Mark 

The re-humanizing of Cain

By Steven Kaiser

introduction, The Follower

The Follower  took his arm and attempted to wipe the sweat off of his brow, but the sweat on his arm created further complications, and instead of resolving the issue, he managed to create a concoction of mixed body sweat. He just smeared that along his face, and into his eye, where it burned. He squinted. He wiped his arm across his eyes to numb the pain. It didn’t. Then he ran his arm across his lips, which gave him a dose of the salty mixture. He decided it was all useless.

He had been to what must have been to at least a hundred homes, and not one person had so much as allowed him to speak. He was nearly ready to quit, altogether, and go home. He grimaced. Such a mess. We must keep clean, he thought. He licked his lips, and cringed even further. His shirt was sticking to his chest. It was polyester, and his pants were wool. Polyester and wool. He couldn’t remember why he decided to wear them on  a nearly hundred degree day. What was he thinking? Why do I own all wool pants? Oh yes. That’s why he was wearing them. He was an idiot. He could have bought normal cool pants, but he wanted to look elegant for everyone else. Why did he do that? 

His pockets were full of the used papers that he wrote on to remember this maze of a neighborhood. He balled them up as he finished writing on them. His pockets were a mess, but the sheets would still be there if he ever needed them. His papers were just that, a mess, but in what ever shape they were in, they were still there if he ever needed to remind himself where he had been and where he needed to go. This community was easy to get lost in, and he often found himself that way, lost. 

He also saved the pencil shavings from his pencil, so his wool pockets were not only full of paper waste, but itchy wood pieces, too. So either graphite was in his pocket making a confusing, carbon mess, or structured into the ungodly memories he had there on the papers he believed he was there to follow. I must keep the world clean. No littering. You’d have to be losing your mind to be a litterer. Better to have a bit of discomfort than not to be the best man you can be.

He then swept his long, drenched hairs on the side of his balding head, and tossed it all over to the other side of his scalp. He didn’t like the idea of growing old, and he chose to hide this fear of death by covering it with his younger hair.

He tried not to think about his hip. And his feet. But mainly his hip. Something was not in its place there. he couldn’t figure out how to connect with all the people, and it was driving him mad.

What he would do for a bit of cold air, and maybe an iced drink. He tried to remember the last time he had a drink, but in the end, he decided not to think about it, because it was making him thirsty. But now that his thirst was out of his head, he started thinking about that darn hip… and his foot.

Where did I park anyway? When he looked around, everything was the same… but in reality, he could have been anywhere. 

As he crossed an uncut grassy, and then muddy field, he avoided and ignored the litter of glassy shards that were seemingly scampering along the ground, because that was what people did with sharp messes like this, they avoided and ignored them. They avoided and ignored their inconsistencies so that their realities fit properly. In fact, at first, he didn’t even know the house was there, altogether. 

Deep in these muddy, dirty fields sat this house. And although it was rotted through, and dumpy, like a shed, it had a cozy feel to it, and it looked like it had been that way for many years. No wonder he nearly missed it. It practically looked like part of nature. Even grass was growing on the roof in clumps. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it a home, more like a reflection of who was in it, he guessed. That said, the Follower decided that a home had a family in it, just like his family at his home, and it had a warmth emanating out of it. The Follower would soon find that this shack of a house had only one occupant, which made it less of a home, but it was a house nonetheless. So he would visit there, anyway. It very nearly felt like a home because it appeared to be becoming part of nature, which seemed to the follower to be homely and safe.

As for this crazy looking house, the Follower decided, the walls to the house were the legs of a newborn horse, desperately trying, and failing, to balance itself. It was such an old house, the shingles looked disheveled, broken, and each one was solid, like they were from another era. 

The Follower considered turning around. After all, this was the last house on this street, at a dead end. But clean sweep is better than cutting corners, he decided. 

