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Fucking debt collectors, she thought tiredly. Haven't they figured out you can't get blood from a stone? We already live in government housing. What the hell else do they think they can take away from us? One more month, Harold, just one more God-damned month!Patricia's husband had died almost eight years before in the last month of the war leaving behind his young wife, two daughters and a third that had been conceived just weeks before his ill-fated return to duty. The death benefit had lasted a few years with her thriftiness and her position in cosmetics sales for a local beauty spa plus the ever-decreasing survivor's pension kept them more or less fed but just barely and there were those emergencies that always seemed to happen ... It meant they could never get ahead and were in fact slowly slipping into desperation. The apartment they could keep; it was guaranteed but if they started to attach her meager pay ... At least they would have a roof to starve under."Look," she said. Every tiny movement sent courses of pain through my body, causing me to cry out in pain. I could feel the blood dried across my face. I could taste the rust on my dry cracked lips. Searching through my mind, I tried to remember why I was here. What I was doing, who I had been with, and why I hadn’t been found. These thoughts were among the few keeping me sane. I needed to cling to the memories of what had been, hoping for a better life, searching for something better. I heard it. The faint tapping as floorboards creaked around me. Footsteps. One, Two, Three, five more steps and it would be with me, Four, Five, Six, they slowed, Seven, I heard the rustle of keys, Eight. Light flooded the room, my eyes burned from the sudden intrusion of it. I clamped my eyes shut, using my ears to judge where the figure was. I was good at this, I had been doing it for too long now, learning the pattern, hoping for the day I could escape. It seemed like weeks that I had been sat in this same chair. I.
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