hey brotha

Cain looked at the horizon and smiled. It was time to meet his long time friend. How many years had it been? He walked over. Cain preferred walking. Sure it took longer, but what was time to him. He had all the time in the world. He had come to enjoy walking. Every few centuries, he forgot the last lesson, and he walked take one of the modes of travel unique to that era. The last time he had done something of the sort, the mode of transportation had been a plane, and it had crashed. Cruel lesson, if you asked him. All he’d done was kill his brother. To teach him a lesson, hundreds had been killed in that day alone. He was injured, of course. But he wouldn’t die. He had had the identity then of another man from the one whose identity he had now. The plane had crashed. He’d been the only one that had survived. To avoid the questions and the interrogation, that too was a long process, he’d vanished. Let them put him in their missing persons list. They’d never be able to solve the case, but they would ‘solve’ it officially and none would be any the wiser. Finding another identity, it had been a hard struggle. So he was set for another few centuries. Doomed to walk the earth, until he forgot. And then the cycle would begin anew.

The last time he had visited his friend, he had seen the weight of the world in his eyes, on his weary, wrinkled forehead.

“Hey, brotha!” He had said with a grin.

“Don’t call me that. Remember what happened to the first man you'd called your brother?” The man had said, grumbling.

Cain didn’t begrudge him his attitude. That was how he was. His situation had made him bitter.

They had spoken. They had discussed. The man may be bitter. The man may hate the world and any that were not burdened with his burden. But he did not deny people a place to talk. He did not deny them his friendship. Especially never Cain. Cain, as much as he was surprised to admit it, was fond of his friendship.

It had taken him many months, but he reached the hut where his friend lived. It was oddly silent. He called out, no response. Cain walked in. There was the bed, hastily made. The one chair, that he’d often ask his guests to sit on. The man had a condition that required him to stand. It was as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. It was. The desk, shoulder height, where he wrote. Also while standing. The pieces of paper in a pile, almost perfectly aligned. Only one was out of place. Cain walked to it, and pulled that paper out of the pile. Nothing, empty. Blank. It was evident. His friend was here no longer. Cain felt something that resembled panic. If Atlas was no longer here, who was carrying his burden?