"Mama says I got to fix you now. Got to make you right again."

It was a large space, walled with hard cement and lit by scattered camping lamps. Arkin turned his head from side to side and saw trays of instruments, medical-looking machinery would have made him feel more at ease—but what laid on the trays were tools from the barn. He strained at his binds and realized that he was strapped to a gurney; naked. An IV was in him too. Where the needle was taped looked angry and swollen like it wasn't put in right. He tried to find windows, but no windows were in the room and a faint earthy smell skirted the edge of his consciousness. Mildew. A basement. He's under the house.

"You don't have to fix me, Cain. I'm already fixed. You fixed me this morning." Arkin lifted his head, trying to remain calm to not let his voice crack.

On the other side of the table Cain chuckled. He picked up a knife advancing forward, "I thought I had, but Mama's right, it wasn't enough."

The knife glided across his breastbone. Arkin wanted to plead thinking this would be it, he'd become number six to fail to become Abel—until the blade's tip pressed ever so gently into the skin above his collarbone.

"You had a scar here." Cain said leaning close to get the mark just right. "Do you remember how you got it?"

Arkin sucked in air staring at the low ceiling and shook his head. He tried to be anywhere, but the dull bloom of warmth from the blood pooling on his skin kept him there.

"We went fishing with some boys and one managed to hook you, but you didn't cry." He cuffed the side of Arkin's head, "So don't cry now."

I'm crying? He didn't even realize tears had sprung there. Cain leaned away admiring the work of the 'old' scar made new. He needed to talk to him. To stall. Cain dropped the knife back onto a tray and lifted a piece of paper into the closest lamps light. Three little droplets could be made out, all different colors.

"What's that?" Arkin asked.

"Your blood type," he sighed making a tsk sound of disapproval.

"What—what's wrong with it?"

"Your blood's not right. Says it's AB, but yours is B." Cain tossed the paper aside. "Just couldn't make this easy for your brother could you?"

"What are you doing?" Arkin pulled at the bindings as Cain grunted lifting the pail from the barn that held the harvested blood. "What are you doing?"

"We're getting rid of that bad blood."

Leeches were an old practice and never had Arkin imagined he would allow one of the those little creatures drink from him. But it wasn't just one. Cain had placed six on the softness surrounding his navel. Cold and wet they clung to him. Cain then went to work vigorously on a rusted cast iron pump. Up, down, up, down. It was an old style transfusion. The pumping action sucked the blood from the harvest into a tube and forced its way in his arm.

Arkin shifted in discomfort. He was panicking. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, his fingers dug into his palms, and his breaths were coming in short bursts. There was an immediate sense of doom. They harvested people for meat, parts and blood. They weren't just eating humans — they were taking pieces to make a perfect Abel. He fought to remember the picture on the wall, the one with Abel holding an axe. In his smile he was missing a front tooth. Arkin pressed his tongue against his teeth to feel the familiar flat solid surface. Alright, then the eyes. Arkin's were brown and Abel's were blue ... contacts probably weren't an option ... they wouldn't really go that far, would they? The thought alone of his eyes being removed made him choke on his spit. They're insane. Utterly mad.

Cain started to whistle while he worked. It was a fast tune that met his pumping action. Arkin shut his eyes, jaw clenched tight. He needed to get out of this and now. The sound of the handles pumping melted into the background. Almost the entire bucket was forced into him and his body was reacting. It shook and burned and fought.

A creak from the stairwell across the basement sounded and light cascaded down the steps. The mother's voice called down, "Cain? I need you to go into town for me."

The pumping stopped. Cain rubbed a hand over his hairy covered lips and looked to a paling Arkin. A fever was quick to develop as his body tried to consume the foreign blood type.

"You sit tight," he said and left.

It felt like hours, but it had only been mere minutes. The truck had rumbled to life and sped off down the dirt drive. He could hear it from the basement. Mother wanted something from the store, so good little Cain went running out to fetch the items. Only he had left. The mother was still above him. She was quiet except for an occasional sneeze.

Arkin knew this was his only chance. Savagely he pulled and twisted his wrists in unimaginable ways to contort himself out of these bonds with a tray of instruments laying feet out of reach. Feet. Arkin's legs weren't bound. At least they weren't bound at this very moment.

In many feeble attempts his sockless big toe finally latched onto the trays side and wheeled it over. He grunted and swore and an hour later he was able to saw through the rope bindings with a small bladed knife. The first thing he did was pick the needle from his elbows fold and discard it. After that, one by one he plucked stubbornly latched leeches from his skin. Their little mouths left red circles. Sitting up, he gathered the rope that had bound his hands. This was his weapon of choice against the old woman, his thigh still ached from her cattle prod.

"Help, someone help! Anybody up there?" Arkin shouted from being tucked away underneath the stairs. He could hear the women's small steps above him and the basement door opening. Come down here, he urged mentally. The rope he strangled between his palms was hot. "Help!"

The mother grumbled something and took her first few venturing steps down into the unfinished basement. Arkin slid his palms near either end of the rope ready to sink around her soft wrinkled throat the first chance he got.

Through the hollow backs of the stairs he watched each white socked foot take a step. Her feet were right in front of him now. He could have grabbed her ankles and yanked them out from under her, but that would have been too simple — impersonal. Breath held he waited until she rounded the corner and saw an empty gurney. Her mouth had dropped open and she had no one to call.

And that was when he struck.

Arkin charged at the mother, shoving her into the cement wall, her face smashing off its surface as her glasses flew to the floor. He slipped the rope over her head and pulled taut against the softness of her throat. She clawed and choked, weakly struggling against the boy she so desperately wanted to make into her perfect son.

"Abel—Abel, please—"

"I'm not your goddamn Abel." He spit and strangled the mother till she was good and dead. 

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