the eviction threat

Millicent’s pov

Recently, some days, life taps me lightly on the shoulders, but other days, it grabs me by the hair and drags me across concrete. This morning, it’s the latter.

I’m opening the studio, or trying to at least, when a pure white city sedan pulls up right across the yard, the kind officials use when they want to ruin someone’s day with paperwork. A man in neat shirt nicely tucked into his jeans steps out, I wonder how he achieved that with such tummy like he eats for three people, his governmental badge is hooked just at the left side of his belt. His expression is obvious, he’s bored, and that’s the look of someone who’s already decided my life is an inconvenience.

“Millicent Andrews?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer, holding Josh on my hips, he’s sleepy and clinging to my shirt. The man barely glances at him, he just lifts a bright red paper and slaps it against my studio door like he’s posting a notice on a public toilet.

FINAL WARNING: DEMOLITION IN 7 DAYS.

My mouth goes dry at once. “No, that…that must be a mistake. I.. we still have time. the previous notice said…”

“Purchased property and expedited order,” he cuts in, with a tone flat enough to slap me. “I know what it said ma’am, but he new owner wants the land cleared immediately, the demolition crew arrives tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? But,” my heartbeat stutters. “you can’t just…you can’t fucking do that! Please I have a business and I have a child…”

But before I can finish blabbering, he’s already walking away and the sedan drives off, leaving dust, exhaust and humiliation in its wake. I stand there, clutching josh, staring at the blood-red paper like it’s a countdown to my execution, but that’s not even the worst part. He actually wasn’t lying.

The next morning, at 6:12 a.m., I wake to the grinding roar of machinery shaking the entire block and Josh startles awake on the bed beside me, coughing. I rush outside barefoot, my hair all messy, wearing whatever I fell asleep in. The street is filled with workers and massive construction trucks, looking like hungry machines lined up like they’re preparing for war. My war. Tall, huge looking men in dusty boots and neon vests hop out, laughing, stretching, and pulling cigarettes from their pockets. They don’t even see me at first until I plant myself in front of my studio door.

“Hey!” I shout. “back the fuck up, you can’t do this.”

A worker walks closer and looks at me up and down, slow and dismissive, a smirk curling on his face.

“Lady, we’re just doing our job, a billionaire has already bought the whole block, and if he says knock it down, we do. It’s what we’re being paid for.”

Another snickers. “Yeah, move, cunt. we’re on the clock.”

This fucker, how dare he? Something in me snaps, no, not cracks, snaps. I march toward them, fire burning in my chest, grabbing one of the metal barricades they unloaded. “You do not touch this or any other building in this block.” I spit. “I’ll call the police, I’ll call..”

The foreman raises a brow and cuts in before I can finish. “Call whoever you want ma’am, I’m afraid we have a legal order.”

“Then find the person who signed it,” I snarl. “Tell him to come down here and say it to my face.”

They laugh, all of them, out loud and cruel, and the laughter scrapes my dignity raw. One of them mutters, “She’s crazy.”

and another yells “This bitch is gonna cry.”

I’m shaking, not with fear, but with rage, the kind that crawls under your skin and demands release by all means necessary.

“My son is sick,” I say, voice trembling. “This studio helps with the payment of his treatment. This is all we have. you can’t just…”

“Not my problem,” the foreman says. “Now, step aside miss.”

He tries to move past me, but I shove him real hard. The entire crew goes silent, watching him hold onto his balls, groveling on the floor. Some of the other store owners cheer. Josh is watching from the doorway now, his small hands gripping the frame, and his chest rising too fast. I can’t, and I sure won’t let these men take the last thing holding our lives together.

“You’re not knocking down shit,” I hiss. “Not today.”

The foreman steps closer, breath smelling like cheap black coffee and cigarettes. “Lady, get the hell out of the way before you get hurt. We won’t be responsible for what happens if you don’t obey our simple order.”

Hurt? as if I’m not already bleeding on the inside. I stand my ground anyway and when his hand reaches toward the studio door, I scream, my voice ripping out of me louder than the machines, louder than the judgment of this whole damn town.

“Over my fucking-dead-body!”

The whole street freezes, and passers by stop to get a good look at the show, even the trucks seem to quiet, like the universe is holding its breath. They can’t lay a hand on me, that’ll worsen the whole situation, and then, the police will now be fully involved.

I don’t care if I sound or look insane, I don’t care if they drag me away, and I sure as hell don’t care if the billionaire who bought this street sends all his lawyers or his demons, this is the line I refuse to let them cross, because if I lose this place… I lose everything, I mean every damn thing, and I’m not done fighting.