The Debt of Blood

The sharp smell of disinfectant hit my nose, and that was when my consciousness finally started to come back.

The first thing I saw was my dad's face, so icy it seemed to freeze the room.

"You're awake?"

He did not even look up. His fingers kept tapping away at a calculator, the buttons clicking nonstop.

"The doctor said it's just low blood sugar and malnutrition. Nothing serious.

"Hospital fee, 300. Tests, 180. Medicine, 120. Chester, I'll cover this for you for now."

He lifted his head and turned the calculator toward me. The screen showed a number: 600.

My lips were so dry and cracked that I could not get a single word out.

During morning study, I was reciting vocabulary when everything suddenly went black, and I collapsed.

Right before I lost consciousness, my last thought was that my perfect attendance bonus for the month was gone.

Yeah. To keep me motivated, my dad had made a rule. No being late, no leaving early for an entire month, and I would get 50 bucks.

However, 50 dollars was not even one-tenth of the hospital bill.

"Dad…" I struggled to sit up.

He frowned and pressed me back down. "Don't move. If you break any equipment, that's more money."

Just then, a gentle voice came from the bed next to mine.

"Careful, it's still hot. Don't burn yourself. No one's taking it from you."

I turned my head. A boy about my age, wearing the same school uniform, was leaning against his bed. His dad stood beside him, holding a thermos. Spoonful by spoonful, he blew on the chicken soup to cool it before bringing it to his son's lips.

"Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to feed me," the boy said, a little embarrassed.

"No matter how old you are, you're still my son." His dad wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice thick with worry. "Look at you. You're so pale. Senior year is wearing you down. When we get home, I'll make you soup every day. Your health matters more than school. Worst case, you skip the exams. I can take care of you for the rest of your life."

The boy smiled, his eyes shining.

I stared at the steaming bowl of chicken soup, my stomach twisting with a sour ache.

My whole life, I had never had anything like that. Forget chicken soup. Even a boiled egg had to be earned with what my dad called 'chore credits.'

If I swept the floor once, I would get one credit. If I did all the laundry, three. Each credit was worth 50 cents. One boiled egg would cost two.

That was my dad's idea of a 'fair exchange.'

In our house, love was a luxury. It had a price tag.

Seeing me stare at the next bed, my dad curled his lips.

"What are you looking at? That kid was born lucky. You're just a nobody. If you don't earn it yourself, who will feed you?"

His words cut deep, hitting exactly where it hurt most.

The father and son next door fell silent, both looking at me with sympathy.

So, that was my life. Born to be a piece-rate worker in my own home.

It seemed like fathers like that really did exist. The kind who gave without counting the cost, without asking for anything in return.

I slowly closed my eyes and forced the tears back. Then, I looked at my dad's sharp, self-righteous face and calmly said, "Dad, don't worry.

"I'll return the 600 dollars to you.

"And every cent you've spent raising me these past 18 years."