The curtains opened and revealed a hospital to him. Where was it? Who was he? Such questions leading to discrimination didn't matter to him right now, only the usual dull world out there would care about such junk, but... him? Oh yes, he knew he was a he –though sometimes, even that didn't matter. The hospital was not a hospital actually, it was an asylum; a fact most of the patients did not even know existed.
Until some months before, he was staying with four other people in a room that was real gloomy and typical, ordinary beds lined up, on which lay poor lunatics who seemed to be forgotten by the doctors and/or nurses most of the time. But one cool autumn night –he wasn't sure about it, but the trees were putting off their dark orange and light brown leaves, so he assumed it was fall- the first step of the change occurred. The poor young lunatic, who assumed himself to be that way, got transported to another room, where he lacked the uneasy and mostly unintelligible murmurs of his roommates. His only companions were the blank walls, the better-than-before bed and the landscape filling the window. He wasn't complaining, though, oh no! Contrarily, he was happier since he now was surrounded by some real social walls that understood and laughed at his jokes. So technically, he was never alone, but he knew the walls were cold inside as well as they were outside.
The ladder had six steps, easy enough for a child... or a lunatic. The second step revealed itself not long after the first, there was a new nurse in the asylum –well, at least he had seen her for the first time during his long years there. She didn't look like the other nurses though, she was slightly plump with a pretty young face. She might not be the type of woman the club-goer-men would like, but the young man was immediately attracted to her. Maybe it was her attitude which was way different than the other nurses, or maybe it was her eyes, two remarkably bright emeralds that made him fall for her; but he somehow knew she was interested in him too. Maybe she was the one who transported him here? He liked the idea though its high possibility of impossibility.
The walls were warmer now, like the sun hanging there fighting the clouds fed up with rain. She was a little pale though, when he asked her if she was sick too, she had only laughed and then whispered in her balmy tone of melody that it was not the time yet. Time for what? He didn't know. Was he imagining her too? He hoped not.
Third step came when he was having a schizo-attack, the medicine given to him made it only worse. Walls were pitch-black now, drawing him into the darkness, wanting to consume him, get him lost in the asphalt of the twisted corners of his mind. Then, beyond the creepy figures that emerged from the walls, that were even darker than the walls, he heard the balmy tone singing to him, the familiar touch of her small, compassionate hands. They were cold, but he didn't mind, she was her savior, her light. She gave him the elixir of life, spilling form the marble fountain that was once her fragile wrist, and then he was finally alive again. The walls retracted, his and her eyes were tied with an unfastenable knot, but he knew walls were craving for him, so he was afraid, more afraid that he had even been, he begged her to stay. The small woman held the bigger man close, he could swear he saw something on her face before trying to get lost in the oasis of her arms, was it regret? He didn't mind, he felt even closer to her somehow. He begged her again, to stay, never to flee away, because he was helpless without her. He fell asleep in their embrace, trusting her to fight off the darkness and the cold; somehow knowing that she cried all night holding him next to her.
Then the fourth step came on a snowy night, he realized he never wondered why his protectoress never showed up during day; but it was okay, the walls always and only fed with darkness. That night she came to his room as usual, but her pretty face was covered with a serious expression; she said she was going to tell him a story. He hoped there weren't dwarves in it –since dwarves were too evil-, but she answered him that her story was darker and scarier that the dwarves and –she whispered- maybe even the walls. He covered his mouth with both his hands, not being able to stop his gasp, but she held them in her cool ones, smiling, calming him down.
Stories don't have voices, so they need a story-teller to conduct their symphony. That story which contained more discrimination and horror than the people of the world outside would and could know, chose the pretty nurse's balmy voice; maybe because in the mouths of other people, it would become really real, but pretty nurse prevented that and protected him again.
When her voice drifted into the nothingness enslaved by the now-silent walls, she shared more of her life with him. He felt more and more alive; maybe it was the elixir's bright redness. After that he was dazed, lost in the life in ruby and the emerald in her gaze. She said they were closer now, he was hers, and she was going to protect him. Knowing the real story now, he begged her to take him, but she again said it was not the time. This time he had felt the sorrow in her heart and doubt on her mind when she cried while she cradled him.
