InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 4: Justification ❯ Cain's Confession ( Chapter 66 )

Gin blinked and frowned as she tried to shake off the nagging sense of confusion that clung to her brain.  Slow, sluggish, entirely lethargic, it took her a minute to figure out that she was curled up on the sofa with a thick bronze blanket of sorts that smelled entirely too familiar.  Whimpering softly as her mind tried to deny what her senses told her, she couldn't seem to summon the strength to push Cain's Mokomoko-sama away.

'Where is he?  He said he'd be here when I woke up, but . . .'

Struggling to sit up, Gin winced as her aching body protested, and she ground her teeth together in grim determination.  She needed to get up.  She needed to find him . . .

"Hey, you're awake.  Good," Cain said softly.  Gin gasped as he scooped her up and sat on the sofa, nestling her against his shoulder as he pulled the Mokomoko-sama over her again.  "I, uh, brought you this, in case you woke up before I got back."

"Where did you go?" she asked, her voice dry and cracking.

"I ran to the store.  Bought a few things for you to eat.  Can you try?"

Gin squeezed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose.  "I don't want anything . . . I'm not hungry."

"This is not negotiable," he countered.  "I'll make you a deal: if you eat, I'll let you borrow my Mokomoko-sama for as long as you want, but you have to agree to eat."

Just the mention of food was enough to make her stomach lurch unpleasantly.  Still Gin nodded.  "All right."

Cain sighed and gave her a little squeeze before scooting her off his lap so he could stand up.  Gin peered over the back of the sofa as he strode toward the kitchen.  Frowning as she gazed around her apartment, she pulled the fluffy 'blanket' closer and shook her head.  "Cain?  Did you clean?"

He seemed surprised by her question.  Looking around quickly as his cheeks reddened, he shrugged and forced a small smile.  "Yeah, I did."

She winced as her ears flattened, and she sank down on the couch again.  "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he told her as he came back to her and held out a mug.  "It's not fancy, but it seemed safer," he explained as he lifted the spoon with thick, creamy golden broth.

Unable to contain her groan when the smell of the soup infiltrated her senses, Gin leaned away.  "What is that?"

Cain held it out to her so that she could get a better look.  "Chicken broth.  Best thing for weakened stomachs."

She let him feed her, and swallowed hard.  It wasn't nearly as bad as it looked.  It wasn't really bad at all.  Too bad the very smell of food made her stomach want to turn inside out.  If it weren't for Cain's close scrutiny, Gin might have been tempted completely to ignore it.  "Where'd you get that?" she asked before he could stuff her mouth again.

"I know a few people at Yokota Air Force Base.  They hooked me up."

"For me?"

He shrugged and tried to smile.  It looked more like a grimace.  "I'm sorry, Gin.  I was an ass, and—"

"No, you were right.  I should have known.  I should have asked, and you had every right to be mad at me.  I was stupid and thoughtless, and I—"

"You're not stupid or thoughtless," he grumbled.  "Listen . . . I was mad, and I took it out on you, but you have to know I . . . I wasn't mad at you.  I don't think I can be mad at you."

". . . Really?"

He nodded.  "Absolutely."

She started to smile, but faltered.  Cain looked like he had a suspicion about what she was thinking.  "I'm still sorry."

He looked tired—really tired, but he shrugged and tapped his fingertips together.  "So am I . . . I came over to tell you that right after you'd left.  I guess . . . I was ashamed of the things I'd said.  I didn't mean them; any of them."

She let him feed her a few more spoonfuls of the broth before she turned her face to the side as her stomach lurched again.  "I can feed myself," she informed him, arching an eyebrow to emphasize her claim.

"I know you can," he agreed, allowing her a small smile that was a little bashful and entirely endearing.  "I want to do this.  Just let me?"

She nodded slowly but caught his wrist before he could feed her the next spoonful.  He didn't want to talk about it, certainly, but she needed to say it.  "I know what you said, but I can't help it.  I can't believe you killed her, you know?"

Cain stopped abruptly, spoon lingering in mid-air in front of her face.  With a defeated sigh, he dropped the spoon back into the mug and set it on the table before retrieving the half-full glass of milk and carefully putting it in her hand.  "I was going to wait till you were a little stronger," he explained.  "Are you tired?  If you are, it's okay.  It can wait."

Gin stared into the glass, absently noting how her hand trembled just a little, how the surface of the milk wobbled.  "I'm all right."

