How to Make a Sinner Sleep

86 | satisfied; the mind of a man unbound

Kaden knew death keenly; he had experienced it firsthand. He did not need to merely imagine the slipping of life—he needed only to remember it.

Perhaps he began dying long before his seven years of exile. Perhaps, for most of his twenty-nine years of living, he had hardly lived once. The first few years of his life were entirely forgotten. He could not envision who had birthed him, his parents, a family. A home.

He only knew that one day, in his earliest memory, he had woken in the slums, knowing nothing, being nothing. He had woken and searched for food—and failed.

The child had starved for days, weeks on vegetable peels, gnawing on chewed bones tossed into the trash among the starving rats. Later, as all humans did, he adapted and learned how to steal, how to fight, how to smile prettily and occasionally gain pity.

The last method was a last resort, and he could not do it well. Having never learned to socialize, Kaden had been awkward, clumsy—but he was blessed with a decent appearance.

It wasn't quite a blessing, with the lecherous looks. But the child learned to read intention, or at least, the negative sort. And when he learned intention, he learned how to run.

Then, he was taken off the streets by a young noble boy whose hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight, even among the grime of the slums. That boy had a gentle hand, a kind touch that Kaden never knew.

The gentleness didn't last. Kaden was abandoned.

For not being enough, for lacking, for his existence that was a sin itself? That he wasn't intelligent, wasn't wise, couldn't fight or hold a sword? Because he hadn't been blessed by a plethora of talent or ability, and that to become somebody he had to kill himself?

Reed, in the beginning, simply ignored him. The abuse was carried out by the staff, those of lower backgrounds that delighted in seeing something even lower than them.

The power that they held over the scrawny boy without a lick of muscle on his bones.

At some point, the abuse stopped abruptly and Reed had come back into the picture, awakened early with a strange power. Kaden, that day, became bound to Reed by a curse. Occasionally, during his punishments in the Room, some of the staff ventured down to belittle him, abuse him.

To satisfy their unresolved frustrations at their own inadequacy.

What better helped one cope with their problems than to take it out on another? It was a coward's way; it was a human way.

His life, in entirety, was a poor, pathetic tale that ended in tragedy.

In the seven years of exile, Kaden had plenty of time to think about it. The first three, he begged to leave, to have the company of a voice even if it came in the form of insults. He screamed to the skies, lost in madness, passing each day through forceful sleep.

He wasn't used to being alone; and though company did not come in kindness, it had been there. He was trained to understand how much he was given and how blessed he was.

In the beginning, it had been Reed's curse that commanded death at Kaden's hand.

Later, it had been Kaden's own will. His obedience.

The next three, he began to hallucinate. He saw images and shadows among the towering trunks, creating shapes from the leaves. He saw eyes, bleeding and staring. He saw hands, ghastly long nails, twisted and clawing fingers drawing near.

He came to the conclusion that he was going mad. To distract himself, he was forced to think. To escape into his mind rather than face the lies of his vision.