BLOOD DEBT

Drina’s POV

Madrid is quite an early riser, though it does not mind who rises with him. I get up early enough before daylight, as I can no longer sleep due to hunger. My stomach is constantly aching, and the chill of the room is seeping through my skin. I freeze and look about at the broken ceiling of my flat, and I count the spots that I already remember.

“Another day,” I say, though nobody is around to hear.

The room is tiny and reeks of moist walls and dust. My jacket is pinned on a sawed-off chair, and my shoes are at the door, battered through at the heels. I take my legs out of bed and scratch my face, attempting to push the memory of fire and screaming that I have never gotten rid of, even after all these years. They are easier than others. Today is not one of them.

I put water on my face at the little sink, and shuddered at the coldness of the water, and checked myself in the glass. The girl who is looking at me seems weak, almost fragile, with sinking cheeks and sore eyes. My shoulders straighten anyway.

“Even now you are alive,” I say to myself. “That must count for something.”

Once I get out of the house, the small hallway is stenched with old cooking oil and mildew. My neighbour, Carmen, opens her door even as I pass by. When people expect bad news, they look at one with a concerned face, which is what she does.

“Oh, Drina,” she says, in a low voice. “Did you not hear the sirens last night?”

I shake my head. "No. I sleep through most things."

A second more than needed, she asked me. "Be careful. Things feel tense lately."

I nod, although it has been the case that the relations have always been strained between people like me. The beauty of Madrid is only when you can afford to see that other side.

It is already time to go out to the streets in my neighbourhood. Sellers speak loudly, buses scratch, and elderly men quarrel without any purpose. Memories creep upon me uninvitedly as I walk. My mother laughed. My father released a hand on my shoulder. The night it all went up in flames, and the police vowed vengeance, they never avenged.

My phone is vibrating in my pocket, bringing me back to the here and now. I stand at the entrance of the metro and glance at the screen. It is an unknown contact.

Unknown: Now you want to know?

I squeeze my fingers around the phone. I know who this is, although nameless.

Unknown: Easy job. One night. Good money.

I stammer, and my heart is faster.

Me: How much?

The reply comes quickly.

Unknown: Just enough to mend your troubles.

I gulp. Rent. Food. Information about my parents. All the things I never have.

"What if I say no?" I whisper under my breath.

The phone buzzes again.

Unknown: Then you stay poor. And invisible.

I shut my eyes for one moment, and I type again.

Me: I'll do it.

I see an address on my screen, and a short message with the information that I should be ready in two hours.

The house to which I am assigned does not form part of my world. It is glass-covered, tall and guarded and proudly standing in a clean part of Madrid where we cannot belong. I am standing on the other side of the street faking my phone, but I can feel my heart palpitating in my chest.

“It is a mistake,” I tell myself, as I go forward.

The interior is a smooth and silent one. I do as I have been instructed to do, with my head low and my foot very cautious. I shake when I approach the office and insert the drive.

"Please work," I whisper.

The screen loads, and one hopeful second passes without anything. Then up goes the alarm, sharp, violent, and ruptures the silence.

“No, no,” I scream, and red lights flash, and the footsteps grow louder.

I pull the drive out and flee before I can reason. I do not turn, somebody shouts behind me. I run up the stairs, two steps at a time, and my lungs ache; my eyesight is watery. I do not cease running until my legs approach collapse when I explode out on the street.

It is only when I slow down that I bend over gasping. I unzip my bag and look inside the drive, causing my hands to shake.

“I did it,” I whisper, but the words are of no help.

Rather, fear grips my heart. I understand that I have crossed a line I do not know.

At my apartment, I shut the door and lean on it, attempting to bring myself down. I draw out my phone, and there is no signal. I keep on trying, trying, but the screen remains empty.

"That's strange," I murmur.

Then I feel it. And that creeping feeling on my skin. The sense of being watched.

I glance through the curtain and find a black automobile parked across the street. Its windows are black, and the engine is silent. My heart starts to race.

There is a knock on my door, which startles me.

"Delivery," a man calls.

I do not answer. The knock is repeated with more force. My cell phone goes completely dead.

"No," I whisper, “backing away.”

I seize my jacket and sneak out the back door, and my heart is beating wildly in my ears.

I do not get far.

Vans of black, in front of me, and before I can go round, my hands are grabbed. I scream and strangle, but they are too enormous. The person covers my mouth with a cloth, and the aroma of something sharp fills my senses.

"Let me go!" I cry, my voice breaking.

When the darkness draws me in, a very smooth, cold voice touches my ear.

"Take her to Fazio."

The world disappears.