He drew a deep breath, hand lingering over the cigarettes in his pocket.  Deciding against it, he let his hand fall away as he sat back and seemed to be trying to figure out where to initiate his tale.  "You deserve to know what happened," he began softly, glowering at the coffee table, unable to meet her gaze.  "I've never told anyone.  Maybe I thought that if I did, everyone would think I was a monster, too, and Bellaniece . . . She deserved better."

"You don't have to tell me," Gin cut in with a shake of her head.

"I know," he answered with a sad little smile.  "Maybe I just need to tell someone."

Gin swallowed some milk and waited.  Cain rubbed his face wearily and drew another deep breath.  He looked like he was trying to make up his mind about something, but in the end, he still looked just as confused as he had in the beginning.  "I have no idea where to start."

"The beginning?" she suggested.

Cain nodded, leaning forward, propping his elbow on his knee as he tapped his claw against his lips.  "The beginning . . . ?  Okay . . . The beginning . . ." The pensive look on his face gave way to a wistful sort of ambivalence.  Having come to terms with the words that had eluded him, he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.  "About twenty years ago, I lived outside Miami.  I've always been kind of reclusive, I guess.  The house was an old Spanish style place on the beach.  I owned most of the land around it, so it was pretty private, quiet . . ." He shook himself and sighed.  "Anyway, I didn't go into the city much.  It was close to three hours away by car, and it was always too crowded and stuff.  I hated it."  Pausing, he glanced at her and frowned.  "Drink your milk, okay?"

Gin lifted the glass to her lips once more and choked down another swallow of the tepid liquid.

"Sesshoumaru and Kagura came to visit.  I'm not sure how they managed it, but they talked me into going into the city with them to see a musical.  Les Miserables.  I can remember everything about it: the way the crowd smelled . . . the dim lights that lined the aisles . . . the excitement of the people in attendance . . . The show was sold out, and the program touted the lead actress as one of Broadway's fastest rising stars."

"Isabelle," Gin murmured.

Cain nodded.  "Isabelle."

"So that's where you met her?"

"After the performance, yes.  Sesshoumaru used his influence to arrange a meeting for me, and I . . ." He shook his head and sighed.  "She thought I was charming—that was her word: charming . . . I was stammering and staring, and making a fool of myself . . . I don't know . . . There was just something about her . . . she drew me to her.  I don't know what you'd call it.  Lust?  Desire?  Love at first sight?  I had to have her.  I was . . . compelled . . . to be with her."

"I see . . ."

He grimaced.  "Do you?  Do you really?  Because I still don't.  It's something I never understood.  At the time, I thought it was my youkai's way of telling me . . . but I don't think it was.  I just think I wanted it to be . . ."

"Tell me more about her?" Gin coaxed.

Cain seemed surprised by her interest, but he nodded.  "Isabelle . . . Her presence could . . . light up a room, as stupid and cliché as that sounds.  She had a smile that could make you forget that there were bad things in the world . . . She . . . She was . . ." Heaving a sigh, scowling as words seemed to fail him, he shook his head as though it was the only thing he could do.  "She was . . . like the sunset—all those colors, everything.  Everything . . ."

"She sounds like she was amazing," Gin murmured, blinking quickly as her vision blurred.

"She was," he agreed.  "She . . . was."

He was struggling; Gin knew he was.  Caught between the things that he was trying to explain and the desire not to hurt her, she could sense his reluctance.  "It's okay, Cain," she assured him, trying to ignore the ache in her chest, the feelings that she just wasn't good enough, the knowledge that she really didn't understand anything at all.  "You loved her, right?"

He sighed.  "I guess I did," he said softly.  "I think I did . . . and she loved me in her own way.  Thing is, I made a lot of mistakes with her.  I didn't stop to explain everything.  I didn't tell her about youkai, and I didn't tell her that being with me meant forever.  I never told her any of it, and as tai-youkai, I suppose that was unforgivable.  When things changed . . . It was my fault, you see?  I hadn't told her.  I didn't let her choose."

"What do you mean?  You didn't tell her about anything?"

He winced and shook his head.  "No, I didn't . . . That was the first of my mistakes.  By the time I got around to telling her, we were already mated.  I think . . . I think I first told her on our wedding night."  He laughed tersely, and the sound of it made Gin wince.  "We were married in a stupid, rushed service at a little church outside New Orleans—we were on a road trip . . . and we were drunk.  Seemed like a good idea.  I mean, we were mated by then . . ."

"Cain . . ." She grimaced, held out her hand like she wanted to stop him, to comfort him—something, anything—to lessen the pain that she could feel.

