The Mark

Have you ever walked down the street feeling children's eyes staring at you? I'm sure this isn't an experience exclusive to being me; I've met some freaks before who shared the same curse. My curse is experiencing that for around 6,000 years. I don't know exactly; I stopped counting around 1,000. I wouldn't wish this curse on anyone, not even Abel. Speaking of him, my brother, I regret what I had done to him. When I wake to look in the mirror, I see parts of him and hold back tears. I guess it's another cruel curse to see my brother, my victim, anytime I see my own face. I wonder if you've heard the stories. There are so many versions of worshiping thy Father that I'm not even sure my story is told in them all anymore. I guess even if you have heard the story, you haven't heard my version.

I toiled in the fields all day, pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into my crops as Abel played with his sheep and tried to keep them from trouble, though for some reason I'd find the edges of my fields nibbled at by those animals. When the harvest came, I gave my brother a share; he had picked the best of the harvest, and I didn't mind. Abel was my brother, after all. I took the worst of the harvest, the smallest and worst of the crop; I didn't need anything special. I'd given the rest of my best to Awan; she was beauty itself. She had all the best traits from thy Father; she felt and looked godly, like she had come from more than Adam and Eve. I lusted for her; I won't lie. That was one of my sins, though I still had presented good crops to thy Father as an offering. He turned his nose up at it and praised Abel when he had brought his best sheep, the young and well-fed, off my crops. I felt wrath as I watched Abel be praised by thy Father. I was warned sin was at my door and I must not open it, but for me it was too late. That night I hadn't slept and asked Abel to join me in a walk in the field at dawn. He gloated about having the better offering, and I had picked up a large rock and thrown it at his head. Abel twitched but didn't stand. I shook him, but he wouldn't move. I hadn't known death; I didn't think we could be slaughtered like sheep. I panicked, left him, and lied to thy Father. I am not my brother's keeper. I was banished, a mark placed upon me, one you would think is a condition. For years none would touch me until slowly, as hundreds of years passed, people forgot what the mark was. None would kill me but didn't know why. I've aged maybe a few years, but entirely too slowly.

That's about where the book ends the story. Years passed, different periods of men, different lords who reminded me of my own, but that isn't why I decided to write.

Years I spent in a circus traveling the world, heralded as Cain, the first killer, children with candy, fathers' wives in dresses came to stare at me, and thy mark was forced upon me. Some believed; others called me a liar, but none would listen to my warnings unless coated in story or song, like coating a bitter pill in sweet sugar to make it easier to swallow. I left; I couldn't stand being seen as the first killer and my mark any longer. It happened to be at a stop in what was early America. I wandered with a guitar, shared stories and songs town to town, city to city, dock to dock, places where no one knew my name or my mark and would listen and throw coins. I watched society grow; sometimes I assisted through song, sometimes practically, and sometimes just preaching for progression to stop stoning thy sinners and shunning thy queers. I watched the world grow from stoning and hanging to living in a form of tense peace. I watched how men destroyed it; it took one voice to destroy years of progress. World War 2 is when I saw the horrors; men maltreated women and children killed for who their relatives were. I saw the minority of men cause the world to descend back to the time of stoning and hangings. I saw men like me, rash, angry, full of wrath they couldn't control, men who were better than me, devolve to throwing stones deadlier than the stone I'd thrown. The war ended with the power of thy Father himself used by man to destroy 2 cities and kill so many. I worried the world would end, thought thy Father himself would flood the world again and break his promise, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I was so naive; now the world is closer than ever to destroying itself. Many countries held the power of gods, and if one used the power, the rest would too and set the world back to the worst of times. I do not know if any would survive. I pray if none do, I do not live either. I fear being alone. I have built a life where my mark means nothing. I tell stories to children, I sing songs to men and women, and I return home hoping I can make amends.

If any happen to see this wherever I decide to post it, I pray you believe me. I am Cain, the one who killed Abel, the one who carries the mark. I am not some man with schizophrenia who thinks he is Jesus; I am Cain. I pray all of you change your ways and stop the end before it arrives. I beg you to listen and not make the mistakes I had in the past.