Overdue

It was a silent night, but it was far from holy. Ink-black sky stretched above, untouched by stars. Winter clung to the air, sharp and crisp, with a dormancy that made the darkness feel endless.

Marty crept toward the two-story cookie-cutter house in the quiet cul-de-sac. His heart pounded in rhythm with the rustling leaves. Rumors had painted the residents as well-off, and Marty needed this to be true. He needed something he could pawn; he needed the extra cash rich people left out—a purse on a table, a coin jar on the counter—he needed anything untraceable. A handful of grab-and-go jobs could solve his desperation. Maybe he could end his nightmare, creating a mere inconvenience for his victims. If he could save enough cash and get a job, he could afford a small apartment in the suburbs. Hopefully, then, his fiancée would come back. They could start over.

With the stealth of a shadow, Marty slipped through an unlocked bathroom window. A nightlight cast its feeble glow across the porcelain sink. The biting scent of antiseptic triggered an assault of memories—his fiancée screaming, crouched by the toilet, blood running down her legs, a rush to the ER—overwhelmed his senses. Nothing he could say would comfort her or save their baby. He shoved the trauma deep into his gut, letting it ferment with the rising bile. Marty took a deep breath and escaped the bathroom.

He darted through the living room, rummaged through drawers and closets, his hopes wavering as he found only frayed linens and books and outdated electronics. Next, the kitchen. Stale bread, half-empty spices, a single cereal box, baby formula.

Nothing of value in there either, and not much food. A stray Cheerio crunched underfoot. Marty cringed.

As he ventured deeper into the house, something changed. The air was stale, mingling with the scent of worn-out furniture and wilted dreams. Entering the dining room, Marty’s heart sank.

A handwritten grocery list lay abandoned on the table, shoved aside a stack of bills stamped “overdue” in violent red ink. The familiarity hit him like a gut-punch. They were trying to survive.

Nausea rose to the base of his throat, and he swallowed back bile.

A creak from upstairs jolted Marty into a panic. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He froze, held his breath, pressed himself against the wall. A tiny whimper turned to a cry, and a mother hushed her baby back to sleep. After an eternity, the house fell silent once more.

Marty sucked in air and peeled away from the wall. With shaky hands, he dug into his pockets, pulling out a wad of cash. It wouldn’t change their fate, but maybe it’d make a difference. He left it on the table, near the pile of debt, and quietly exited through the bathroom window. Back down the street, leaving the way he’d come, the weight of the night heavy on his shoulders.

When Marty returned to the shelter, the first light of dawn emerged, like a timid brushstroke, painting the city’s edges with delicate gold. He scaled the building’s gooseneck ladder and sat in the smoker’s chair at the top floor’s fire escape.

High above the crammed, vinyl-wrapped houses below and tiny splotches of brown lawns. Above the neon signs blinking in and out of sync, broken streetlights and dirty alleyways. Marty was on top of the world.

And he watched its tranquil awakening, the sky unfurling in a tapestry of pastel hues. The dim landscape below bathed in the ethereal glow. A promise of new beginnings whispered by the fingers of light inching over the horizon.

For the first time, Marty prayed for change. But not for himself.

About the author: Chrissy Hicks's work has appeared in Killer Nashville Magazine, The Broadkill Review, Black Works, and SUSIE Mag, among others. Her unpublished mystery and thriller novels have earned Top Pick and Suspense Finalist for the Claymore Award, First Place in the Seven Hills Literary Contest, and First Place in the Thomas Mabry Creative Writing Award. She lives in Tennessee with her family, their talkative Husky, and a frenetic cat. You can find her online at: https://chrissyhicks.com/ where she occasionally blogs about the writing life and reviews craft books.