The fifth step was climbed in a moderate garden that smelled roses when caressed by the courteous spring breeze, at midnight. First it was the kiss that was shared, then the elixir; he had forgotten the story up until then. She said he was now completely bound to him, and this time cried in front of him. He was the one embracing her this time, knowing it was a right and necessary commitment. She cried ruby tears as he begged her to take him, once more. She told him that it was real soon, and called him her love; they departed. She had said some things more, but they hurt him, so he let them float on Lethe. After that night, he never saw her; the last step was never climbed.
He knew he was going crazy, and it was nothing like before. He woke up from wet dreams of her, his shattered mind and slender body yearning for her. It was nothing like before. Even the walls now taunted him with her image, the dark figures penetrating her while he cried there, hopeless. He cried so much that they gave him more medicine, but it was not the elixir, the syringes were never her cool wrist. His body went paralyzed, his soul fell into torpor –and he had plucked out those words from her story, he knew, and knowing this made him quiver more in pain- but he never seized crying.
He prayed to God for her return, questioned God, prayed her to return, remembered the story again and then what she said to him at their departure. She was the creature of night, wrapped up in sin, washed in blood. She never cared about 'humans', but she was drawn to him just like a cat that was dazed by the mouse. If he was the mouse, was she going to capture and eat him? She laughed. She was never a nurse, never a part of medicine –then how did she cure him? It was a part of the story, she reminded him, it was her magic for him. She called herself Cainite. Did that mean 'of Cain'? It was 'Caine', and yes, it did mean that. So was she a murderer? She consumed lives in order to live, she took their elixir. So she sinned…? That was exactly she had told him. But she had shared her elixir, so she was good to him? It was all confusing. She had explained him all without the hint of boredom, but he was too confused and insane to completely understand it. She had laughed softly, with understanding, and said that it was the difference between 'kine', the humans –he was a cow?- and the Cainites –he was still not sure what it really meant. She said that she was insane as much as he was; it was her clan's weakness. Was she of some tribe? She had laughed. Of course not. And she had explained those too.
Then he got back to now, he was about to go crazy again, just to see her once, to hold her cold hands once, to caress her full lips once, to touch her plump body once. He let out a cry of a madman and punched the walls. The walls did not dare to respond for the first time. He felt sorrow and hopelessness, just like he knew she once did. He yelled to the walls that he would do anything to see her; screamed that he would become a sin that wrapped around her plump naked body. The walls cringed and cried ruby tears onto his hands, just like she did before she departed.
He was laughing hysterically when the poor nurses fondled him with a straitjacket and he never stopped until he was locked up in a small and dirty cell. He thought she really must have dazzled the people of high places in order to put him in a nice room, and he realized he was yearning for her again. He again got lost in epiphora, screaming he needed the life from her death, wishing he could cry his grief onto her bosom; he prayed to her, for her, until he simply got blinded by his tears and delusions.
He had accepted the fact that his dark beloved was not to return, he was muttering to himself, detached from the real world. But then… she came, breaking the cell door and jumping onto him and sinking her teeth into his neck just the second he asked what she was waiting for. Yes, he was ready for this. He screamed with pain. No sound but his frequent painful screams that finally turned into orgasmic ones and her sucking that became a fetish-like melody. Finally she licked the wound closed, and as if she wanted to compensate for it, bit her wrist.
She fed him her elixir; it was different this time, euphoric, like Satan taunting the angels in Heaven that he had the best drinks in the pits of his Hell. Then it hurt, it was the last step; he screamed with joyous pain. Delusions got serious, some got real; he screamed more, but still loving every second of his transformation. He saw a sneer that turned into a smirk on her face and heard her say, "He who testifieth these things saith, Yea: I come quickly. Amen: come, Lord Jesus." And he screamed this time, "YEA!"
Animalistic feelings filled his soul as the insight rushed into his mind. Was he Jesus now, being resurrected? Was she God? He laughed hard and long. She held him close as they left the asylum, after the massacre they caused, of course.
No, they were the childer of Caine; against them, Jesus was only a life to take in order to live... and die more...