The Eleven Year Debt

The Eleven Year Debt

Red envelopes were from the State. Deep and rich. Mahogany. Flaunted riches. Rupa took the letter from her box. Heard the paper crinkle as her hand shook. Concern flickered but was doused before she could truly feel it.

Rupa opened the letter carefully. Finding the seams and gently separating them. Pulling out the State’s letterhead. No greeting. The first line informed her that Adea Costa had died. The second line listed the financial responsibilities Rupa was inheriting.

The last line requested she confirm the relation, that Adea Costa had been her mother.

Rupa folded the letter and slid it into her pocket. Weight was added to every step up the stairs. Into an apartment that held only three items: A couch, a microwave, a mini fridge. She barely had enough space to squeeze in.

Seven dollars and thirty-four cents. Her entire life savings. Every penny had been gathered. Combined in hopes for some news shoes. Her toes peeked out of her black sneakers; the last bits of the thread abandoned her last week.

Rupa looked at the letter again. Glared at the flourish detailing the State’s logo. Frustration started simmering into anger. Hatred. Her neural implant jolted, an inter-cranium shock. Rupa cried out, touching her temple.

The implant deconstructed her anger, building good humor in its place. Rupa squashed it into apathy and sat on the couch. She looked down the street of her heart, spotting grief in the distance. Out of reach for now.

The letter was signed and sent. Rupa sewed the holes in her shoes and searched for a third job. Once it was found, she reached for a fourth.

Four hours of sleep each night. One meal, the same meal, every day. Odd jobs on the occasional day off.

Sometimes frustration tiptoed near but was chased. Exhaustion was reconfigured into ambition.

Mother’s debts were paid off in year five. Happiness was flattened into a line of ambivalence. Paid debts were a milestone. Grief was the goal.

Year seven, her hands forever cramped.

Year eight, her heart lost its steady beat.

Year nine, she got sick.

She went to work anyway. The neural implant made an incident report, noting her fever and chills, sending a memo to the state. She was sent home with a citation for endangering the workforce and a warning to vary her diet to prevent illness from happening again.

At home, Rupa lay on the couch. Its white polyester innards stuck out. Between vomiting and coughing spells that toyed with never ending, she thought about Mother. Mother had worked as hard as Rupa, maybe harder. Trying to minimize her debt, knowing it would become Rupa’s burden.

She had lost a day of wages. More food added expenses that shoved grief further down the street. Rupa would expand her diet. Not because of the State’s command. Because Mother would want her to.

Year eleven. Rupa hugged herself. Felt her bones rubbing together. Relentless working allowed just enough muscle to take the train downtown.

Sixteen blocks from the station, a building stood tall, shining like a beacon amidst the cracked and brittle gray bricks surrounding it. The State building in all its rich glory.

Inside, the elevator was broken. Rupa took gentle steps to the eighth floor. Journeyed through several corridors until she saw the LED sign.

Emotion Subscriptions.

Busy. The queue extended into the hall. She waited. Not eager. Not excited. Not yet.

Hours passed. Intermittent baby steps until she reached the counter. Stared at the teller with bags under his eyes but wasn’t allowed to feel tired.

Rupa dropped her life on the table. Paper bills. Glimmering silver and copper. Enough for one day.

The teller added it up. Pushed the button on the screen. The neural implant hummed, a burning buzz in her head.

Everything happened at once. The pain. The exhaustion. She stumbled past the crowd. Eyes watched with muted curiosity. Oblivious to the hurricane inside her.

She remembered mother’s hands. Calloused and rough. Walks on the beach. Kitchen spun treats. Bed time stories and encouragement. Home wrapped in a person; mother’s voice was the front door. Happiness and love Rupa knew existed, even if she was never allowed to feel it.

Rupa fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands.

Finally allowed to scream.