A Debt Called Family

To outsiders, I, Daniel Franco, seemed to have everything. In truth, kinship carried a cold price. My father calculated I owed the family $200,000 from birth. Now he holds my debit card, giving just $300 a month as interest payment.

To pay off the debt sooner, before Christmas, I put on a simple knit sweater and set up a stall by the street, selling hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls. After all, warm drinks and sweets are most popular in winter, and I could earn a bit more.

Unexpectedly, a passerby took a photo of me, and it went viral online. The hashtag #HottestCocoaGuy was surprisingly popular. In the photo, I was bending over to pack a cinnamon roll, my profile clean and sharp. The thermal pot beside me steamed, creating a striking contrast with the bustling street stall.

My father called, furious: "You're an embarrassment! Must you sell hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls on the street?" He added, "Look at your brother Brianstudying in Europe soon. Why are you so worthless?"

Thats when I understood: this priced "kinship" was only for me, their biological son.

I hung up and asked Woody, who was livestreaming nearby, "Big audience? I can help you trend again." Then I said clearly, "My name is Franco. As in, Franco Industries."

The moment those words dropped, Woody almost dropped his phone.

The chat feed froze for a second.

Then, it absolutely exploded.

"Holy crap? Franco Industries? The real estate and finance giant?"

"Seriously? Doesn't old man Franco only have one son? Is the eldest son slumming it for kicks?"

"Scripted! Definitely scripted! Hes desperate for fame!"

I ignored the comments, just calmly continued making hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls for the camera.

I ignored the comments on the live stream and just calmly made hot cocoa and packed cinnamon rolls in front of the camera.

Cocoa powder smeared on my face, steam rose from the thermal pot of hot cocoa, and the freshly baked cinnamon rolls gave off a sweet, warm aroma.

#FrancoIndustriesHeirSellsCocoaToPayDebt

My phone shrilly rang. The caller ID read "Mr. Vance Miller."

I answered, putting it directly on speaker. Woody, sharp as a tack, brought his phone closer.

Vances voice sounded like it would rip through the speaker.

"Daniel, have you lost your mind? Stop making a spectacle of yourself, delete that video immediately! Get your ass back here!"

My hands didn't stop. I packed two servings of hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls and handed them to a guy waiting in line.

"Twenty bucks, thanks for your business."

Only then did I pick up the phone, addressing the mouthpiece and the millions of viewers in the live stream, and smiled.

"Did everyone hear that? That's my dearest father, Mr. Vance Miller."

"Dad, you say I'm an embarrassment because I'm selling hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls and shaming the Franco name."

"Or is it because letting people know you forced me to sign a two-hundred-thousand-dollar IOU is shaming you?"

There was a two-second dead silence on the other end.

Followed by an even wilder roar.

"You ungrateful brat, what the hell are you babbling about! When did I ever make you sign an IOU?"

I pulled a grease-stained ledger from my apron pocket.

"Didn't you personally hand me this ledger?"

"Daniel, four years of college tuition, sixty thousand. Dorm fees, eight thousand. Living expenses, at two thousand a month."

"Plus all the money for your meals since you were a kid, thirty dollars a meal, a hundred a day."

"And rent for that tiny room you live in, let's say three thousand a month."

"All in all, two hundred and three thousand, three hundred and sixty-five dollars. Dad will round it down for you, let's call it two hundred thousand."

My voice was clear, every word distinct.

"Dad, you said all this to me yourself, calculator in hand. I haven't forgotten a single word."

"Now, I make ten bucks selling a serving of hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls. A hundred servings a day is a thousand. That's thirty thousand a month."

"I wanted to ask the internet to help me figure out how many years it'll take me to pay it all back if I don't eat or drink."

"And how is me working hard to sell hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls and pay off a debt shaming the Franco name?"

The live chat went absolutely bonkers, the viewership skyrocketing.

Gift animations almost covered my face.

On the other end of the line, Vance was too choked with rage to speak, only sharp, ragged breaths.

At that moment, a cold, steady female voice took over the phone.

It was my mother, Sally Franco.

Her voice was devoid of any warmth.

"Daniel, have you made enough of a scene?"

"Stop this charade at once and come home."

I scoffed in return.

"Is 'home' priced by the day or by the hour? Has the entrance fee gone up again?"

Sally's voice was barely controlled fury.

"That was all to toughen you up! I'm giving you one last chance."

