A Captive of the Past

Mia

“Your timeline is shrinking, David.”

The voice is smooth, like river stones worn down by a current. It doesn't belong in our cramped living room, with its water stained ceiling and threadbare couch. It belongs in a boardroom, or a penthouse. Not here. Not with us.

My father shifts his weight from one foot to the other. A nervous little dance I know all too well. “I know. I just need a few more days. I have a big one coming in, I swear. A sure thing.”

The man in the tailored grey suit, the one who does all the talking, smiles. It’s a polite, empty gesture that doesn’t reach his eyes. His partner, a mountain of a man in a black suit, remains silent by the door, his presence sucking the very air out of the room. He just watches. He always just watches.

“Sure things have a way of becoming unsure, David,” the man in grey says. He takes a slow look around our apartment, his gaze lingering on the peeling paint, the stack of final notice bills on the coffee table, and finally, on me. I stand by the kitchenette, my hands clutching the back of a wobbly chair, my knuckles white. I don't look away.

“The amount is significant now,” he continues, his eyes still locked on mine. It’s a deliberate tactic. Talk to the father, look at the daughter. A reminder of the collateral. “Mr. Petrov is a patient man. But his patience has a price. Interest, you understand, compounds daily. It grows. It consumes.”

My father’s face is slick with sweat. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll have it. All of it. Friday. I promise.”

Promises. He builds houses out of them, flimsy structures that collapse with the slightest breeze. I’ve been living in the wreckage my whole life.

The man in grey finally breaks his gaze from me and turns back to my father. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out not a weapon, but a small, sleek cigarette case. He taps out a cigarette, the scent of expensive tobacco filling the stale air. His partner wordlessly produces a silver lighter. The flame clicks to life, a tiny, violent star in the dim room.

“You have a lovely daughter,” the man says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “She works hard, I hear. At that little diner. Double shifts.”

My blood runs cold. They know where I work. The unspoken threat hangs in the smoke between us, thick and choking.

“Leave her out of this,” my father says, his voice a pathetic squeak of defiance.

The man in grey actually chuckles. A low, soft sound. “She is in this, David. She was in this the moment you put your signature on our paper. Everyone you love is in this. That is the point. That is the leverage.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. “Friday, David. We will come for the full amount. And if you do not have it… we will come to collect something of equal value.”

His eyes flicker to me one last time. A final, chilling appraisal.

Then, as if they were never there, they are gone. The silent one opens the door, and they step out into the hallway. The door clicks shut, leaving behind an echoing silence and the ghost of their cologne.

My father collapses onto the couch, his head in his hands. His shoulders shake with silent, useless sobs. I wait. I don't go to him. I don't offer comfort. The well of my sympathy ran dry years ago.

After a full minute, I speak. My voice is quiet, flat. “How much this time?”

He doesn't look up. “It’s under control, Mia.”

“How. Much.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. The steel in my tone is enough.

He mumbles a number into his hands. It’s a number so large it doesn't even sound real. It sounds like the population of a small country. My stomach twists into a tight, painful knot. That’s more than I could make in ten years of slinging hash and pouring coffee.

“They know where I work, Dad.”

He flinches, finally looking up at me. His eyes are bloodshot, filled with a familiar mix of desperation and shame. “I’ll handle it. I told you. I have a plan.”

His plans are what got us here. His plans are why Mom is gone. His plans are the bars of this cage. I stopped believing in his plans a long time ago. I unclench my hands from the chair, my fingers stiff. I have my own plan. It’s slower, more painful, but it’s real.

“I have to go to work,” I say, turning away from him. I can’t look at him anymore. If I do, I might say something I can’t take back. Or worse, I might start to feel sorry for him again, and that’s a luxury I cannot afford.

“Mia, wait…”

I don’t wait. I grab my worn coat and my purse from the hook by the door and walk out, leaving him alone with his debt and his ghosts.

The bell above the diner door chimes, pulling me from one circle of hell into another.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Todd sneers from behind the counter, not looking up from where he’s polishing a glass. “Ten minutes late, princess. I hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep.”

“Sorry, Todd,” I murmur, sliding past him and heading for the small staff room in the back.

“Sorry doesn't refill the coffee at table six,” he calls after me. “That’s coming out of your tips.”

I bite my tongue. Todd is my manager. He’s a man whose only source of power in his miserable life is the tiny amount of authority he wields over three waitresses and a line cook. He’s a rage baiter, a little tyrant in a stained apron, and I am his favorite target. He hates that I don’t react. He hates that I just absorb his insults with a quiet nod and get to work. My silence infuriates him, and I suppose, in a small, petty way, it’s the only revenge I ever get.

