The Blood-Stained Cheque

My husband's laughter came through the half-open door of the VIP ward. Easy, careless laughter. For three years, I had heard him speak through static-filled calls, too weak to finish a sentence without coughing. That man had never laughed. I stopped on the cool linoleum. Fever burned under my skin, one of the side effects the trial doctor had warned me about, and the latest injection pulsed in my arm. In my hand was a cheque for ten thousand dollars. Blood had seeped through the thin bandage and dried across one corner. This was the money Julian said would clear the last of his debt. This was supposed to be the last payment. After this, Julian and I would finally be free of his debts. I looked through the gap. Julian stood beside the bed with his back straight and color in his face. His suit probably cost more than everything in our basement apartment. The VIP room held flowers, champagne, and no sign of a patient. Julian lifted a diamond necklace around Mia's neck and fastened it while she laughed at herself in the mirror. The hallway slipped out of focus. A monitor beeped in another room, and the injection site kept throbbing. I pressed my shoulder to the wall until it steadied. Julian was healthy. The weak calls, the medical crisis, and the debts he claimed were crushing him had all been staged. A nurse hurried past, and I moved out of her way. Neither Julian nor Mia noticed me outside the door. “She really did it, didn't she?” Mia ran her fingers over the necklace. “Dropped out of art school, works three disgusting jobs. I even heard she sells her blood plasma. All for you, Jules. It's pathetic. Almost romantic.” I covered my mouth. Plasma would have been safer. BioGen was testing an unregulated drug on me. Julian answered in the clipped tone he used in board meetings, nothing like the weak man who called me begging for help. “It was an obedience test, Mia. I had to know whether she was different from the others, whether she'd stay without the Croft fortune.” He checked the clasp at the back of her neck. “She passed. I'll give her ten times what she spent. That will cover plenty of paint and canvases.” *Compensation.* He had watched me quit school and work until my hands cracked. He had accepted every payment without asking how I found it. Now the medical waivers, lost tuition, and damage to my body were items he meant to settle with one transfer. I walked away before either of them saw me. I didn't cry. I still had one thing left to do. The basement smelled of damp concrete and mold. One bare bulb lit the cracked walls and the lumpy mattress we shared. Julian had always called the room temporary. I pulled my old duffel bag from under the mattress. A few thin sweaters, worn jeans, and toiletries bought on sale filled less than half of it. At the bottom of a cardboard box, I found my sketchbook under a layer of dust. Half-finished portraits and landscapes covered the pages, work from classes I never completed. The last dated sketch ended three years ago, just before Julian's first financial emergency swallowed my tuition. I packed the sketchbook on top. It was the only thing in the bag I cared about. Just as I zipped the duffel bag, I heard the familiar turn of the key in the lock. Julian came in wearing his costume again: a worn jacket, grease placed carefully on one cheek, shoulders bent with fake exhaustion. Less than an hour earlier, those shoulders had filled out a bespoke suit. He opened his arms and gave me the tired smile I had trusted for three years. “Serena, honey, I'm home. I need a hug. Rough day at the construction site.”