Indebted
Jody is a niche debt collector. A flash fiction piece.
Sometimes, I scare myself. This is one of those times. I had to get this out of my head. It surprised me. Take it, get it out of here, let me focus on other thoughts now.
Jody was a debt collector, the only one in her field. She collected apologies from the people who owed but never paid.
She evaluated cases on an individual basis, and she only accepted the ones where the debt was clear, and clearly overdue. Also—and to her, this was the most important factor in taking on a job—could her efforts be beneficial to the debtor?
In 48 years on the job, she had never failed to collect an overdue apology.
Her efforts always began with a standard invoice, delivered through the mail in a clear-window envelope from an anonymous P.O. Box. Just like every other overdue notice, ever. They were always and without exception tossed into the garbage—sometimes shredded, most often whole—unopened.
Phone calls were the next step. Every once in a blue moon, this would work. Some asshole would answer and pretend like they didn’t know they owed the debt. ‘Oh, if only John had gotten in touch with me! I would have apologized immediately!’ At that point, Jody would provide a brutally detailed list of every ignored opportunity to right the wrong against her client.
Some cases required a more personal touch. Jody would show up in person for those. Not at the debtor’s front door, or even their place of work. No, she was more subtle, more impactful than that. Jody liked to show up at the resturant during your anniversary dinner, when you’ve just paid your tithing at church, or when you’re third in line at the drive-through and desperate to take a shit. The delicate moments. The personal moments. The vulnerable moments.
Rare indeed were the moments when this didn’t work. Those times left her startled…and challenged.
The only thing Jody craved—besides coffee and chocolate—was a challenge.
Three times she had tried that tactic with her current mark. Three times she had been ignored. It was time to get intimate. Incense and intent blended into a pathway straight into the mark’s dreams. With deft skill, she took hold of the threads that weave into the narratives of the unconscious mind.
She twisted. She knitted. She knotted.
Deep down inside the back of the mark’s mind, in the fertile space under the rolling logs of sleep-soaked memories, she planted a a seed, knotted within the strings she was pulling.
When she was done, she slept.
In the morning, when she woke, she found her reflection staring back from the mirror over her dresser. Disheveled. Rosy-cheeked. Smiling.
Compelled by the stirrings of something unfamiliar within herself, she stared into her own eyes and spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said to you when we were kids. I’m sorry for the way I neglected you. I’m sorry for the times when I didn’t stand up for you. I’m sorry for the how I’ve let people speak to you and about you. I’m sorry for not loving you the way that I—above all others—should love you.”
Inside of Jody, the seed shattered. It took root. And something new began to grow.