He shrugged.  "It's okay, Gin.  It's okay."  He trailed off for a moment, as though he had to figure out where he was in his story.  With another soft sigh, he stared off into a place that Gin couldn't see, struggled to give voice to the things that he still didn't understand.  "I don't think Isabelle ever really grasped what it meant to be youkai.  I told her, of course.  I explained it all later—marking, our prolonged life spans . . . my need to have an heir—a son. I asked her to come live with me—maybe demanded, really.  I thought it was what she wanted, and she tried.  I know she tried.   She left her acting career behind.  She tried to fit into my life, such as it was.  She tried to hide her unhappiness, and it worked for awhile."

It struck Gin, just how confused Cain seemed.  Maybe he didn't really understand everything that had happened.  Or had he simply been caught up in something that didn't make sense at all?  She grimaced.  The story he was trying to tell her . . . So intensely personal; so very, very sad . . . Did she really want to hear it?   More importantly, did she really have a right to hear it . . .?

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze, ashamed—so ashamed—and Gin . . . She could feel that, too.  "Sometimes I'd catch her staring out the windows or daydreaming when she thought I wasn't looking, and I . . . ignored that, too.  When I pressed her about letting me mark her, she always put me off.  The last time I bugged her about it, she said that an actress couldn't live forever.  It'd be impossible to explain, just why she didn't age, and an actress couldn't start over again if she was already wearing a famous face.  I laughed at her, and I told her that she wasn't an actress anymore."  Suddenly, he laughed, but the sound of it was bitter, harsh, almost self-deprecating.   "It wasn't until later that I figured out that she'd never stopped being an actress.  It's just that the role she was playing had changed."

"Cain . . ."

Shaking his head, holding up a hand to stop her, he drew a shaky breath, gathering his bearings again.  "Just let me say this, Gin.  If I don't say it now, I never will.  You deserve to know."

She swallowed the last of her milk and set the glass on the table with a sigh of relief.  "Okay."

He reached out, brushed his knuckles over her cheek.  The sadness, the uncertainty in his expression made her wince as his hand fell away once more.  "Isabelle finally came to me, told me she wanted to leave.  She missed Broadway; she missed the things she knew, the life she'd left behind.  Strangest thing, really . . . I wasn't surprised.  I wasn't angry; I wasn't sad—I wasn't happy.  I really wasn't anything at all.  Before I answered her, she told me that in exchange for her freedom, she'd agree to have a baby—the heir I needed.  I was selfish, and I was stupid, and like a bastard, I . . . I accepted what she offered."

"Bellaniece."

Cain nodded, eyes sad despite the bittersweet smile that touched his lips.  "Bellaniece."

"Oh . . ."

He shook his head like he was trying to clear his thoughts or find some semblance of reason.  "I had sex with her that night.  That's all it was: a perfunctory act.  No affection, no tenderness . . . The sole purpose was to create a child, and we both knew it.  Our relationship had changed.  All the passion that we'd shared before was gone.  In the months that followed, we talked more than we ever had.  We developed a strange sort of friendship."  His knee was shaking, his hands were shaking, and still, he wouldn't welcome Gin's empathy, and she knew it.  As if anything she could offer him in the way of silent support had the power to crumble his will, his youki retracted, condensed around him, holding her at bay, a million worlds away . . . "You know, it was weird.  I should have been upset, right?  I mean, a youkai dies when separated from his mate, but somehow . . . I don't know . . . I was more comfortable with her, and I knew she was leaving as soon as the baby was born.  The only thing that bothered me was that I felt like a failure, but when I told her that I hoped she'd be happy after she left, I meant it."

"What do you mean?" Gin asked softly, brow furrowing as she struggled to comprehend his words.

Cain chuckled sadly.  "I think I felt closer to her during her months of pregnancy than I ever had before.  I didn't touch her.  She didn't want that, but she seemed happier than she had been.  Maybe it was the knowledge that she'd be free soon enough.  I don't know.  I thought . . ." He trailed off and shook his head.  "Ah, maybe I didn't think at all."

Gin wanted to hug him, wanted to tell him that he really wasn't as alone as he looked like he felt.  Something in his gaze stopped her.  Deeper, darker, hiding secrets that he didn't seem to want to let go, his eyes glowed in the waning light of the early evening.  Staring back over years that she couldn't see, he was lost in a flood of memories.

