Rebecca Caruso

Home should be a sanctuary—a place of tranquility, love, and safety. But for me, it feels more like a prison.

Since my mother's death, the weight of being alone has been unbearable—the creak of the hardwood floors, the rattle of the windows in their frames, even the hiss of the steam radiators remind me of just how empty this place is. Silence might be a blessing when life feels chaotic, but here, it only pushes me deeper into a void I can't escape.

I've spent days trying to drown out the silence, distracting myself with anything I could—playing the same throwback songs on repeat, baking dinners for Christopher, cycling through audiobooks, and shouting at more true-crime documentaries than I care to admit. But despite my efforts, nothing ever truly works. 

The distractions fade, the noise dies down, and the quiet always finds its way back, heavier each time, dragging me deeper into thoughts I've been running from. No matter what I do, the weight of everything I've lost, and everything I still ache for, presses harder.

The clock on the stove read 2:25, but it felt like an eternity had passed. Time dragged, thick and suffocating. Seeing the pile of dishes in the sink from my homeade pizza fills me with a surge of resentment. It's not just the mess—it's the symbolism, the reminder of everything. The person I was, the career I had, the independence I once reveled in. The sight of those dirty plates, the crumbs, the congealed cheese—it all makes me want to walk out the door and never come back.

I never imagined this version of myself—trapped in a role I didn't ask for, watching as my ambition withers away. The irony is that this house, meant to be a home, feels more like a cage. And with every day that passes, I wonder if I'll ever find the key to get out.

I checked my phone again. Still no response from Christopher. Hours ago, I sent him a message: Congrats on the promotion! I'm making your favorite for lunch. Hoping to pop a bottle when you get in. Let me know when you're near.

Not even a "thanks" or a "read" notification. Nothing.

And this—this is why I resent him, even when I don't want to. The selfishness. The lack of real partnership. The absence of companionship. I don't need grand gestures or romantic surprises—just someone who cares enough to respond.

I shook my head, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered, gnawing at me: I'm lonely. Not just here, but in life. Growing up with a cop for a father didn't help much socially, and apart from Rafael, I had no one. Usually, I could handle it. But now? Now, it's unbearable.

I needed clarity, someone to talk to—hell, anything to take the edge off. Maybe it was the stress, or maybe the bubbling resentment, but I craved the numbness that only a stiff drink could bring.

I'm not an alcoholic—not yet, at least. But with Christopher's constant guilt trips about drinking at home, I did what any Chicagoan without a driver's license would do—I hopped on the train and headed downtown.

Because sometimes, running from the silence is the only thing that keeps you from drowning in it.

...

...

...

The hour-long train commute from Avondale to downtown Chicago partially fulfilled my palliative needs; a relaxing combination of train turbulence and noise proved soothing. You see all sorts of people on the train, each with their story, making my troubles seem less dramatic..

An elderly couple discussed prescriptions they couldn't afford. A mom of four struggled to keep her toddlers still. Two high-class businessmen discussed financial turnovers and deadlines. A homeless man struggled to keep balance with his shopping cart.

Chicago is a much more vibrant metropolis than New York City, Dallas, and LA combined; we just don't publicize all the camaraderie that comes along with it. Inequality, segregation, poverty — things most people glance away from; the very things that pull me closer.

I chose to be an officer not because of my father, but my pride for the people of this city — my yearning to oblige them. Unfortunately, our municipality doesn't care about its individuals; they only strive for the 3P's: Profit, Politics, and Publications. Something I learned the hard way...

Several passengers and I got out at the nearest station, prompted by the unfortunate incident of a homeless man relieving himself in our train car — an unwelcome sight overshadowed by the distinctive entryway to 'The Alcove,' visible nearly a block down from the elevated platform.

I continued to observe in awe as my train departed from the station. Even at nearly four in the afternoon, patrons continuously entered and exited this hidden underground gem. My initial intention was to hit up Bar Louie in Printer's Row, but that was another seven stops away.

Don't. Even. Think. About. It. Turn around Rebecca, pretend it's not there. There's no reason to go back.

But the echoes of familiarity called to me. My gut tightens. The rational part of my mind urges caution, yet an inexplicable yearning for attention hints within those familiar walls.

A brief vibration jolted me from my thoughts. Glancing at my phone, I found a message from Christopher:

Saturday, Sep 1, 3:56 PM
Chris:
SORRY. Phone was on silent. 
Just got done celebrating,
headed to Robert's for a quick nightcap. 
You coming?

A sigh escaped me. Despite his apology, doubt lingered—an unrelenting gnawing that wouldn't subside. Why wait so long? Why silence your phone? Why not invite me to celebrate with you? 

