Hereditary
J.A. Belfield
HEREDITARY
Published by J.A. Belfield
Copyright © 2014 Julie Anne Belfield
Cover design: copyright © Aimee Laine
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, locations, or any other element is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For everyone who is a little bit different:
Being ‘the freak’ is never easy. Embrace it, people. Embrace it. Because trying to be someone you’re not is a whole lot harder.
HEREDITARY
What do you do when you discover your son isn’t human? How is a person supposed to deal with that kind of knowledge?
Yet, I am the only one to blame.
***
I knew next to nothing about the father of my son, hadn’t seen him since that first, and only, fateful night. If I screwed up my eyes and concentrated hard, he appeared handsome enough in my mind’s eye—but I guess most things did when the memory got collected during a state of total inebriation.
I didn’t ask his name, and he never asked mine. He shared a few words of flattery, told a few jokes, plied me with wine, then carried me home—literally. Most men in my younger days left a calling card in the form of a love bite. Not that guy. He had to go one better. Nine weeks later, I discovered a tiny seed had been implanted within my womb.
For almost seven months, I felt like a fool. However, when my son entered the world? My opinions toward the man who’d helped create him no longer mattered. In my arms, I held my boy, my firstborn. White-blond curls framed his porcelain skin and startling blue eyes. He looked like an angel. I named him Gabe—Gabriel Lewis.
***
Throughout Gabriel’s life, we did fine, just the two of us. It was no longer considered a scandal to be labelled a one-parent family, even when the mother was only eighteen. We struggled through the terrible twos, and the ferocious fours, and the serenity sevens. By the time Gabe had settled within school, parenting brought joy, tears, and laughter, as opposed to the initial exasperation, tears, and tantrums. He’d been a bundle of energy from the day he was born. School, along with its extra-curricular activities, provided an outlet for that.
As life went on, he turned into a gangly pre-teen, and I became a mother adept at dealing with the onset of hormones.
I’d heard girls could be a handful. But when my son leapt in the air because he saw an armpit hair, because his upper lip was slightly more shadowed than at age eleven, or walked around swinging his hips because his penis had finally begun to grow? That was some crazy stuff to have to deal with—especially alone.
Because developing, he most definitely was. Especially a year on, when he hit thirteen—boy, did he sprout.
My five-foot-three couldn’t be considered that small for a woman. When standing beside my thirteen year old son, who towered over me by more than half a foot, it somehow seemed smaller than it used to.
At fourteen, he added another two inches, taking him to an impressive five-foot-eleven, and it became impossible to look at him without injury to my neck. Trying to reprimand someone who cast me in shadow was a joke. Not that I ever needed to. Apart from his infantile boredom, Gabe caused no worries for me. The hair on my head bore no grey.
Two years, four additional inches and pubescent temper later? That’s when it all changed. Like a switch had been hit, Gabe failed to represent the son I’d raised and loved.
His smiles flipped upside down into frowns. His laughter died to make room for grumbling mutters. And his passivity gave way for aggression to move in. Not toward me, though—Gabe never treated me with anything other than respect. His negativity was directed wholly within himself.
“I hate hormones,” he’d say on a daily basis. “I’m sick of always feeling wrong.”
“Gabe, what do you mean, wrong?” I’d ask.
His fingers would tug at his hair, greasy since his shower the previous night, and his eyes would search the heavens for answers. Then he’d look back to me with a sigh, and say in his deep masculine voice, “Just wrong, Mum. I don’t feel like me.”
Of course, we tried the doctor. He’d have the answers, right?
“What are the symptoms?” the doctor asked when Gabe gave him ‘I feel wrong’ as an explanation for the visit.
We’d run through them: explosive appetite; inability to sit still; irritation and mood swings; constant perspiration; unrelenting sexual urges—though Gabe allowed me his perfected glare when I mentioned that one.
Not to mention the little details we left off, too. Like, how every hour Gabe’s stomach would growl like a circus lion until food had been deposited within; or the afternoon he promised to help with rearranging the living room and single-handedly lifted the sofa and carried it the width of the room like it weighted no more than a bag of peanuts; or the intermittent muscle spasms that started in his calves three days previous.
It didn’t matter. With a small shake of his head and a smile teasing the corners of his lips, the doctor had looked directly at Gabe and said, “It’s your hormones, son.”
As if we needed a doctor to tell us that.
So, back to not knowing why my son was being dealt a harsher blow than all his friends, we just had to deal with it. Which sucked—according to Gabe.
***
Months passed, with Gabe trying to keep his angst in check, and with my placations to assist him along the way. His friends began dwindling, like they’d had enough of his moods. Even the girls who’d shown an increasing interest in the teenage wall of muscle grew tired of his constant snubs and grunted answers.
Only Mia stuck around, and the girl turned out to be a Godsend.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he’d tell me. “It isn’t like that.”
