The Debt

1

Disclaimer - Distressing, dark, disturbing themes. Please avoid reading if you are triggered easily.

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You're sitting in your room upstairs, doom scrolling while a gentle breeze wafts lazily past your open window. It's a warm afternoon, and you're in loose, comfy clothes. Your free hand is under your top, playing idly on your skin as your scroll.

You hear the crunch of gravel under car tires, and it sounds like a few cars are driving up to the house. You take a peek out the window, but don't recognise the two black SUVs pulling up in front of the house. Probably someone who worked with your daddy.

You were never quite sure what your boyfriend did for work. A small, bookish man, tired and with glasses, he was private about his work but always seemed to be working. Whatever he did, it paid well. You live in a beautiful two storey house on a decent sized block, with trees hugging the fence line and creating your own secluded little area.

You shrug and go back to scrolling.

You hear voices from downstairs, and the front door being thrown open. Quite roughly, you notice. The voices are louder now, almost yelling. You can't hear what they're saying, but even so there's a threatening edge to it.

Then a thud, and a yelp of pain. Even muffled and fuzzy through the floor, you recognise your dad.

You go to your door and open it as quietly as you can. You don't see anything on the landing, but you can hear the voices more clearly from outside your room. You can make out something about money, though it's still indistinct. You creep forward to the railing, and you can make out a little of the scene playing out below.

Two men stand flanking your boyfriend, holding his shoulders with thick, muscle-bound arms. Tattoos twine and dance across their rough skin. You can't get a good look at your boyfriend because a tall man stands with his back to you, blocking your view. He's less tattooed than the other two, and seems to be doing most of the talking.

"Fuck you man, where's my money?" he growls, pushing his face very close to your dad. You can make out a black eye, and a splash of red that could have been from a bleeding lip. "You made a deal. 'There's no way we could lose!' says the weasel, 'You'll get it back double!' says the fucking weasel! Well, where is it?" He open palm slaps your daddy across the face. "I get nothing from your blood, why should I give a shit if you bleed? You owe me motherfucker, and I'm gonna take what I'm owed."

Then a rough hand grabs you by the throat, and a man you didn't see before starts dragging you towards the stairs. He doesn't bother to cover your mouth.

The hand on your throat is rough and strong. You can feel the callouses against your skin. His forearm appears from the corner of your eye, and is thick and muscular, with tanned skin and dark hair. For a split second you're frozen while your brain works out what happened, and in that split second you can smell this man, your captor with his hand on your throat. He smells like expensive cologne and cheap whisky, and the faintest hint of exertion and fresh sweat. And underneath it all, more than a smell, is lust. You can feel this man's lust in the breathing on your neck. You can taste it in the scent of his sweat, you can feel it in the movement of his rough fingers clasped on your throat. Your heart catches a beat for a moment, both with cold fear and a little mingled arousal at the closeness and lust. And then the split second is over, and your brain kicks into gear.

You thrust your left elbow backward into his gut, and try to push yourself forward, out of his grip. It's towards the stairs, but you'll catch yourself. Or you'll fall. But he won't have you anymore, right?

Wrong.

He grunts in pain when your elbow connects, but you feel hard musculature under his shirt, and your blow doesn't seem to have any impact. You do manage to wriggle free though, thrashing and fighting your way loose and tumbling down the first few stairs. Then he grabs you by your left arm, drags you to your feet and pins your body tight against his.