

I sighed, walked over to the kitchen-alcove and checked. As I did, my big grey tom, Mister, bounded down from his place on top of one of the bookshelves, but rather than give me his usual shoulder-block of greeting, he flicked his tail disdainfully at me and ghosted out the front door. There were discarded clothes there, a couple of empty wine bottles, and a plate which looked suspiciously clean - doubtless the clean-up work of the other residents. The fireplace was more or less the epicenter of the slobquake. Cushions were missing from the couch, and the curtains had been torn down from one of the sunken windows, letting in a swath of late-afternoon sunshine, all the better to illuminate the books that had been knocked down from one of my shelves and scattered everywhere, bending paperback covers, leaving hardbacks all the way open, and generally messing up my primary source of idle entertainment.

One of the easy chairs had fallen over onto its back, and no one had picked it up. The rugs were in total disarray, exposing bare patches of stone floor. I have a lot of books on shelves, a lot of rugs, a lot of candles. I can’t afford really good furniture, so it’s all second hand, but comfortable. There’s a kitchen built into an alcove, a big fireplace almost always lit, a bedroom the size of the bed of a pickup truck, and a bathroom that barely fits a sink, toilet, and shower. My apartment isn’t much more than a big room in the basement of a century-old wooden boarding house in Chicago. Cain’s brother Abel probably never saw it coming.Īs I opened the door to my apartment, I was filled with a sense of empathic sympathy and intuitive understanding. The attack was a bloody, brutal, violent, reprehensible killing. Genesis says that in a fit of jealous rage, the very first child born to mortal parents, Cain, snapped and popped the first metaphorical cap in another human being. According to Genesis, it took as few as four people to make the planet too crowded to stand, and the first murder was a fratricide.
