Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 8

It's been two weeks since my mother used me as collateral in exchange for drugs. Every day with Black feels like walking on thin ice. He's becoming obsessed, clinging to me like I'm his last hope. He insists I stay over, begging, almost pleading. But each time I refuse, a storm brews in his eyes. He shouts, hurls insults, and sometimes, objects. Last night, he threw his phone at me. The impact left a bruise on my shoulder, a dark reminder of the growing danger.

It's my day off today, so I went with Grandma to the market. The sun is merciless, but the air outside is a relief. We sell all of her vegetables earlier than expected, by 4 pm, which means we're heading home earlier than usual. I feel a small, fleeting sense of freedom with every step. But the relief is tempered by the weight in my chest, knowing I'll have to face Black soon enough. Grandma's hand slips into mine, grounding me, and reminding me that there's still a sliver of safety in this chaotic world.

"Let me cook while you rest," Grandma says as we step into the corner of our house. Her gentle hand press mine.

I laugh, shaking my head. "I'm not fragile, Grandma. I can help."

She scoffs, glancing over her shoulder. "You should rest before that vile boy sends someone to fetch you again." Her voice carries a hiss of disapproval, eyes sharp with worry.

I sigh, understanding her concern, but determined. "I won't let him control me, Grandma. Today, we're cooking together, just us."

She smiles, relenting. "Alright, child. Just us."

My heart raced as I watched strange men toss our belongings onto the dusty ground outside. Pots, pans, our meager collection of clothes, the old bed my grandmother slept on—all strewn about as if they were worthless. My stomach twisted with a mix of anger and fear.

I sprinted toward the man holding papers, desperation pushing me to fight against the rising tide of helplessness. "Who are you?" I demanded, my voice trembling as I fought back tears.

The man turns to face me, a thick stack of papers in hand. "We bought the house," he replied, his voice cold. "Your mother sold it to us last week." He shoved the documents toward me, his finger pointing to a signature at the bottom unmistakable—my mother's.

My grandmother's soft gasp brought me back. I turned just in time to see her crumple to the ground, the weight of betrayal too much for her frail body to bear. Panic surged through me as I rushed to my grandmother's side, dropping down beside her. Her face was pale, her body limp, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I had lost her. My hands shook as I patted her cheek and called. "Grandma! Grandma, please wake up!" I pleaded, feeling the panic clawing up my throat.

The man stands there, his gaze shifting uncomfortably from me to the papers in his hands. Another man in the group places his hand on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear. He looks at me with a mixture of pity and indifference, as if he's already weighed our situation and found us unworthy of further sympathy.

"Do something!" I scream, but no one moves. To them, we're just a couple of inconveniences blocking their new property.

One of the men sneered. "Not our problem. You have until sundown to clear out."

"Come on, Grandma," I murmur, taking a deep breath and lifting her head onto my lap. I can't give in to fear, not when she needs me. As they continued their ruthless work, I tried to revive my grandmother, stroking her thin, weathered face, whispering reassurances I barely believed myself. After a few agonizing tense seconds, her eyes flutter open, and she looks up at me, her face creased with confusion.