The ads enthused, "The virtual lands of Mirror World await you! Live out your most secret dreams in our world of Sword and Sorcery! Become a Great Wizard or a Famous Warrior! Build your own castle, tame a dragon, conquer a kingdom! All those despera...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For my beloved wife
"You need to understand, Mr. Ivanenko, that our bank can't see you as a potential borrower," the teller looked into my eyes, faking sympathy. A drop of sweat rolled down his fat clean-shaven cheek. The man stretched his plump pink lips in a buttery smile. His little white hand which never could have held anything heavier than a knife and fork kept tweaking the knot of his tie. Even when he clenched it occasionally, I couldn't see the knuckles of his plump fist.
"Why, have I ever missed a payment?"
My wife and I make sure we always have an emergency fund on our account at all times. We call it "the last cartridge": we must have the money, come hell or high water. On the first of each month, the bank always gets its pound of flesh, whatever the circumstances.
"No, not at all!" he threw his chubby hands in the air. "I wish we had more clients as punctual as you are."
"So what's the problem, then?" I touched the bridge of my nose, trying to rearrange the non-existent glasses.
Talk about the power of habit. The glasses had bitten the dust two weeks ago, when I'd fainted for the first time in my life. I wasn't taken ill, no. According to the doctor, this was exhaustion (as he'd put it). My nerves were in tatters. And what with the insomnia, no wonder I'd fainted. Plus I'd broken my glasses, which had been a shame indeed. Now I had to squint whenever I wanted to see anything. But I just couldn't afford a new pair. Every bit of money available had to go on my daughter's treatment.
"You need to understand," the clerk continued. "Even if you had three lives, you'd never be able to pay back the kind of sum that you're asking for plus what you already owe us. You've got nothing to remortgage anymore. You have no relatives who could act as guarantor. Your wages are below average. Your wife doesn't work, if you excuse my indiscretion-" this cute and cuddly individual promptly shut up, apparently reading something unkind in my glare. I heaved a sigh, trying to calm down, and looked aside.
Losing it now would be the worst thing to do. This loan was vital for us. For my daughter, rather.
It had all started with some heart murmurs she'd had. According to the doctor, it was perfectly normal in a three-year old. She'd grow out of it, he'd said. She hadn't. Christa was now six, and her heart - her second heart - wasn't doing too well. Her own had burned out within the first year.
To raise money for the surgery, we'd promptly sold our apartment and our country cottage. We'd had a quiet celebration away from prying eyes when we'd learned that there was a donor heart available. Others might judge us: having a donor heart meant that someone's child had just died. Those who never spent nights by their dying daughter's bedside will never understand me. I didn't care what they might think. All I cared was that Christa lived.
