Waking up, I realised my left hand had been deactivated. I called out to Alexa to ask why and she replied that I was overdrawn by a hundred pounds. Once the debt was clear the function of my hand would be returned. Should the debt be outstanding, other parts of my body would be regularly deactivated.

Shit.

I wasn't due to be paid until Friday and that was two days away. I rang my father for help who reminded me, once again, that 'I needed to grow up and sort my own problems out.'

I slammed the phone down.

Dressing myself one-handed, I put on the news. Inflation was rising again and with it interest rates. The number of people struggling to live was increasing but the banking system was refusing to help. The government was heavily in debt and was powerless. The banks were in charge. Always had been.

My money was already tight and I'd cut back as much as I could. The bills were increasing but not the salaries. I only ate on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.

I was dreading work. When everyone saw my jelly hand they would empathetically look at me with disgust.

My boss dragged me into her office as soon as I walked in.

"You cannot serve customers like that! Go home."

I pleaded with her saying that I needed the money. Being docked a day's pay was going to make things a lot worse.

"I'm sorry but you know the rules," she mumbled, fiddling with her new iPhone. "You can always take a permanent break if you're not happy. Plenty of candidates out there not falling apart you know."

Bitch. I muttered something subservient in response and started running home. As soon as the HR department were told about my docked pay they would inform the bank. It was a legal requirement. The bank would most likely disable one of my arms – or a leg.

I was wrong.

As I crossed the bridge to my grim and dank Tower Block both of my legs went. I fell forward, landing flat on my face. It went dark.

When I awoke I could feel the majority of my body had been deactivated. I couldn't see or move. My hearing was partially disabled.

"Good morning," A muffled voice said. "I'm the hospital accountant. You owe us a lot of money. That's why you're immobile."

I asked how long I had been here.

"Four months. Coma. Even after acquiring your home and your goods the debt is still quite substantial."

"What will happen?" I was starting to worry.

"We've already got a plan for that," The voice said. "We're going to take everything sellable from your body. Arms, legs, eyes, etc. You'll be a husk – but alive and debt free for the next six months."

I started to sob. The accountant tutted.

"No point crying. You've only got yourself to blame for getting in this position."

I then recognised the voice.

It was my father's.