Prologue: My Husband Is A Deadbeat
1630 Words
[Isolde]
"Johnny, how could you use your son as collateral?!"
My voice faltered midsentence. Too full of disbelief for someone who should've stopped being surprised a long time ago.
Johnny sat slumped against the wall, his face a wreck once again--Split lip, bruised cheek, a cut near his hairline oozing slowly into his collar. He looked up with dry, guiltless eyes—still playing for pity, like always.
"I didn't know they'd actually take him," he croaked. "They said it was just a hold. Just until I could pay the interest—"
"You let them take our child!" I snapped at his casual tone. "He's six, Johnny. Six!"
The two men who'd dragged him back here stood silent near the door, still reeking of blood and cigar smoke while counting money. They'd taken all I had left in the house.
My baby boy--Rick, had been dragged out to their vehicle and I wasn't allowed to even cross the threshold to assure him that everything was going to be alright. That mummy was going to handle it—like I always did.
The taller man had a knife holstered at his hip; the other one held a paper-thin contract, one I didn't remember signing but instantly recognised my signature forged at the bottom, a neat and slightly too-curvy 'I' where my real one hooked sharper.
Johnny had signed my name on the biggest gamble of his life. Hundreds of thousands. Money he'd never once seen in his account!
How many times had I forgiven him?
Too many.
The first time he took my savings? I told myself it was an accident. That he'd make it up to me once he got himself a job.
That was five years ago.
The second time? I believed he was just desperate. That marriage meant sacrifice and spouses needed patience. Especially where love was involved.
The fifth time, when he'd gambled away my f*****g car and our baby's college savings, I cried for over an hour in the staff bathroom and still came home with groceries for dinner.
And when he told me I wasn't as attractive as when we first met. When he said I had aged. That I'd become too old-fashioned, too serious—I let it slide. He made me wear looser clothes so I wouldn't draw attention in public. I wasn't allowed to let my hair down, dress up or wear make-up.
I smiled through clenched teeth and stayed silent. Because I loved him. And assumed he was only being strict because he cared. That it was normal for a man to act that way.
God help me, I had.
I was twenty-five, fresh out of graduate school, and he was the first man who ever looked at me like I was more than brains and boobs in a blouse. He brought flowers on our first date after pestering me for weeks. He kissed my forehead when I was nervous about presentations, calling me beautiful when I felt otherwise.
And even when that enchanted version of him faded, I clung tightly to it.
Even when the money dried up.
Even when he stopped touching me—except when he wanted something.
Even when I couldn't bear to see my own dried-up reflection anymore.
I stayed.
Because I had a child to raise. Because I thought loyalty was virtuous. Because I couldn't picture a life outside this prison of a marriage. I mean, after being a prisoner all my life, it wasn't that much of a surprise.
Because I was afraid.
For seven years, I'd played the good wife. I packed lunches. Paid bills. Skipped dinner so he could eat a second helping. Smiled with my colleagues and made up stories to trick them into thinking I was happy in my marriage. I wore high-necked blouses and ankle-length skirts because Johnny hated when I 'invited looks.' And I waited. Waited for him to change.
But now I could see just how impossible it was for Johnny to change.
I gradually dropped down to my knees, looking straight at him and ignoring the mild scrape of wood against my knee. My fist hit the floor, overwhelmed by frustration. I wanted to punch him right in that already beaten face.
Johnny didn't say much of anything. He simply stared blankly at the blood on his shirt like he couldn't remember how it had gotten there.
How could he when he was half drunk, barely conscious, and completely useless?
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
My left cheek was swollen from the blow I'd taken trying to hold on to my dear Rick while the man I married remained in his corner and watched it happen.
"But he never existed, did he?" The question was directed towards myself.
Johnny's head swayed in a slow, clueless shake. "It wasn't like that, dear. I was going to pay back all our debt with that win. I thought—"
"No."
I forced myself to stand. My joints groaned from too many nights curled up on the floor after he sold our bed for pocket cash.
"You thought?" I said, voice rising. "Are you even capable of thinking?!"
One of the debt collectors cleared his throat, waving the bills I'd scraped together. "Quiet down! This isn't nearly enough."
His partner snorted. "Whatever. If we sell the brat, we can at least cover the interest."
My body stiffened and I dropped to the floor, scrambling to where they stood.
"No! Please don't sell my baby!" I clutched the hem of one man's jeans, desperate. "Take me instead—please!"
He sneered, kicking me off him. "Who the hell would buy someone your age?" Then he crouched as I tried to sit up, lifting my chin with two fingers, his eyes dropping to my chest.
He whistled. "Damn… Are those even real?"
He lifted his hand and before I could register the motion, he groped me. I stiffened.
How revolting.
This man.
My husband.
Every man in this room.
All the same.
I held his stare, letting him see the disgust behind my gaze.
He slapped me, the force knocking me onto my side.
When I looked up, he was already rising.
"We'll expect the first payment by next month," he said flatly. "Ten thousand. If you don't meet the cut, the boy goes."
Ten thousand? How the hell was I supposed to gather that amount in a month?
“Please, I’ll need more time!” I begged.
One of them scoffed. “Okay? Then how about fifty thousand in three months? Final offer.”
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Three months meant after new years and it was much more difficult to get jobs during winter. Yet, these cruel people had called an unreasonable amount which was practically my yearly salary!
"Okay, fine.” I agreed without thinking too much. “But when can I see him?" I gasped, crawling after them. "My son. When can I see him?"
The door was already open.
"Unless you plan on coughing up the money earlier than planned, you’ll see your little brat in three months," came the cold reply before it slammed shut.
Silence followed their departure.
I stared at the door, my hands balled into fists.
I wanted to scream. But the knowledge of how futile that was stopped me.
We couldn't go to the police. Johnny's debts weren't just illegal—they were dangerous. Every forged signature, every loan under my name... if the law got involved, it would be me they'd take down. Not him. The bastard had nothing to lose.
I got up on weakened legs, stumbling toward the window and gripping the frame to stay upright. The tears I'd struggled to suppress the whole night were beginning to build up once more and I wished this was all nothing but a nightmare. One I would wake up from soon—even if I'd been living it for thirty-two whole years.
As I slid the window open, the cool night breeze hit me hard in the eyes and I watched their car disappear down the street, taking my little boy with them.
All because of the deadbeat I called a husband.
"Why'd you let him touch you?" Johnny suddenly demanded.
I slowly turned, too stunned to speak.
He was struggling to stand, blood dripping from his nostrils. He looked much different from the man I once loved and his face contorted in something like anger.
"What?" I breathed, dumbfounded by his audacity.
He stepped closer. "I said—why'd you let him grope you?" He raised his voice. "Are you a slut now?"
That stopped me cold.
Not the bruises. Not the debt. Not our abducted son.
Instead, he cared about that?
I looked at him—and for the first time in seven years, I didn't see a broken man who needed saving. I saw the coward who sold his son and blamed me for being violated in the process.
And I didn't feel pity. I felt something else. Anger, spite?
A ping interrupted the confrontation.
I turned toward the floor where my phone lay face-up, the screen cracked at one edge.
I wanted to ignore it, but then another ping came.
Ignoring my husband, I moved to check the screen, hoping it wasn't another loan shark demanding payment.
To my surprise, it was a message from a shady app I'd downloaded for odd jobs.
Unknown Number: Hello.
Unknown Number: How far would you go for money?
I gaped at the screen, wondering if this was some sort of silly joke.
My eyes searched the room to make sure we weren't being watched, and my thumb was still hovering over the screen when another ping came.
Unknown Number: Would you kill for it?
- Writer