"Otherwise, I'll freeze all your bank accounts and have the police take you in for disturbing public order."

I laughed out loud.

"Chairwoman Franco, feel free to freeze them."

"It'll be good for the whole country to see exactly how much money the eldest son of Franco Industries has in his accounts."

"Three hundred dollars."

"That's the living allowance Mr. Vance Miller transferred to me last month."

"The kicker is, he gives me three hundred, but then expects me to pay him back another twenty-three hundred for 'living expenses.'"

Sally was completely enraged and angrily hung up.

A moment later, the live stream feed on my screen suddenly went dark.

Woody's phone showed a violation pop-up.

My phone rang at that exact moment.

It was Sally again.

I answered.

Her voice was like it came from hell, chilling to the bone.

"Daniel, the internet can't save you."

"Now, it's time for you to come home."

Two black luxury SUVs, like ghosts, pulled up in front of me.

Several bodyguards in dark suits stepped out, their faces devoid of emotion, and walked towards me.

No restraints, no gags.

They simply made a "please" gesture, but I knew I had no choice but to comply.

I was "escorted" back to that opulent mansion.

What awaited me was neither a beating nor a verbal assault.

Vance sat on the sofa, his eyes red-rimmed, looking like a victim of some terrible injustice.

Sally stood beside him, her face grim.

In the living room, an unfamiliar middle-aged woman sat, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with a demure demeanor.

I was locked in a small room, worse than the staff quarters.

The next day, Franco Industries held an emergency press conference.

Sally, before countless flashing cameras, spoke with feigned heartbreak.

"My son, Daniel, has been suffering from extreme mental stress, leading to a bout of delusional disorder."

"All his statements online were ramblings from his illness. I deeply apologize for any distress this has caused."

"Going forward, we will have him suspend his studies and receive the best treatment at home."

That woman with the gold-rimmed glasses was the "best treatment."

She was Dr. Reeves, the family's trusted psychologist.

Every day, she would come to my room and "chat" with me.

"Daniel, tell me, why do you think your mother demanded two hundred thousand from you?"

"Do you feel she doesn't love you?"

I just hugged my knees, staring blankly out the window.

Any rebuttal would be recorded, becoming evidence of my "worsening condition."

My adopted brother, Brian, perfectly played the role of the "kind angel."

He would bring in soup and pastries every day, asking after me with concern.

"Brother, please don't make trouble anymore, just cooperate with Dr. Reeves."

"Mom and Dad love you; they just want to help 'cure' you."

He placed a bowl of warm broth on my bedside table, his voice so soft it could melt butter.

I looked up, my eyes vacant, at him.

I took the bowl of broth.

But as he turned to leave, I whispered, in a voice only we two could hear:

"Cure? Yes, I'm sick."

"So sick I can't even recognize my own biological parents."

"Brian, you're so well-behaved and sensible, do you also 'get sick' often?"

"Are you so beloved because your 'illness' was cured?"

Brian's body visibly stiffened.

He whirled around to face me, and for the first time, there was terror in his eyes.

I gave him a chilling smile.

From that day on, I started "acting out."

I would scream in the middle of the night, claiming there were ghosts in the room.

During meals, I'd put a plate on my head, declaring it was a crown.

When Dr. Reeves was "treating" me, I'd suddenly hug her leg and call her "Mommy."

Their guard, under my apparent madness, slowly lowered.

Vance's gaze towards me shifted from anger to disgust and impatience.

Sally simply stopped seeing me altogether.

They thought they had won.

They thought I had been completely broken.

One night, I started "sleepwalking" again.

Barefoot, in my white pajamas, I drifted out of my room like a ghost.

The bodyguards and staff saw me, but simply turned their heads, accustomed to the sight.

No one paid attention to a "madman's" sleepwalking.

I deftly avoided the surveillance cameras and made my way to Sally's study on the second floor.

I approached the massive mahogany bookshelf and, following a memory, twisted one of the decorative vases.

The bookshelf silently slid open to the side, revealing a hidden safe compartment.

The password was Brian's birthday.

I entered the code, and the compartment clicked open.

Inside, there were no jewels or gold, only a brown paper envelope.

I opened it.

A DNA test report lay quietly within.

Subjects: Sally Franco, Brian Franco.

Conclusion: Biological mother-son relationship.

Beneath the report, a stack of yellowed letters was tucked.

They were letters from a man named Ethan Reeves to Sally.

