Debt
1667 Words
The morning was warming up and Heather was excited to clock in. It was her first real job outside of painting.
She made toast with honey for Papa and Billy before grabbing her small pouch bag and kissing Billy.
“I’ll be back in no time” she stated before walking out the front door.
She could hear the other children in the distance, chasing each other through the alleys, screaming and laughing like they had no worries in the world.
She passed the fountain near the town square, the one that came alive during the summer festivals. That was when she made a little money selling tiny paintings of sunflowers, boats, and sometimes lovers holding hands. Tourists from the outer cities would stop, drawn by the colors, and hand her coins that felt like gold in her palm. That money kept them going through the cold months.
But it wasn’t summer now. It was almost fall, and the air was changing. So was everything else.
She slipped into Old Greg’s store, holding her bag to her chest. The bell above the door gave a lazy jingle, and the smell of flour and tobacco hit her nose immediately. Greg hunched over a crate of onions, gave her a look.
“You’re late,” he said, voice rough like gravel.
Heather gave him a tight smile. “I had to make breakfast for Billy and dress papa’s wound.”
Greg grunted. “He’s a smart one. Gonna be a handful soon.”
She didn’t disagree. Billy, her seven-year-old brother, was growing too fast for the little they had.
It was a normal day at the store. She attended to the people and had some time for herself to think and wonder what life would have been if many things didn’t happen.
The time went by fast and it was time for her to pack up and leave. She walked down to the aisle where the breads were. They needed bread back at the house.
She picked up a sack of bread and a tin of soup and placed the coins gently on the counter. Greg counted them slower than usual, then tossed in two extra apples without saying anything.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He just waved her off.
The walk home was quiet. There were barely any body on the streets except for the adults hurrying home after work. She said hi to few of them and responded to the ones who asked about Luca.
“You are growing so tall now”
“Tell Luca I’d come by soon”
“How are you holding up”
Those were their words when they stopped to talk to her.
She hastened her footstep in a bid to get to the corner that led to the house. Zero chances anyone would be there.
She feared the guts of the people in folktale. They talk with no filter and she was even lucky this time that no one had asked about their loan.
Heather sighed, adjusting the sack of bread in her arms. She hated what the world had made her. Always saying no. Always watching. Always surviving.
She reached the door of their small flat and paused, pressing her forehead to the wood for a second. She could hear Billy moving inside, probably pretending he was on a spaceship again. He was always doing that when he was alone
When she stepped in, the place smelled like dust and boiled water. Billy peeked out from under a thin blanket, grinning.
“You were gone forever.” He whined before yanking the blanket away
Heather smiled. “It was just a little while, silly. I got you apples”
He jumped up and ran to hug her waist. She knelt down, brushing the hair out of his eyes.
“Eat something, then go draw,” she said softly. “Use the blue crayon this time. You always forget it.”
He giggled and nodded before running off.
The apartment was too quiet after that. She looked over at the corner where their father’s wheelchair used to be but he was not there. She dropped the bread on the table and hurried to his room to see what he was up to.
There he was. Still alive. He was holding one of Heather’s old unfinished painting of her mother, Emelda.
“Papa” she called out and he turned to look her before tucking the paper away.
“I saw the paper papa.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ve been thinking…” he stated sounding a bit too tired.
“I want us to try and reach out to her…”
“No way papa” Heather cut in.
“We have some money gathered. Leave Folktale with Billy and I’ll deal with Marco myself”
“That’s out of the equation papa. Please let’s drop this. I brought back some bread. I’ll bring some to you” Heather responded before walking out.
****
Heather was just about to stock a shelf when a small boy from the neighborhood came running into the store, out of breath.
“There are black cars outside your house,” he whispered like it was a secret.
“They look… scary.”
Her stomach dropped.
She didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t pack her things. She just ran.
The streets blurred as she rushed through them, each step heavier than the last. Neighbors waved at her but she didn’t wave back. She turned the corner and paused.
The front gate was open.
Three black cars were parked outside the yard like they owned the ground beneath them. The engines were off but the tension in the air roared. She could see the faint outline of men inside sitting, watching.
She tiptoed closer, heart hammering.
The front door was slightly ajar.
Heather pushed the door open. Slowly. Carefully.
The house was too quiet. Not the soft quiet that meant Billy was drawing in the corner. This was dead quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.
Then she saw them.
The black dress shoes first. Then the dark slacks. Then the man standing in the center of her living room like he belonged there.
Marco Rizzo.
He wasn’t looking at her. Not yet. He was studying one of her paintings, the one she had hung beside the bookshelf. A small, delicate piece of a flower breaking through cracked concrete that she had painted two years earlier.
He held it between two fingers like it disgusted him.
Then he spoke, calm and cold.
“You paint hope like someone who’s never met me.”
He turned.
And there it was! The full weight of him. Tall, dressed in black like mourning, with eyes so dark they looked empty. Not angry. Not cruel, Just… unreadable.
“And here I was thinking I’d walk into a home full of regret” he added.
“But you’ve been busy decorating.”
“The word out there is that you are a good painter. I’m wondering why you can’t paint enough to pay your debts” he stated dropping the painting on the floor.
Marco moved toward her slowly, the soft tread of his shoes barely making a sound on the cracked floorboards.
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Dark, expensive, out of place in her world.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thin brown envelope.
“I brought you a second option” he said, almost kindly.
“A cleaner deal. Less… permanent.”
He held it out between two fingers, not handing it to her directly. Just letting it hang there like an offer she didn’t deserve.
Heather didn’t move at first.
“Take it” he urged, his voice a little lower now.
“I won’t repeat myself”
She stretched her hand forward and took it from him slowly, careful not to brush against his fingers.
“You should have an answer in two days”
Marco was already walking toward the door, casual, like this was just another business meeting.
Heather’s heart was pounding in fear. Her head spinning.
Marco had just been in her living room. He even touched her painting.
She barely even noticed that the chair in the corner was empty.
She turned around, about to ask Luca to come look at the envelope…
But he wasn’t there.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Papa?” she called out, voice thin.
“Where’s…?”
Then she turned back to Marco, dread crawling up her spine.
“He’s with my men” he said without looking back.
“Getting a little check-up. Some rest. You can thank me later”
Heather’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
“You took him?” she whispered, her voice cracking.
“Without even telling me?” Her hands flew up to her head in disbelief.
She could swear she heard him scoff.
Marco paused, then turned slightly to glance at her over his shoulder.
“You want to talk about permission now?” he asked, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“I’ll bring him back. Two days. Same time.”
His eyes dropped to the envelope in her hand.
“If you’re smart, you’ll have an answer by then”
Then he walked out.
No shouting. No threats.
Just the faint scent of power, and the deep, invisible fingerprint of a man who always got what he wanted.
She stood frozen at the door, envelope clutched in her hand.
Billy peeked out from behind the curtain.
“Heather… is Papa coming back?”
She didn’t answer.
Because she didn’t know.
She locked the door behind them, turned the latch twice. Her fingers were trembling.
She wanted to scream. Or break something. Or cry. But Billy was still watching.
So she sank onto the floor, pulled him into her lap, and whispered:
“I’ll get him back. I promise.”she whispered softly.
- Writer
