The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) by Shea Berkley

bed. You’d think with all the times I’ve been forced to move, a new room and strange noises wouldn’t be a big deal. With everything that’s happened, I can’t settle down. I can’t stop thinking about the girl in white. It takes me a second to find my cheap-as-dirt MP3 player that I picked up at a pawn shop in Texas three years ago. I flop onto the bed, plug in my ear buds, and zone out to the sound of heavy drums, wailing guitars, and the lead singer’s gravelly voice.
    Staring at the ceiling, I begin to memorize its subtle pattern. I’ve got dozens of ceiling dips and shadows in my head to compare this one to. That eerie “new room” sensation slowly dissolves and my body grows heavy. I finally unplug myself and slip into a restless sleep.
    Flip and turn. Jerk and sweat. Against my will, the smoky shadows envelop me, and when I’m spit out onto the other side of my subconscious, the girl is there. I can see every slope and curve of her. She doesn’t look like a mental creation of the perfect girl, yet she’s perfect. In every way. We stand, toe to toe. She cups my cheek, the feel feather light, and my skin tingles. Her breath slips across my skin as she whispers in my ear, “Who are you?”
    I jolt awake, shaking. Sweat clings to my skin. I’m at a loss as to where I am, and then I hear voices. Arguing.
    The clock reads ten after midnight. I pull my hand down my face and sigh, listening to the shrill tone leaking through my door. I know that voice. I roll out of bed, and ease my door open, only then hearing the other voice calmly striving for reason. I soundlessly make my way to the kitchen, but stop short of the room at a point where the shadows hide me.
    Grandma sits at the table wearing a bright pink, girlie nightgown. It’s nothing like I expect a grandma to wear. She holds a cup of coffee in her hands and a shocked expression on her face. Mom, still in jeans and a t-shirt, is leaning against the counter, tapping an unlit cigarette. Her face is stiff, her eyes haunted. She wants to light up, but she’s smart enough not to do it in her mother’s house.
    Grandma shakes her head. “You can’t leave him.”
    “He belongs here.”
    No guesses needed to know who he is.
    “What does that mean?” The confusion in Grandma’s voice matches what I feel.
    “I can’t deal with him anymore, okay?”
    “He’s your son, Addison.”
    Mom taps the cigarette so hard, the end splits and tobacco spills out. She cusses and gives Grandma a hard look. “You’re wrong there. I’ve tried to ignore the signs, but they’re getting stronger. He’s his father’s son through and through. Love ’em and leave ’em Dylan. But that’s not all. Far from it.”
    Grandma only sputters. “I-I don’t see how—”
    Mom leans forward. “He’s obsessive. Whatever he wants, he gets. He doesn’t back down until he does. Just watch. You’ll see. It’s unnatural .”
    “And you blame Dylan’s father? I thought he didn’t know his father.”
    “With his DNA? Dylan doesn’t have to know him.”
    “Honey, it sounds like you’re punishing a boy for his father’s sins.”
    A bitter bark of laughter escapes Mom. “Dylan hasn’t been a boy for a long time now. God knows why he’s still hanging onto me.”
    “Addison!” Grandma scolds gently. “Dylan loves you.”
    Tears flood her eyes. “He pities me.”
    “Baby,” Grandma’s voice holds a wealth of sympathy, and she begins to rise. “You’ve had it so rough for so long…”
    “Don’t.” Mom motions her back down and turns away, gripping the countertop until her knuckles turn white. Her back is to me, but her voice shakes with emotions I’ve never heard before. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve given him as much as I can. He’s changing too fast, and now…”
    Her sudden, tiny gasp for breath is swallowed by a sob. “Nobody understands. It’s so hard. Looking at Dylan. Seeing him . He’s stealing Dylan away, and I can’t stop it.” Her chest