He woke up in a dining room. He was still groggy, and it took him a moment to realize he wasn't in his own clothes and a woman was standing over him. She wore a smile and stroked the side of his face, almost lovingly. He tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound to the chair. He pulled hard against the bindings until his skin broke, but he cannot budge them.

The woman's hand burrowed itself in his thick dark hair and pulled his head back. Arkin could see her more clearly now. She wasn't that old, maybe early sixties and dressed like she was a housewife from the '50s. Her tongue clicked as she shook her head in a discouraged manner. "Now that's not how my boy's act at my table."

He seethed, veins bulging from his neck. Into the rag he swore and yelled unto his face was a brilliant red. The woman frowned, an eyebrow raised as she pulled the ragged gag from between his lips.

"What was that darling?"

"Go to Hel—"

Smack. Her old, but quick, open palm let go of his hair and struck him across the face with all she could muster. Dazed, Arkin shook his head and a loud groan surfaced. The man appeared in the doorway, concern etched in eyes.

"Mama?"

Arkin spat gathered spit onto the rug below him and shifted to sit upright once again. The woman rubbed her palm wearing a stern look.

"Cain," she said her eyes never leaving her new son.

"Yeah, mama?" The man stepped into the room hesitantly. He was older yet acted like a child in the presence of this woman. This woman he called mother.

"Take off your belt. It would seem your brother needs to be taught a lesson."

Arkin pulled at his bound wrists. The man named, Cain, dropped his hands to his belts front. His fingers pulled at the leather and melt clasp before releasing it from the hoops on his jeans waist. It was quiet in the dining room. So quiet, that the grandfather clock opposite him could be heard. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Cain handed over the belt to receive a gracious smile from his mother's lips. "Thank you, my son. Now," she looked down to Arkin. "Which hand, Abel? I'll let you choose."

"Abel? I'm not Abel. I'm not your son!" Arkin's throat bobbed when he swallowed the growing lump. His eyes were frantic. They jumped from the woman's face to Cain's then the wall behind them both. An old image, he could tell by the way the photograph was wrinkled—from possibly being folded—had three people. A younger woman and two boys. One she held on her hip, the other dangled on her hand. Her boys. On the wall beside this one was another. Two boys. The oldest, Cain, probably eighteen with a beard already encasing his face and a younger boy, Abel, maybe fifteen standing in front of double red barn doors, an axe in their hands. There was an uncanny resemblance in fifteen year old Abel and sixteen year old Arkin.

His mouth had gone utterly dry. He couldn't speak. The mother dangled the belt between her hands, she had discarded the nasty rag onto the table. She was waiting for her sons answer.

"No. No, I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean it." Arkin shook his head as the mother chose for him. She nodded for Cain to undo his left hand. He thrashed in the wooden chair. "No. No. No. No."

Cain pulled his arm forward onto the table, palm up towards the ceiling. He wore a frown and held Arkin in place. The mother adjusted the belt, the buckle hung a mere three inches down, the prong sticking out like an innocent butter knife.

"What is your name?" She asked calmly.

"Arkin. I'm from a small city called—"

The mother raised her hand high before swinging it down, beating the buckle and its prong into the soft unprotected flesh of his palm. And she didn't stop. Once. Then asked the question;

"What is your name?"

"Arkin."

Twice.

"What is your name?"

"Arkin."

A third. A fourth. A fifth. Heat raised in his hand, after the sixth time it had gone numb but still throbbed. When she had finished she had beaten his hand nineteen times. It looked swollen and angry and left Arkin sniveling. The mother grabbed his face roughly, pinching his cheeks as she made him look at her. Yet he looked everywhere else.

"Look at me," she snapped giving his head a shake. Arkin lifted his eyes to her face hesitantly. Her own eyes appeared to be red and cheeks wet. She was crying. "What is your name?"

He could give two answers ... the pain and Cain's grasp on his arm were a reminder—play these games and needing all four limbs working. His heart clenched when the looked back to the mother, his "mother", and nodded. His voice was small and strained, barely audible;

"I'm ... Abel. I'm Abel." 

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