The Debt of Blood

Ever since I got out of the hospital, I had lived like a machine wound too tight.

I studied nonstop at school during the day, then worked nonstop at home at night.

Sleep became a luxury I could not afford. I grabbed ten-minute naps between classes or memorized vocabulary as I walked, whispering the words under my breath.

One day, my teacher called me in. She looked at the dark circles under my eyes, her face full of concern.

"Chester, you haven't seemed like yourself lately. Your grades have been slipping. If this continues, getting into a top school may be tough. Is everything okay at home?"

I shook my head and forced out a smile that looked worse than crying.

"It's nothing. I've just been inefficient with my studying."

I did not dare tell her the truth. If I did, she might visit my home. She might talk to my dad.

That would only make things worse.

He would think I was complaining about him behind his back, embarrassing him. Then, he would take it out on me, turning his anger into more chores, more bills, and more debts for me to carry.

I clenched my terrible report card so tightly my knuckles turned white.

When I got home, there was no comfort waiting for me. Just another round of my dad's 'evaluation.'

"Scores like these? Guess this is your limit." He leaned back on the couch, tossing peanut shells onto the floor. "I've told you before, all this studying is pointless. You'd be better off getting a job early and helping out around the house."

"Oh, right," he said casually. "Your brother wants to sign up for guitar lessons. It's 2,000 dollars a semester. How's your college fund coming along? If you can't get into a good school, don't waste the money. Hand it over so we can pay for your brother's classes."

For a moment, it felt like all the blood in my body froze.

The little bit of money I had scraped together, paid for with endless nights and cracked, bleeding hands, meant less to them than one of my brother's hobbies.

Brian sat nearby, playing video games. When he heard that, he looked up and shouted, "Yeah! Dad's right! You're not getting in anyway. Might as well give me the money!"

I looked at the two of them, at their perfectly reasonable expressions, and felt my stomach churn.

I did not cry. I did not argue. I knew tears were the cheapest thing in that house. It was worth nothing.

I kept quiet. I just picked up a broom and started sweeping the shells scattered all over the floor.

"Five bucks for sweeping. Clean the bathroom later, and it's ten. That's 15 today. I'll pay you right after," my dad said, mistaking my silence for obedience, acting generous for once.

I nodded. "Okay."

I needed money. For transportation, for tuition, and for whatever it would take to survive after I got out of there.

That night, I crouched on the cold bathroom tiles, scrubbing the toilet, my mind racing.

Exhausted.

Desperate.

Rebellion.

Escape.

Each word felt like a blade carving itself into my heart.

I scrubbed harder and harder until every tile in the bathroom shone.

When my dad came to check, he nodded in satisfaction and pulled 15 dollars from his wallet.

"Not bad. Here, take it."

I took the money and slipped the bills into my pocket.

Back in my room, I opened my ledger and wrote in it.

[Debt: 600.]

[Repaid: 15.]

Then, I unfolded a map.

My gaze drifted north, all the way from Southridge, past so many cities and states, until it finally settled on Winterford.

More than 2,000 kilometers away. A city of ice and snow.

Far enough.

I closed the map, pulled out a practice test, and dove back into solving problems like my life depended on it.