Every line overflowed with love, reluctance, and hopes for the future.

I took both items.

These were my chips to escape this prison.

And the damning evidence to condemn them.

I planned an escape.

The time, route, and method were meticulously thought out.

I knocked out the attendant who brought me meals, changed into his clothes, and walked boldly out of the mansion's main gate.

I even successfully made it to a main road and hailed a taxi.

But just as I thought I had succeeded, those familiar black SUVs once again blocked my path.

I was dragged back.

My "failed" escape was the final straw, breaking Sally and Vance's patience.

They looked at me, their eyes devoid of any lingering pretense of warmth, only cold annoyance.

Sally looked down at me.

"It seems Dr. Reeves can't cure your illness anymore."

"Daniel, you're far too disobedient."

She made a call.

Half an hour later, I was taken to a private sanatorium on the outskirts of the city.

This place was less a sanatorium and more a prison.

High walls, electric fences, and emotionless attendants.

The director of the sanatorium, a portly woman, respectfully told Sally.

"Ms. Franco, rest assured, we specialize in 'curing' rebellion here."

"We guarantee we'll return a docile, obedient son to you in two weeks."

I was told my "condition" had worsened and required a more "efficient" treatment.

They called this treatment "electrotherapy."

Two burly attendants dragged me into a stark white room.

In the center of the room was only a cold metal chair, covered in leather restraints.

They roughly shoved me into the chair, binding my hands, feet, and body with the straps.

Vance watched me, restrained through the viewing glass, a look of vengeful satisfaction on his face.

"Daniel, this is your last chance."

"Sign this 'Voluntary Treatment Consent Form,' and once you're 'cured,' we can still acknowledge you as our son."

A paper and a pen were offered to me.

I looked at him, my gaze sharp as a blade.

I screamed:

"Every word I said before was true."

"And you are the ones who are truly sick."

"Your illness is called 'Moral Bankruptcy.' And this disease, electroshock can't cure."

Vance was utterly infuriated by me.

He yelled at the doctor inside.

"Look at him, does he look like a son? His condition has clearly worsened."

"Don't let him babble, start the treatment!"

A doctor in a white coat entered, holding two metal electrodes.

He expressionlessly applied a cold conductive gel to my temples.

Looking at him, I finally understood.

They were no longer content with just silencing me.

They wanted to use electricity to burn my memories, my will, my personality, into ashes.

They wanted to destroy me with their own hands.

The doctor picked up the electrodes and slowly brought them towards my temples.

The cold metallic touch was clearly imprinted on my skin.

I closed my eyes.

That failed escape was real.

But its purpose wasn't to get out.

In those few minutes when I knocked out the attendant and changed into his clothes, I went to the old oak tree in the mansion's backyard.

I dug open a tree hollow, wrapped the brown paper envelope in a waterproof bag, and hid it inside.

The DNA report, Ethan Reeves's letters, and a small voice recorder.

The recorder held the entire conversation between Sally and Vance discussing how to send me to this electrotherapy center.

They hadn't decided to send me to the sanatorium because I tried to escape.

This was a pre-planned treatment.

During my escape.

I used a pre-arranged phone to send a timed text message to a journalist known for fighting for justice, who had been following my case.

The message was simple:

"If I disappear for more than 24 hours, please call the police and tell them to look for the truth under the old oak tree in the backyard of the Franco mansion."

Now, twenty-three hours had passed since that message was sent.

"Zzzzzzzzzz"

An indescribable pain.

It was as if countless burning hot steel needles were piercing through my brain.

My body convulsed violently in the chair, arching backward uncontrollably.

My teeth bit down hard on the mouth guard, making a "clack-clack" sound.

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

I could feel my consciousness being torn to shreds by this brutal force.

The first electroshock ended.

I was utterly limp, like a rag doll, my clothes soaked with sweat.

My vision blurred.

I saw Vance's face through the viewing window, a satisfied smile plastered on it.

Sally just watched impassively, as if observing a play that had nothing to do with her.

The doctor checked the equipment, preparing for the second electroshock.

I knew I was running out of time.

I used every last ounce of my strength, lifted my head, and stared intensely at the surveillance camera in the corner.

I knew they were watching.

My voice was hoarse and broken, almost inaudible.

"Tell... Sally..."

"I found... what he hid in the study's secret compartment..."

"Uncle Ethan's... Ethan Reeves's letters..."

"I've already... called the police..."

These words, like an detonated bomb.