The Follower knocked on the door softly. Normally, he would pound three times to make himself known, but he feared that he might break down the door, or worse. The door, no, the house looked to be in a terrible, rotting state. The walls were rotting, the door was too, and even the roof was full of decrepit holes and gaps. The Follower wondered why the entire house hadn’t fallen over already. Who would want to live in such a mess?

And besides, the Follower’s door knocking hand was hurting. Something was not in place there either. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was off. There was a pause, and then someone answered. The Follower froze. “Hi. Uh…” He gazed at a man, his eyes frozen. The Follower had forgotten what to say. The homeowner’s skin was hard to look at directly. Its was tough and rough. There was something dirty about it, but it didn’t have any dirt on it, possibly at all. It wasn’t that there was something wrong with the homeowner’s skin, or even that there was something on it. It’s just that it felt to the Follower that it was all wrong, like he wasn’t supposed to be looking at it. Or maybe even that he shouldn’t be as near to it as he was at the moment. 

This home dweller smiled, softly. 

The Follower tried to speak, but something was still itching at his brain. Something was not in its place. Maybe it was the Follower’s voice. After all, the Follower was having a hard time speaking. No, that’s not it. First of all, this man in front of the Follower looked young. Maybe 14. But at the same time, the stranger’s disposition appeared to be really, really old. He didn’t look old; he just seemed all wrong for 14. And his living quarters didn’t help either. The room behind the door contained of mostly antiques, and old items. Possibly many times older than the boy. They weren’t just old… they were extremely old. He had a sofa that must have been at least a couple of centuries old. The Follower noticed the stitching. It was strong and well sown, probably by hand since the stitches were each separated at different distances. Furthermore, they were worn. The fabric was torn, possibly from misuse, or overuse. Even the worn stitching was heavy and thick.

“Yes?” 

The Follower abruptly composed himself. “Yes. Ahem. Have you taken your Lord, into your heart to be your savior?” The Follower gave a practiced smile. He then immediately sulked. He was not into it anymore. He was not tired. He was overtired. He just wanted for it to end, already. He wanted to go home to his family, and go to sleep. He paused and waited for the dreaded slam in the face. But, instead he got something else. 

The stranger smiled and asked, “You look thirsty. Would you like a drink?” 

“Yes thank you. I could die!”

The boy grinned.

And for the first time that day, the Follower stepped into a stranger’s home. If it were possible, inside the house was hotter than the outside. The house was a sauna. The room smelled of dust, antiques, and mold. There was a draft, and the Follower wondered if the walls were insulated at all. Actually, he could tell they weren’t because he could see through them, to the dying embers of the day where it was cooler outdoors, where the holes were in them. 

The dusty floor boards had cracks in them, too, and every so often the Follower would swear he saw something scampering by underneath. At the same time, he was sure the creatures were escaping the home, to the outdoors, where it was cooler.

But between the drafts of air from the cracks came soft waves of sweltering heat from the fireplace. The Follower did his best to avoid doing it, but eventually he took a deep breath to it, taking in not only the heat, but also the musty smell. Aside from the overwhelming heat, the room, itself, looked quite comforting and homely in itself, he decided. He wouldn’t call it a home, but it was homely in a fitting, and peaceful way.

After a glass of water had been poured for each of them, they sat down on a couple of recliner chairs that each made a creak as they sat, and the Follower spoke, “They call me Frank.”

“They Call me Mark.” Mark smiled again.

“Well Mark, I-”

“Well, actually, um, my name isn’t really Mark. That’s just what I want them to call me.”

“Who?”

“You know…them. Everyone. Sometimes ‘Mark’ works enough for them, and sometimes, they want more. They want the truth, and they want it now. That’s the thing about people and the truth… they are always changing, aren’t they?”

“People or truths?”

“Both. Their truths are always changing, aren’t they? After all, truths aren’t facts. They are time sensitive. So a name means more than a name sometimes, and at other times, they don’t even remember what the darn thing is in the first place… so who cares? They don’t. They just need a reason to emote and have a focus at that moment. What’s in a name, right? Sometimes, over the years, I just forget my real name. But then I remember, and then I remember why I haven’t moved. Would you mind throwing another log on the fire?”