"We got hit by a hurricane when Isabelle was around thirty-six weeks into her pregnancy.  I didn't think much of it.  It was too early.  The first day, she and I argued because she wanted to go walking in the rain.  It was the storm before the hurricane; an eerie kind of quiet rain.  I didn't want her to go.  The hurricane could've hit any time.   Hurricanes are like that, you know?  They move fast, and gods and men and youkai . . . We can't move faster than that.  Isabelle laughed at me, told me I was being ridiculous.  Her eyes were so bright, her cheeks were all rosy, and . . . and I gave in.  She promised she wouldn't go far, and told me that she wanted to go alone.  I watched from the window, and I remember that she seemed fine . . . She seemed fine."

"Did she . . .?  Did you . . .?"

"She came home soaked through.  I told her she looked like a drowned cat.  She was happy—really happy.  I built her a fire as the hurricane hit, and I growled at her for taking such a stupid risk.  I remember she laughed at me.  She told me that a miss was as good as a mile . . . I never understood that phrase."  He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, cheeks pinking at whatever memory he was trying to lend voice.  Finally he sighed again.  "I don't remember what happened next.  I don't remember why or how . . . She loved storms.  They excited her, I suppose.  The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with her."  He barked out an incredulous laugh, a terse gasp of hollow sound.  "It was the best sex we'd ever had.  That's ironic, considering . . ."

"Oh, kami . . . Cain . . ."

"It could have been the storm, right?  The hurricane?  It could have sent her into labor somehow . . . I don't think it was.  It was me.  I wasn't careful with her.  It didn't matter that she was huge with my pup.  I didn't think about her being thirty-six weeks pregnant.  She stripped off her clothes and knelt on the floor.  She asked me to fuck her, and I did.  I didn't think twice.  I didn't think at all.  Just . . . rough, like a couple of animals . . . just an act that we both . . . that I wanted, and that she . . ."

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, pain delineating his features.  Gin started to reach out for him but stopped.  It wasn't her story to tell, and Cain didn't seem to want to be comforted; not yet.  "We didn't stop until she was exhausted.  Then I put her to bed and closed myself in my studio, and I lost track of time."

He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.  Gin didn't say anything.  His hands were shaking, his jaw twitching . . . If he needed the cigarette to calm himself, she wasn't about to argue it with him.

"Sometimes when I'm working, I get into this . . . trance.  I'll work for hours or days.  I don't pay much attention, I guess.  I don't know how long I worked that time—worked on that sculpture I'll probably never finish.  When I finally left my studio, the electricity was out.  The air in the house was stagnant and clammy, and . . ."

Squeezing his eyes closed, he lifted the trembling cigarette to his lips, taking his time as he slowly exhaled.  He stared at the smoke as the tendrils rose in the air, and the raw pain in his expression drew a whine from Gin.  "I could smell it—smell her—everywhere, but it wasn't the same . . . It was . . . It was . . ."

Scooting toward him to put her hand on his, Gin felt the quaking in his limbs subsiding.  Casting her an oddly grateful glance, he drew a deep breath and licked his lips.  "I went to her room—she'd stopped sharing mine when she said she wanted to leave—but she wasn't there.  Her scent was so strong, so invasive, that I had trouble finding her.  I called out her name as I ran through the mansion.  I found her in the cellar.  I don't know why she was down there.  I didn't think to ask.  She was soaked with sweat, and her water had broken.  I think I told her I'd call an ambulance.  The roads were all flooded; no one had electricity.  The hospital was full, they said; full of fools who hadn't taken the warnings to get out seriously enough.  I told Isabelle what they'd said.  She smiled and told me that women had babies every day.  'It isn't a big deal, Cain . . .' That's what she said, and I . . . I believed her."

Pulling away as he stood up and paced the floor, strode over to the sink to run the cigarette butt under water before tossing it into the garbage.  Pausing only long enough to light another one, he continued prowling, his movements stilted, bringing to mind a caged beast longing to be set free.

"She said she'd been in labor since she woke up.  She said I was in my studio for a whole day.  She didn't want to disturb me, she said.  I carried her upstairs—the cellar was flooding—and I did everything I could to make sure she was comfortable.  I sat with her all night, telling her that it was all going to be all right.  Her pains got worse and worse, and I . . . I couldn't do anything.  She was exhausted, sleeping between contractions; screaming out loud when the pains were too much . . . I went outside to see if the hurricane had let up.  It was one of the longest hurricanes on record in that area . . . It was still going strong.  Two whole days before the winds died down, but by noon, it had been nearly forty-eight hours, and there was nothing but water as far as I could see."

He stopped suddenly, waving his hand at the mug on the table.  Gin didn't argue with that, either, as she retrieved the mug and choked down a couple spoonfuls of the thickened broth.  Apparently satisfied that she would keep eating, Cain sighed and took a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing.