Taking a slow exhale to collect my thoughts, I knew answers might elude me. A drink was exactly what I needed to calm these nerves. With a resigned sigh, I fired off a swift and succinct response: Not home. Out with Rafael. Don't wait.

A second later, his reply flashed:

 Chris:
He's in town?

For a moment, I considered leaving him in the dark, just like he always did to me. Let him feel the weight of silence, the uncertainty of waiting. See how he likes it.

My thumb hovered over the screen. The temptation to leave him hanging was strong, but guilt crept in, nagging at me. With a sigh, I tapped out the reply, my annoyance barely restrained: Layover. Part of me hoped he'd catch the frustration, but knowing him, he'd probably just gloss right over it.

I slipped my phone back into my bag, taking a moment to absorb my surroundings. Screw it, I thought, spotting The Alcove just ahead. It doesn't matter—it shouldn't matter. I'll just go in for a quick drink. In and out. With that many people, no one would notice.

Despite the chaos inside my head, I stood resolute as I made my way off the train platform and onto the city street.

Although it had been no more than twelve hours since I last stepped into The Alcove, I honestly expected the ambiance, perhaps the structure, to appear different.  An entity of je ne sais quoi fueled my imagination after the events of last night — yet, even at four in the afternoon, the speakeasy was as robust as the night prior.

A novice musical act performed a jazz rendition of Radiohead's 'Paranoid Android' on stage as people — couples, and businessmen alike occupied the booths, tables, and dance area to the fullest. I kept my head downward, hoping not to catch the attention of anyone of the numerous cameras within the vicinity. All while doing my best not to act overly suspicious nor out-of-place.

As luck would have it, there was only one stool available at the bar, and it was sandwiched between an older businessman enjoying a scotch on the rocks and a group of young women chatting while sipping on bright pink cosmos. The moment I sat down, the bartender from the night before recognized me.

"Rebecca! Hey girl, it's been a while," she sarcastically remarked with a kind smile that warmed her face with delight.

Fuck, there goes my animality.  How did she remember my name?

I couldn't for the life of me recall hers, but clearly, I made a blatant impression.  Perhaps it was Marco's doing, or maybe the entirety of the Alcove staff came together and spoke about what happened to their co-worker, Frank. Either way, at least this was a kind regard, not one fueled by fear, hatred, or surprise.

"Well..." I fibbed, offering a forced smile in return. "I know it sounds cliché, but I was in the area." Truth be told, I hadn't expected to be back. "And I really need a drink."

"You've come to the right place," the bartender—whose name I thought started with an 'A'—pulled out two shot glasses from beneath the counter. "Glen Milseas, right?"

"Oh, no, no," I quickly interjected as she reached for the liquor bottle on the display.  "White Russian, all ice if you can."

"Still nursing last night's hangover, I see?" Eve chimed in with a teasing smirk.

The older man beside me interrupted, "I'll take the Glen, Evie. Let the others know we're closing for the evening too."

Evie? The name was ringing a familiar bell. Of course...it was EVE! Her name was Eve. I wondered where the 'A' thought came from.

"Of course, sir," Eve reacted while pouring him the drink. 

Her focus afterward shifted with nervousness toward me. I immediately noticed the luster from her face dissolving as soon as she obliged the man's orders.

"I—I gotta go in the back to grab..." There was a momentary pause alongside a crackle in her voice, "More Kahlúa for your drink..."

"Do your thing," I automatically responded noting the fear in her eyes.

"So sorry, excuse me. "

The sudden change in Eve's behavior piqued my curiosity. I watched as she whispered something into her co-worker's ear before they both disappeared behind the 'employees only' door. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. Was something wrong?

I gave the man next to me a side-eye stare while aimlessly looking at the alcohol on display. He reeked of smoked tobacco and substantial cologne; he was genuinely well-kept with a dark-tailored suit that had olive green accents and a Rolex watch face to match.

My gut twisted with a sense of urgency.

"Glens are expensive," he commented as he downed one of his shots. "Must've been a hell of a night."

I took a moment to gather my thoughts before replying, trying to keep my tone casual. "Just drinks with a friend," I said, hoping to keep him at ease. Despite my attempt to remain calm, my heart was racing. Something about this man made me uneasy.

"Hmm, that's something..." He sneered with a devoid grin, "I didn't know Marco had friends."

My eyes widened with the realization of who I came across — the one man I told myself I'd avoid at all costs, Angelo Montanari. I cursed myself for not listening to my instincts and staying home.

"Sit, " he demanded, his voice laced with a hint of threat.

"I—I really should," I stammered, attempting to stand up from my seat.

"Don't make me ask twice," he said sternly, his gaze locking onto mine.

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