Except, he’d sit on the settee, grouching about whatever was on the TV, or anything else he could find to grouch about, and she’d lift her feet to his lap, give him an order to, ‘Massage’, and within moments of rubbing at her toes, he’d snap out of whatever dark place he’d descended to—like the mere contact between the pair of them was enough.
I’d never seen two youngsters as close knit—so it came as no surprise that Mia was there when Gabe suffered his first … episode.
Sunday afternoons had always been a lazy day in our household: breakfast in bed, staying in our pyjamas until time to prepare dinner, making the effort to get washed and clothed whilst the joint was in the oven, chased by an afternoon of food and loafing.
The Sunday it happened was no exception—well, until lunchtime, anyway.
Mia arrived about eleven-thirty—just in time to help peel the carrots—and the morning rolled along in its usual merry way. Camaraderie was present as vegetables were tossed into pans, as lamb was basted in its juices, and custard spread over the trifle base. Gabe and Mia had been laughing and joking when I stepped out to claim the bathroom first.
On emerging from washing and brushing my teeth, I paused on the landing. “Bathroom’s free,” I called down to Gabe.
“’Kay. Coming.”
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, ‘it’ happened.
&nb
sp; His unbearable cry of pain gave the first alert. Followed by the folding of his body, as he dropped to his knees—the tautening of every muscle visible around his boxers and vest. During which he lifted his head and stared up at me with terror-filled eyes.
At first I remained still, frowning down at him, wondering how on earth he’d gone from upright and smiling to screaming and writhing on all fours—my brain not quite caught up with the switch. Either that or willing him to quit fooling around and go back to bouncing up the stairs like he should have been.
Except he didn’t, and, slamming back to earth, I raced down the stairs.
At the bottom, I almost collided with Mia, as she shot in from the living room. My hands steadied her as I checked she was okay. When her fingers pressed to her lips and her eyes widened, I followed her gaze.
“Mum?” Gabe’s hoarse voice arrived thick with fear, uncertainty, and pain.
I dropped to my knees. With one hand reaching to wipe the sweat painting his straining face, my other rested on his shoulder to comfort, as I peered up at Mia.
Standing near the doorway, as though afraid to come closer, she stared wide-eyed at Gabe, and her finger made a slow, upward journey to point, at the same time as movement hit my hand.
I turned back, my gaze landing on the source, and panic hit my chest with enough force to steal my breath.
Gabe’s flesh bubbled beneath my palm. Not like a blister bubbled, but like those irritating bubbles one gets whilst decorating and the wallpaper just won’t go flat. I know because I tried pressing it flat—smoothing it flat—anything so that what I could see wouldn’t be there anymore, whilst shit, shit, shit, shit, shit raced through my head at the toughness of the muscle I could feel beneath.
“Mum?” His face lifted again, jaw rigid, eyes screwed to narrow slits.
A lump bloomed on his other shoulder, hard and knobbly and sliding around.
My mouth opened and closed. My brain blasting out a series of what do I do, what do I do? overlapped with a rambling of ohmygodohmyfuckinggod. Because, really—what the hell was I supposed to do?
More swellings appeared across his body, a couple even tugging at the skin of his face.
His fingers clawed at the pile of the carpet, their scraping sound making my eye twitch, my teeth buzz.
“Shelley?” Mia’s first word held shrill panic.
Gabe pleaded with me, and his gasped, “Mum?” throbbed through my mind.
Mia urged me again, her high-pitched, “Shelley?” screeching through my eardrums.
Still, I didn’t move, almost frozen—my mind along with my body.
I just glanced between the slitted gaze of my son and the startled one of the frightened girl.
Both of them stared back, their desperation for me to know what to do evident in the high shine of their eyes.
But I didn’t know! I didn’t bloody know. I needed to think, but it was so hard when my child seemed to be in some kind of danger, was in evident pain—impossible to compose rational thought.
“The phone,” I managed.
Mia’s focus didn’t waver.
“Get me the phone,” I said. “Now, Mia!”
She left the room like a bolting animal. On her return, she carried the phone.
Taking it from her, my thumb aimed for the ‘9’. As I hit it for the second time, a strangled cry flew from Gabe’s lips.
His back bowed, his head snapped back—both movements almost too fast to follow.
Before my mind had time to register the change to his condition, he’d face-planted the floor, arms splayed, his eyes squeezed tight as panted breaths heaved from his chest.
Deep dread slacked every muscle in my body; the phone dropped from my fingers. “Gabe?”
No response. He still breathed, though—the proof whistled past his teeth.
“Gabe, come on, answer me—answer me, damn it, say something, please.”
A long, low groan responded, seeming to echo for seconds within his chest.
Mia’s knee nudged mine as she sank to the carpet beside me. Her glossy gaze met mine for a moment, before we both reached out to tap Gabe’s shoulder, gently shaking him, murmuring his name—as though united in the plea for his wellbeing, or like we believed it’d take more than just the one of us to bring him round.
For seconds, I didn’t believe he’d wake up, I thought I’d lost him, that the breaths lifting his chest didn’t mean a damn thing—until he rolled with exaggerated slowness to flop onto his back.
