Chapter 2

“This is how it’s supposed to be.” She scrunched her face, and he pressed the button to give her more painkillers. “Rob has promised to make sure…” Arlo knew what she would say, but he didn’t need Rob to look after him. He’d turned eighteen four months ago, and Rob only pretended to like him because she was sick. If, when—it was when, she died, Arlo would be on his own. She tried to sit, tried not to fall asleep, but he’d watched her fight it enough times to know she didn’t stand a chance. “…you have…a good…life.”

The hole in him swelled, the emptiness reaching out into the room. Arlo gritted his teeth around the scream wanting to escape. What was happening?

The room grew darker, his head throbbed, ready to explode. A sound escaped him, and Mama opened her eyes. “No.” She reached for him, but he stumbled back. He had to stand.

Something was filling him, black tar pushing itself inside. A thick heavy something pushing his essence out of the way. It was stealing his mind, his body, his ability to breathe. Pain so sharp he would’ve screamed if he’d had any air in his lungs.

“No, baby, no. Please, give it back.”

She reached for him. Arlo blinked, he couldn’t inhale, but it didn’t scare him, because Mama was sitting up. She had sat up on her own. Her gaze was clear, and color was slowly creeping back into her skin.

“No.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Arlo, give it back. It was mine to bear. It was my destiny.” Her voice broke as she continued. “Don’t leave me.”

Arlo shook his head. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had to leave. The sickness occupying his body needed to go somewhere. He gagged but swallowed it down.

“I have to leave.” His voice was off, thick and slow.

Mama cried, a faint wail as panic overtook her eyes. “No, stay. I love you. Please stay. Don’t leave me.”

Tears trickled down his cheeks too, he couldn’t explain it, didn’t know what was happening. The only thing he knew was he had to leave—leave and never come back.

“I love you, Mama.” He blew her a kiss and stumbled toward the door. It wasn’t until he turned around, he realized Rob was standing there watching them with his mouth agape. Arlo grimaced and pushed past him.

He had to go. 1

Seven years later

Arlo looked around the red farmhouse cottage. It wasn’t big, but crossing the small rooms was enough to make him want to cry—he wouldn’t, of course. No use in crying over things that hadn’t happened yet, but it saddened him to know he’d have to leave it soon.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked through the kitchen and into the living room. The low ceiling had him dipping his head when going through doorways, being five-foot-six it wasn’t something he was used to. He probably could walk through without hitting his head on the door frame, but someone taller wouldn’t be able to. The owner had made an apologetic comment about it when Arlo came to look at the house, but it didn’t bother him.

Since he’d left Mama in the hospital, he’d lived in a lot of seedy places, and he’d met a lot of people forcing him to move on from those seedy places.

This house reminded him of where they’d lived when he’d been a little boy—it was happiness and freedom on a small piece of land with a tiny house. The town was a ten-minute drive away and while not as picturesque as the red wooden cottage, it still had some small-town charm going on. He’d learned not to get too attached, though.

Mama. He wished he could call her, wished he could go back home, but he couldn’t. Why he couldn’t, he didn’t know, but something inside of him made it impossible. It was the same thing forcing him to move on as soon as he’d taken someone’s darkness into himself.

He hated it.

He couldn’t control it.

There had been times he’d believed he’d conquered it, times someone he’d gotten to know got sick, and he’d managed to leave them without sucking it into himself. But the next time he’d see them, the onslaught of the blackness would be far more forceful.

Running his fingers over the scarred doorpost, he sighed and pushed all wayward emotions back into his chest. He had to get himself under control if he was to go into town, and he had to go into town.

Tilting his head toward the sun, he shook out his hair. The white tresses cascaded down his shoulders—another sign he wasn’t normal. He should cut it, wear it short so it didn’t stand out as much, but he couldn’t. Some days brushing his hair was the only way to calm himself.