After some trepidation, the Follower did.

“So what were you going to say?”

  “Um…” Frank looked confused. Who was this man? Why did he tell me that he wanted others to call him Mark, but then he wasn’t? “Right.” He needed to get to what was important, anyway. “Our Lord has told me to find his followers. That is why I’m here.” 

Mark returned the friendly smile, “Really?” He sounded genuine, not sarcastic. 

The Follower tried his best to keep his composure. He was so excited. He finally had a reason to be here. Could he have finally found a new follower? He had worked so hard and for so long. “You know,” and the stranger placed his hands together, “it has been such a long time,” The stranger’s skin made the Follower feel awkward, and the longer he stood there and looked at it, the more uncomfortable he felt. “Since I have spoken with God…” Something about his skin. The Follower flinched uncomfortably and then resumed his focus on the stranger’s skin across his body. He knew staring was wrong, but he just had to. It looked different now, somehow. It looked exactly the same, but different… more disturbing. This boy, Mark, was the same person now as he was five minutes ago, but still, now, he was a completely different person, an averse person.

“You know, there is something about your skin,” He needed to know. The Follower felt even more awkward for bringing it up, but he needed to. At the same time, he wanted to know why, but social convention would have made it inappropriate for him to ask. What if this man had a condition? What if he was dangerous? He needed to ask. Should the Follower call the police? What was wrong with this guy? Maybe he’ll ask later… much later, when he was gone, very gone. No. Now. -because, sometimes, when life throws you lemons, they feel like apples and they hurt you, and you have to be the one to do something about it, even if they don’t seem to bother anyone else -because they aren’t the ones having apples, he meant lemons, being thrown at them. 

The Follower wasn’t sure if it was from his excitement from finding this boy, or from the strange skin. “I mean, it just glows. Do you use skin conditioner?” But his last words were only nervous banter, and he spoke too quietly under a quivering voice, anyway. Something was terribly wrong, and he could feel it in his gut. He couldn’t help but look at this stranger’s skin. It was like watching a car wreck. You just had to look for one more second, regardless of the car in front of you that you were about to hit. Just one more second. Everything was wrong with it, but you still had to look. He took a sip of his water.

“It’s been several thousands of years, if I remember correctly,” Said Mark.

“Huh?” Said the Follower.

“thousands of years since I spoke with God.” 

The Follower stopped drinking his water, half gulp, and froze. The Follower stood up.  Normally, he would have assumed this whole thing was just an elaborate joke, but there was just something about this guy, and besides, he was starting to have his doubts if he should really have been in this man’s home in the first place, a home that was uncomfortably warm, and inhabited by, quite possibly, a dangerous man. Who has a fire in the middle of summer anyway? 

The Follower didn’t know what to do. This man just admitted to speaking with God, and not to God, with him, and directly. Nobody speaks with God, maybe to God, but with him?  Now, the house he was standing in was no longer the comforting place it originally was.   

The Follower was having a hard time standing without shaking, even in the heat, and the water in his glass threatened to topple over the edge. 

Mark noticed. “You know, it all happened a long time ago. I mean I’m just huma- oh never mind…” Mark stood up as he watched Frank. Mark looked genuinely concerned.  

The Follower was walking backwards at this point, and heading in the direction of the door, his legs barely holding him up, kind of like a baby horse. He nearly tripped on an ottoman as he backed out. 

“Thanks for stopping by. You’re welcome to stop in at any time!” he called, but the Follower was already half way down the street.  

The Follower noticed that he was still holding over half a glass of water. He was sweating profusely from walking in such a hot day, and being in that ridiculously hot house, and he was still parched. He was sure that if he didn’t have a drink soon, he might pass out. He tossed out the rest of the water on to the street and threw the glass along the curb, shattering the glass all over the ground.