Prologue: Hazel Eyes

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Cain opened the door to his family's 2 story townhome, painted a light tan with minimal flaws, and always upheld the neighborhood's standards. He silently took off his shoes and placed his backpack on the floor before heading up to his room.

This was his home. If you could even call it that.

Cain couldn't remember the last time he actually talked to his family, so long ago was it that his memory began to haze over their faces. He was practically a ghost living in his own home.

His family wasn't rich nor poor, just your average middle class family living in northern California. He could recall that his father works as an engineer for a tech software company somewhere down south. He knew his mother works as a clerk, but as for what company, he couldn't quite remember. It didn't matter to him much anyways, why would he care for his "family" when they could hardly recall his existence? Even he realized something was off about his family.

However, it wasn't until kindergarten when he found just what it was.

It was after school when kids were climbing over one another to leave and their parents came to pick them up in their expensive BMW's, always laughing and praising their childs terrible paintings and dumb jokes.

While he stood there, alone, watching and assessing how they laughed. When it was appropriate to laugh, when it wasn't, and how fake a smile so well that it seemed you were fully engaged in the other persons words. If there was one thing he was proud about, it had to be when to recognize a fake smile, noting the strained lines on the mouth and the dull look in their eyes.

He couldn't understand why other kids' parents would keep their child's bad art and praise them for something so insignificant.

And so, one day, he came to the conclusion that if he couldn't put the puzzle together then he could ask his teacher. After all, adults

were masters at pretending.

"Mrs. Summers, why does everyone else give their paintings to their parents?"

Cain would always remember the look of distraught on the middle aged woman's face when he asked his question. How her usual fake smile dropped and the shine in her eyes

faded ever so slightly.

"Cain, why would you ask such a thing?"

"I want to know why."

There was a slight moment of silence, where Mrs. Summers looked Cain in the eyes. The silent question, "Are you serious?", hung in the air. Finally, after she realized Cain was asking a genuine question, she opened her

mouth.

"Well… it's because… well every parent should… everyone loves a gift…"

She never really gave him a solid answer, scattered fragments at best. But at least her stammering and stuttering gave Cain enough proof that he realized he shouldn't have asked. Something was different about his situation, he was missing a key point. He figured that he shouldn't let others find out why he never drew any art during class or why he walks home alone.

It wasn't just kindergarten, though.

For his first school field trip in 3rd grade, Cain vividly remembered sitting alone in class and eating goldfish he brought for lunch. His dull eyes watching the corner light attract flies due to it's slightly yellower light.

The night before, Cain had tried to talk to his mother about signing the form allowing him to attend the trip. He followed her around like a baby duckling, chatting about how he needed to get her signature if he didn't want to wait in class alone while everyone else went and had fun. However, he stopped trying to convince his mom after she shut the door to her room in his face and told him to prepare dinner.

He was pretty sure that that was the last time his mother spoke to him. He couldn't exactly remember how long ago it was, but it had definitely been years.

So long ago was it that Cain had started to permanently forget what his mother looked like. From his earlier memories he thought she had dusty brown hair with slightly tan skin, but she also could have had more common brown hair and olive skin. He could also vaguely remember freckles on his mother's face, she used to tell him often that each freckle was a kiss from an angle.

But Cain could never forget her eyes, there was something different that swirled in her hazel filled eyes. Something wrong and twisted, she looked at him like he wasn't supposed to be here. Similar to how a ghost would feel, physically present but also transparent. Not at all how the other mothers looked at their kids, as they smiled their toothy smiles and waved around their painted stick figures. It was those indifferent eyes that bore a hole in Cain's soul, a pit that he could never quite fill.

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