The Weight of Sraps
A mechanical, insistent buzz saw through the heavy, stale air of the small bedroom. "Just 5 minutes to be a little late," Maya mumbled, the words catching on a dry throat, as her cheap, plastic bed alarm clocked at exactly 4:00 AM. She hadn't yet recovered from the brutal, smoke-filled work of the previous night which was her inaugural shift as a bartender. A thick, aching weariness settled in her bones. She lay motionless on the thin, lumpy mattress, its springs likely older than she was, stretched out sluggishly. The oppressive humidity of the summer night still clung to the room. She wished the clock would just spin back two hours so she could sleep until her eyelids weren't sandpaper. The room was sparse, walls the color of forgotten cream, peeling in damp corners, and a single, naked bulb hanging from a frayed cord, its light currently off. A rickety, paint-chipped dresser held her meager belongings. She lay still, wishing the crushing necessity of work didn't exist for her that day.
With a heavy sigh that sounded more like a deflation, she glanced at the alarm clock again. It was 4:05 AM. She swung her legs off the bed, the soles of her feet meeting the cold, cracked linoleum floor. She stood, stretching muscles that screamed in protest, and crossed to the window.
The window itself was barely more than a warped wooden frame and cloudy glass. She looked out onto the pre-dawn street of their slum neighborhood, the air already thick with the distant sounds of early traffic and uncollected refuse. She looked for nothing in particular, except perhaps a miracle, maybe a heavy storm that would render the streets impassable, an excuse to crawl back under the threadbare blanket.
She padded silently toward the adjoining room. "How are you doing, Mum?" she whispered, entering.
The air in her mother’s room was warmer, heavier, scented faintly with disinfectant and sickness. The room was even smaller and more spartan than her own. Her mother lay in an old, metal-framed bed, not a proper hospital bed, but the one they’d owned for years that squeaked ominously with every slight movement. The sheets were clean but faded. She was frail, her face a mask of exhaustion and pain, the cancer a greedy thing eating away at her. A single glass of water sat on a battered, wooden bedside table, catching the faint, weak light filtering in.
"I'm fine, dear," Mum struggled to say, waking. A weak, loving smile managed to push past the effort. "You look amazing this morning! What's the secret? You got the job?"
"Yes, I did. I'd be working there at night. The pay is very good too, but it's quite stressful. Having to keep up with those drunkards and perverts that go there every day."
"You don't have to think about it much. Just focus on what you're meant to do, and you will do just fine. By the way, Sam came around yesterday. He thought you'd be back from work," Mum said slowly, her voice catching on a dry cough.
Maya hissed, a short, sharp sound of annoyance, and retreated to the adjoining kitchen area. She yanked open the tap, the water sputtering weakly before settling into a thin stream, and started doing the dishes left from the previous night.
"You don't seem to go along with Sam. Why? He is a nice guy."
"Of course, Dad was nice as well, that's how we're here."
Mum went mute. Her eyes drifted, losing focus on the ceiling, as though she was lost in thought for a long minute.
"I don't like him," Maya continued, scrubbing vigorously at a stubborn grease spot on a plate. The tiny kitchen space was a monument to their financial strain, a stained sink, a two-burner gas hob that sat precariously on a countertop, and barely enough room to turn around. "I had told him to stop coming around. The last thing on my mind right now is falling in love with anybody. I don't want to carry more frustration than what is already on ground. They all look nice and good and humble, but when given the chance, they betray you in unthinkable ways, so I'm ain't ready for that."
"Your dad shouldn't be the yardstick you use to judge other people. You can miss out on great guys because you think everyone is like your dad," Mum replied, "Your dad..."
Maya cut her short this time, the clatter of a ceramic cup against the porcelain sink punctuating her anger. "Mum, please, let's not go down that lane, I've heard that a thousand times already.
The room went silent, save for the pathetic drip of the leaky faucet. Maya finished the few dishes and moved to the cooking space, beginning the routine of preparing a meager breakfast.
As she reached into the small, buzzing refrigerator, its door sealed with a piece of tape to hold in the cool, she saw a fresh, unwelcome pile of mail wedged against the milk carton. She knew what they were before her fingers even touched the cheap paper. Final notices from creditors, the aggressive red stamp of a debt collector, and the homeowner's unforgiving rent notice. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, pausing for a minute, staring down at the scuffed, faded pattern of the floor tiles. The weight of their crumbling home and her mother’s illness settled on her shoulders like a physical burden.
"I called Matthew," Mum started from the other room, her voice a frail plea. "He promised to help..."
Maya snapped, cutting her short again, the anger finally boiling over. "He isn't going to do anything! We have called him before. What result did it yield?"
She continued with the breakfast preparations, chopping vegetables with a violent, rhythmic precision, deliberately ignoring the letters and the sound of her mother’s disappointment.
She was suddenly incandescent with rage at the mention of Matthew. How could Mum call him again? Matthew, who had promised a ten thousand dollar aid for the hospital bills. He had named a date, sounding so confident, so sincere, that they had relaxed, allowing a fragile hope to bloom, only to watch it wither when the day arrived. Matthew's phone had been switched off, every call bouncing into the void. The betrayal had forced Maya to take on a crushing, high-interest credit debt with a promise to pay it off gradually with her new, exhausting job. Now, with the extra financial obligations, they were barely feeding themselves.
She finished cooking in a tight, internal silence, plated the small meal, carefully cleaned her mother, and prepared to face the new day.