I tie my own apron on, the cheap fabric rough against my jeans. I stare at my reflection in the grimy little mirror. Dark circles smudge the skin under my eyes. My face is pale, drawn. I look like a ghost haunting the scene of her own slow death. The man in the suit was right. I work hard. I work until my feet swell and my back aches and my mind is a dull hum of orders. Bacon and eggs, coffee black, side of toast, cheeseburger deluxe, no onions. It’s a litany, a prayer to the god of just getting by.

I push through the swinging doors and step onto the floor. The diner is a blur of noise and smells. Sizzling bacon, burnt coffee, the low murmur of conversation. For the next eight hours, I can disappear. I can become a pair of hands, a voice that asks “More coffee?”, an efficient machine. I don’t have to be Mia, the daughter of a gambling addict. I can just be the waitress.

“Table four is waving you down,” Todd says, nudging me hard as he passes. “Try smiling. It’s supposed to be part of the uniform. Or does your face just do that naturally?”

I force my lips into something that resembles a smile and walk toward table four. I take their order, refill their waters, and move on. The hours blur together. I run on autopilot, my body performing the familiar dance of the double shift while my mind races. I count the money in my head. The secret money. The cash I skim from my tips and hide in a loose floorboard under my bed. It’s not much, just over two thousand dollars. But it’s a start. It’s a ticket. A one way bus ticket out of this city, to somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows my name or my father’s debts.

A place where men in expensive suits don’t look at me like I’m an item on a ledger.

During a rare lull, when the lunch rush has faded and the dinner crowd has yet to arrive, I lean against the wall in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. My whole body aches with a fatigue that is more than just physical. My fingers unconsciously find the chain around my neck, tucked beneath the collar of my uniform.

I pull it out. A small, worn silver locket. It doesn't shine anymore. It's dented on one side and the clasp is weak. It was the last thing my mother gave me before the “accident.” Before a drunk driver, they said, ran her off the road.

I click it open. Inside, on one side, is a tiny, faded picture of her. She’s smiling, her eyes bright and full of a life that was stolen too soon. On the other side is a picture of me, a gap toothed kid with pigtails. The girl I was before I had to become the adult in our house.

My father’s gambling started right after she died. A little at first. A few dollars on a football game. Then more. Poker nights that lasted until dawn. Trips to tracks I’d never heard of. He said it was to numb the pain. But the numbness became an addiction, a disease that rotted our family from the inside out. It took our savings, our house, our hope. It took him from me, leaving behind this hollowed out stranger who made promises he could never keep.

I clutch the locket so tight the edges dig into my palm. The cool metal is a comfort, a tangible link to a better time, a better life. It’s my secret, my hope. A reminder of what I’m fighting for.

“Just a little longer,” I whisper to the tiny smiling face in the locket. “I’m almost there. Just hold on a little longer.”

I’m saving myself, because no one else will.

“What are you doing back here?” Todd’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and grating. “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean. The ketchup bottles aren’t going to refill themselves.”

I quickly tuck the locket back under my shirt, the metal cold against my skin. “Sorry, Todd.”

He squints at me, his beady eyes filled with suspicion. “Get back to work. And tuck that cheap necklace in. This is a place of business, not a flea market.”

I nod, my face a blank mask, and push past him, the weight of the locket suddenly heavy against my chest. It feels less like a comfort now and more like an anchor. Another thing I could lose.

The rest of the shift passes in a haze. By the time I’m wiping down the last table, my bones feel like they’re made of lead. Todd counts my tips, his lips moving silently, before he shoves a wad of crumpled bills into my hand. He’s shorted me again. I know he has. But I’m too tired to fight. I just take the money and stuff it in my pocket.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he says as I grab my coat. “We wouldn’t want to have to find a replacement, would we?”

I don’t answer. I just push the door open and step out into the cold night air. The city lights feel harsh, unforgiving. Every shadow seems to hold a threat. I pull my coat tighter and start the long walk home, my footsteps echoing on the empty sidewalk.

As I turn onto my street, a knot of dread tightens in my gut. A black sedan is parked across from my building. It’s the same model as the one the men in suits use. Sleek, dark, and utterly out of place in our crumbling neighborhood. My heart starts to pound against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

Are they back already? It isn’t Friday. My pace quickens, a cold fear chasing me down the block. I just want to get inside, lock the door, and check on the money under the floorboard. Just seeing it, counting it, makes it feel real. Makes the escape feel possible.

I reach my apartment building’s front door, fumbling for my keys, my hands shaking. I glance up at our window on the third floor. It’s dark. Dad always leaves the living room light on for me. Always. A single, terrifying thought slices through my exhaustion. Something is wrong.