"By the time the hurricane had blown itself out, Isabelle was in serious trouble.  I tried to talk her into letting me take her somewhere—anywhere—to find help.  She'd been pushing forever by then.  The baby wouldn't come.  She looked at me, and she smiled, and I knew, but I . . . I insisted that she'd be okay.  I wanted it to believe it, but I could smell it, and you don't know what it's like, Gin.  God, you don't want to know what it's like . . . The smell of death . . . It just chokes you.  I-I-It claws at you, and tears at you, and it stifles you so that you can't even breathe . . ."

"Cain," she murmured, making not move to staunch the tears that coursed down her cheeks.  His pain had become her own, and like a macabre fairy tale, it didn't matter that she could piece together the rest of the story.  Because he needed to say it, because he needed to give voice to the ghosts that haunted him . . . She would listen, even if it broke her heart.

"She could barely keep her eyes open.  Pale, sickly, calm . . . It was in her eyes.  Isabelle knew, and I . . . I knew it, too, but I kept lying.  I kept telling her that she'd be fine, that she . . . she could still be a Broadway star—the biggest one, ever.  I guess I was babbling.  I don't remember half the things I said.  She pressed her fingers to my lips, and she asked me . . ."

He drew a stuttering breath as his gaze brightened though he didn't shed a single tear.  "'Save the baby,' she told me.  'You ne-need this baby; your heir,' she said . . ." He shook his head, flexed his claws, looked like he wanted to shred something to alleviate the gripping swell of sorrow that Gin could feel.  "How could she . . .?  Why would she . . .?  Do you understand what she asked me to do?"

"I'm so sorry," Gin whispered, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.  "Kami, I'm sorry . . ."

"It was the hardest and yet the simplest choice I ever made.  I was going to lose Isabelle.  I couldn't lose the pup, too . . . So . . . I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the sharpest knife out of the block, and I went back to her, but I . . . As hard as I tried to convince myself, I knew.  The knife . . . I couldn't . . . It wasn't . . . I wouldn't be able to feel the pup.  I wouldn't know how deep to cut, I . . ."

He trailed off, pushing his hands through his bangs before smashing his trembling hands over his face.  "She said she wanted to hold the baby just once, and she . . . She asked if I cared . . . She wanted to name it.  I think I nodded as I held my index finger above her belly.  I can hear her scream in my head; the scream as I cut her open, and I reached into Isabelle's body, and I pulled out this . . . perfect little girl.  I put her in her mother's arms, and Isabelle . . . She smiled.  She gave her the name 'Bellaniece', and she said . . . She said Bellaniece would be her star."

Gin forced herself off the sofa, stumbled around the table to Cain's side.  There was no hesitation in her as she wrapped her arms around him.  For a moment, he resisted, arms crossed over his chest with his chin lowered and his entire body quaking, Cain made a choking sound, as though he wanted to cry but couldn't.  Gin pressed herself closer, trying to tell him without words, that she was there, and that she wouldn't leave him.  She gasped as Cain dropped to his knees, throwing his arms around her and hugging her fiercely, and she knew that he was afraid to let go.

"I promised her, Gin . . . Right after she died, I promised . . . It was my fault, you see?  I'm the one who should have died.  Isabelle . . . I promised her I'd follow her because I . . . I couldn't save her."

"That's not true," Gin whispered, cupping Cain's face in her hands and forcing him to look at her.  "It's not true at all.  When you saved Bellaniece . . . Don't you see?  When you saved your daughter, you saved some of Isabelle, too."

He looked surprised, as though he'd never thought of that before.  With a grimace, he shook his head, his sapphire eyes glowing with emotion.  His pain was a palpable thing and yet there was something else underneath the sadness, the sorrow: a fragile hint of cautious hope—a stuttering flicker of something she couldn't let herself believe.  Cain had lost so much—too much—and maybe Gin had been foolish, after all.  She wasn't a god; she wasn't a martyr.  She was just a silly little girl who hadn't really understood a single thing.

She'd wanted to fix him, hadn't she?  Wanted to make him smile, to make him laugh, to remind him that there were still things in the world worth living for, but she . . . She hadn't really understood, not a damn thing, and even now, as she tried to comprehend the value of the secrets that he held so selfishly inside . . . She'd wanted to take him in and find what was broken inside him, and she'd wanted to fix it, but maybe . . . Maybe there were things that she just couldn't fix, and maybe . . .

Maybe Cain was the one who had to want that, too.