street, blending into the scenery like a well dressed stalker. He was the “gentle” shadow, the one who made sure no one bothered us, the one who gave me a sad, knowing smile if our eyes met.

Cain wouldn’t bother with pretences. He’d follow us in his black Pontiac Firebird, crawling at a walking pace just a few feet behind us. He didn’t care about subtlety. He wanted Alex to know he was being tracked. He wanted me to feel the heat of the engine on my heels.

“So… I’ll see you tomorrow, June,” Alex said as we reached the split in our roads, the final checkpoint. He was shuffling his feet, staring at the pavement, the setting sun casting long, orange shadows across the asphalt. The black pony car had pulled over to the curb, the engine idling with a low, predatory hum.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” I replied, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. I liked Alex. I liked the way his nervousness made my own constant anxiety feel less obvious and awkward.

I looked up, meeting his gaze, and for a heartbeat, it felt like staring into a mirror I hadn’t asked for. His eyes were a striking, earnest blue, a shade that so cruelly resembled my own. It was disarming to see such sincerity reflected in a colour I usually associated with the coldness of my own reflection.