People Live Here: DUSTIN - MARKED

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

This story is told through the eyes of a neighbor who called the motel home too.

DUSTIN - MARKED 

I sit hunched on the bed, my back curved, fingers working on the powder. My nails are  cracked, filthy. I tap it onto the scale, feeling my knee bounce, jittery, like the rest of me. 

Marlowe shifts under the sheet, slow and deliberate. The air reeks of sweat and bodies, but  she doesn't move to leave. Her fingers smooth over the curve of her stomach, four months  in, and her eyes follow the uneven rotation of the ceiling fan. It feels like that inside her, too. 

I don’t look up. "You're quiet." 

She drags her tongue across her lips, dry, before she says, "Dane proposed with a Ring  Pop." 

I snort, sharp. Set the scale down with a clack. "Jesus Christ." 

"Said the baby had to be born into a sanctimonious union." Her voice is flat, with that dry  amusement. "I hate that 'God' bullshit." 

I flick the bag shut and toss it onto the nightstand. "And you said what? 'Hallelujah'?" She giggles, then says, "I said nothing." 

"Amen," I mumble. 

Silence fills the space. The fridge clicks off, the whole room exhaling a cold sigh. 

I tap my cigarette against the chipped plate. The ember glows, shrinking fast. "How far  along?" 

She stretches her legs in the air, fabric of her yoga pants straining over the curve of her  hips. "Four, five months." 

I hum, watching her. "You're showing early." 

She grins, all teeth. "I'm a horse." 

I smirk. "Explains the mating call." 

"Fuck off," she says, then lets out that laugh.

I laugh at her laugh, but— 

A deep, heavy THUD. 

The ceiling rattles. The fan jiggles into rhythm. 

Marlowe looks up. "What the fuck was that?" 

I rub my jaw, eyes narrowing. "Building’s shifting." 

"Shifting?" 

I gesture toward the bathroom door. "Used to close fine. Now I gotta shove it." I wait,  watching her. "Frame’s off. Building’s settling." I pause. "Except it’s not supposed to." 

She raises her brows. "So what, you think the motel’s tilting?" 

I roll my shoulder, flick ash onto the plate. "I think this place is a shitbox on stilts." She barks out a laugh, slapping the mattress. "Oh my fucking God, Dustin." I grin, quick and sharp. 

She wipes her eyes, voice softening, almost fond. "A shitbox on stilts. Jesus. You’re gonna  traumatize your kid." 

I lean back against the headboard, cigarette hanging from my fingers. "Lewis is coming up  next weekend." 

She frowns. "Who the fuck is Lewis?" 

I exhale slow. "My kid." 

Marlowe blinks, her face losing its humor. "You got a kid?" 

I nod. "Four years old. Kendra’s kid, really." 

She studies me, catches the shift—my knee starts bouncing again, fingers working over a  fresh scab on my knuckle. "You excited?" 

I let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Can’t wait to show my four-year-old my thriving small engine  shop." I gesture around—rusted chainsaw parts, an oil-streaked tarp, a mattress stiff with 

old sweat. "Think he’ll be impressed?" 

She kicks my thigh, smirking. "Give him a wrench and let him go nuts." My smirk is brief, bitter. "Nah," I mutter. "He’s gonna walk in here and know." "Know what?" 

I flick the cigarette too hard, ashes scattering across the floor. "That his old man ain’t shit." Silence fills the room. Marlowe doesn’t say anything. 

I shift, rub my jaw. Lisa never made it easy. She fought every step, told me it’d be better  next year, questioned what kind of father lets his kid step foot in this dump. She wasn’t  wrong. 

My voice tightens. "You think Lisa’s right?" 

She leans back, arms stretching over her head. "That you’re a burnout?" I don’t meet her gaze. Just smoke. 

She exhales, voice soft but firm. "She ain’t wrong." 

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Yeah, well. She still let me knock her up, so." Marlowe snorts. Then— 

Click. 

The overhead dies. Darkness swallows the room. 

She exhales through her nose. "Not again." 

I mutter under my breath, pushing off the bed, reaching for the lamp. Click. Click. Nothing. Marlowe sits up. "Whole building?" 

I listen. Down the hall—muffled voices. The stuttered gasp of Mark’s oxygen machine in  Room 32. A desperate, choked rhythm. 

Marlowe throws off the blanket, swinging her legs over the bed. "Shit."

I rub my face, my gut twisting. "That thing cut off?" 

"If the power’s out, yeah." 

Marlowe stands. "Mark’s on oxygen. Dane and I can’t even use our fucking space heater in  28 'cause it trips the breakers—takes out our whole floor, including him." 

I exhale, hands flexing. "That could kill him." 

She slaps my arm, hard. "No shit it could kill him." 

I check my phone. No service. 

Marlowe curses, heading for the door. "I gotta check if he’s good." 

I don’t move. My fingers drum against my knee, tapping out something quick, anxious. The  soft crunch of rats within the walls. 

Then— 

Click. 

The light snaps back on.. 

The room is still, but there’s a heavy weight in the air—like something is about to snap. The  ceiling fan wobbles like it’s caught between two realities, but there’s no other noise. No  clicking of the fridge. No murmur from the walls. Just the faintest sound of Mark’s oxygen  machine sputtering a few doors down, making me feel like the whole motel’s holding its  breath. 

Then— 

Knock. 

It’s sharp, loud enough to make my gut tighten. 

Another knock. This time, a little harder, rattling the door. I don’t move. I stay in my spot,  staring at the wall like it owes me something. I know who it is without looking. 

Marlowe doesn’t even flinch. She glances toward the door, her lips barely twitching, but  that’s about it. She doesn’t move, doesn’t seem rattled at all. There’s a flicker in her eyes, 

like she knows exactly what’s going on. She’s already decided. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

She stares at the door for a beat, then looks back at me like she’s waiting for me to do  something. But I’m not moving. I’m not saying anything. 

“I wish a motherfucker would,” I mutter, not even looking at her. 

Marlowe snorts but doesn’t laugh. She shifts her weight, but she doesn’t seem scared—just  tired of it. "Fuck off, Dane," she mutters under her breath. The words roll off her tongue like  she’s saying something routine, like she’s talking about a dog barking too loud, but she’s  not bothered. 

But the longer the knocking goes on, the more I can feel her tension shift. She’s not scared,  she doesn’t care about him, but at the same time—she knows it’s messed up. She knows  she should probably leave. She’s just not going to. Not yet. It’s like she’s ignoring the baby  at the door, just like she’s ignoring the one growing in her belly. 

She pulls her boots on with that same slow, deliberate movement. She doesn’t say  anything, but I can feel the weight of it. She doesn’t need to. There’s pity in her gaze, like  she’s seen this act too many times and knows it’s all just noise. 

The knocking stops, but I don’t move. The silence lingers, but I feel it—the moment when  she knows it’s time to go. Her lips twist, and I see her swallow a sigh, like she knows what  comes next, but she doesn’t want to admit it. 

She grabs her jacket off the chair, the one I always notice, but this time it feels different.  She walks to the door with purpose, but no hurry—like she knows there’s nothing left to do  here. 

"Later," she says, not even glancing at me. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the  room cold. 

I stay where I am. The ceiling fan’s still wobbling, but this time it feels like the whole room’s  waiting for something to happen.