There are days when fear grips my heart like a vice, quick, sharp, and unexpected. On those rare occasions, my mind drifts back to the dark corners of my past. I remember vividly the cracked lips and hollow stomachs, the hours I spent begging on the street just to raise enough for Mom's medication. Even as a child, I took on jobs no child should ever know. I cleaned gutters, fetched water, scrubbed floors, anything to survive. My hands, small and soft back then, got used to dirt and calluses early.
We lived on the outskirts of the city, the part most people pretended didn't exist. The government called it "underdeveloped," but to me, it was just forgotten. When I stumbled across an old abandoned stable, something told me it was meant to be ours. It was falling apart: broken windows, rusted hinges, a door that creaked like it was on its last breath. But I saw possibility. With a little magic, or desperation, I turned it into something close to a home. The wood I nailed, the leaks I patched, all while Mom watched with a heavy heart from her corner of the room.
She was too sick to help, her body frail, her skin nearly translucent under the weak sunlight. She'd whisper encouragements from her blanket nest while I hammered and fell and got back up. I made her corner as comfortable as I could. Mine was just a mattress on the floor with barely a pillow, but I didn't mind. She kept urging me to fix mine too, to make it cozy, but I didn't feel like I deserved comfort, not yet. Not until things changed.
"You'll burn the house down, Kaitlyn!" Mom's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Huh?" I blinked, half-lost in memory, a spoon still in my hand.
"The sauce is burning!" she shouted.
"Zeus!" I cursed, rushing over to the stove to rescue what I could.
I laughed nervously. "Sorry, I was drifting again."
"It's alright," she said, standing with her hands on her hips like a general. "We'll make do. You're young, smart, and stronger than most people your age. Stop letting the weight of the world drown you. There's still hope."
"Thanks, Mom," I whispered, helping her to her room after storing what was left of dinner. "Get some rest. I'll be right back with your pills."
But deep down, I couldn't shake the anxiety. It wasn't just her health. It was everything, the threat of eviction, the mounting bills, the feeling that life was just... closing in.
As I stepped outside, I called over my shoulder, "Sauce's in the jar! Be right back, okay?"
No response.
"Mom?"
From behind the curtain, I heard her mumbling, "This place feels strange… How do I survive with a stranger?"
My heart cracked a little more. My own mother, my rock, no longer recognized me.
At the pharmacy, the pharmacist barely looked up.
"Donepezil again?" she sighed. "Listen, girl. You can't keep doing this. She needs full-time care. A hospital. This medication only delays the inevitable."
"I'm doing the best I can," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She must've seen the fire in my eyes because she looked away and quietly counted my change.
As I stepped outside, the sun hit my hair, casting a glow that made the strands shimmer gold. My blue lenses reflected the brightness, but my eyes welled up. The fear of losing my mother was a constant knot in my stomach. I wiped the tears quickly, not wanting to draw attention.
That's when someone grabbed me from behind.
"Argh!" I gasped, spinning around.
It was a man in his mid-forties, grinning like he knew me.
"I saw you at the pharmacy," he said, breathless. "Tried to catch up. You're fast."
"Can I help you?" I asked warily.
"There's a job," he said, handing me a piece of paper. "Pays well. Might be what you need right now."
He turned and walked off before I could ask more.
The address was in the heart of the city. That alone felt intimidating. I wasn't even sure I had the qualifications. But something told me to try.
******
The next day, the city buzzed with energy. Skyscrapers, traffic, honking, everything moved fast. People passed without sparing a glance. I adjusted my gown and squared my shoulders.
"You've got this," I whispered to myself.
The address led to a shabby storefront, nowhere near what I'd imagined. A faded political poster clung to the door like a relic from another era. An old woman sat out front, scowling across the street through thick glasses.
"Good day, ma," I said.
She grunted. "Yeah?"
"I'm here about a ...."
"You're the girl my son told me about," she cut in. "This is a bakery by day, video game shop by night. You want the job, get an apron."
"Morning shifts?" I asked, uncertain.
She waved me inside without another word. And there he was, the same man from yesterday.
"Welcome," he said with a smirk. "Let's get to know each other, yeah?"
"You didn't tell me this was your shop," I said, folding my arms.
"Opportunity knocks in strange ways," he replied, eyes roaming.
I didn't like his tone, or the way he touched my hand while showing me the oven. I pulled away.
He smirked. "You'll learn a lot here."
I'd heard that line before. From too many men like him. Like Mr. Peters, who used to whisper disgusting things when I babysat his kids. Like the ones who promised help but demanded more.
I was no stranger to this hell.
**********
That night, I got home, exhausted. As I brushed my hair, I heard a crash from Mom's room. I ran in, glass on the floor, blood on her legs.
"I just slipped," she gasped.
She passed out in my arms.
A knock followed. I opened the door to find two stern government officers.
"You're trespassing," one said. "You need to vacate by morning."
"My mom, she needs help," I pleaded.
They glanced at the scene but left coldly.
I held her tighter as she stirred awake, confused and in pain.
Trouble wasn't just knocking, it had kicked the door in.