At last, after seven agonising seconds of us waiting—I know, because I counted—his eyes opened, a little unfocused, but open nonetheless. “Mum?” His voice came out a whisper, a little boy seeking comfort.
“Right here, hon.”
His reprieve lasted no more than a couple of beats. With groans and retches, and clutches to his stomach, he flipped back to all fours and threw up with projectile violence.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I said, searching for where the phone had landed.
Gabe shook his head, gave a barely whispered, “No.”
I located the phone, pushed the ‘9’ button.
His arm darted out, his sweat-soaked palm covering my hand with a strength his trembling limb argued against. As he shook his head, his eyes beseeched, and for reasons I never did fathom, I did as he asked. I put the phone down and never made the call.
***
Looking back, I wondered if he had his suspicions, even then. If he somehow knew it to be the prelude to so much more. If his instincts were already present.
Either way, he wouldn’t let me call for help—not then, nor for any of the following attacks through which he suffered.
I thought my son was dying a slow and torturous death and he wouldn’t allow me to do anything. I’d never been so helpless.
***
The next occurrence came almost two weeks later, then a week after that, and again after another week—each one seeming to intensify.
His flesh ‘reacted’ more boldly, his pain appeared to be on the increase, and the vomiting lasted longer with harsher effects. In between those, the escalating muscle spasms and cramps refused relief, no matter how copious his fluid intake.
The fifth one arrived a mere five days after the fourth—witnessed by my dad.
After Gabe had writhed around on the floor, his body twisting in ways that shouldn’t be possible, and he’d been helped to the sofa to recover from the regurgitation of his dinner, Dad took me to one side in the kitchen.
“Close the door, Shelley,” he said.
I nudged it to, pushing harder until I heard the click of connection when he urged me to do so.
“What’s going on?” he asked, once I’d turned to him.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. “It’s been going on for weeks now. Each time is worse.”
“Has he seen someone for it?”
“He won’t let me call anyone. Says he doesn’t need to be seen, just keeps telling me he’ll be all right.”
“He’s a kid.” He pointed at me. “You’re the adult. For goodness sake, take responsibility.”
At five-foot-eight, my dad still managed to be an imposing presence, and I peered up at him like I used to as a reprimanded child. “What am I supposed to do—force him?” I asked, going on the defensive—also just like I used to. “You’ve seen the damn size of him.”
Dad spun for the table. “I’m making the call, then.” He took the phone from its cradle. “I’ll book him in to see someone, and I’ll take him myself.”
“Leave it, Granddad,” Gabe called out.
Dad’s head tilted as he frowned. “How the hell can he hear us?”
“He does that a lot.” I shrugged, frowning. “Hears things, smells things no one else can.”
Dad returned the phone and glanced to the door. “That’s not normal, Shel. You know that, don’t you?”
The door swung wide and Gabe’s bulk filled the opening. “I’m fine.” His voice, coupled with his take-no
-shit stance, bore no room for discussion—even Dad stilled as he stared up at his grandchild.
My son no longer resembled a sixteen year boy. Bigger than most blokes, with a tenor deeper than that of most I knew, his eyes carried more wisdom than any man I’d ever dated—like he had a deep understanding of himself that hadn’t been there before.
I only wished I understood him, too—because even Google didn’t have any answers on his kind of issues.
“Please,” Gabe said. “Leave it be.”
We could hardly drag him to the surgery—Gabe could have lifted the pair of us with one hand. So, giving a nod and a mumbled ‘Sure’, we complied.
Again.
***
Life, as we’d come to know it, pretty much continued, with Gabe’s ‘abnormalities’ becoming par for the course—especially as their frequency grew from the original fortnightly gap, to weekly, to half-weekly and, finally, to an almost daily occurrence.
The week when ‘the biggie’ happened, he’d already lost three days from school: Tuesday, Wednesday, and then Thursday. Mia had visited every afternoon—nothing unusual—and she’d just left for her dinner on Thursday evening when ‘it’ began.
“Mum?” Another day, another attack, another pleading of his eyes.
“Is it the cramps again?”
He shook his head. “Something’s happening.”
I put aside my magazine and pushed to my feet. “What is it?”
He stared down at his hands, twisting and turning them. “It’s everywhere.” A hint of alarm tinged his voice as he lifted his arms and peered at those. “Spreading.” He bent and rubbed at his legs, before he straightened and lifted a bare foot from the carpet, flexing his toes. “Spreading fast.” Bright blue eyes, full of fear, met mine.
Heart booming in my chest, I crossed to him and placed my hands on his shoulders. “What’s spreading, Gabe?” My calm voice sounded alien. I wasn’t composed. On the inside, only screams belted the insides of my head. Because, over the weeks, Gabe seemed to have grown a quiet acceptance for his ‘condition’, and the glint of panic in his eyes was a seriously unwelcomed return.
Hereditary (A Holloway Pack Mini) Page 1
