Warning: Suicide is shown in this chapter. If sensitive to the topic, feel free to read up to the second warning later in the story. You've been warned.

~

Illinois. The 21st state is located in the Corn Belt for which without Chicago would've made him plain and boring. As of 2017, Chicago is America's third most populous city whose beginnings were just as unique as the state itself. In the aftermath of the Great Chicago Fire in 1871, the city had to rebuild. In the recovery process, the city became industrialized and provided new opportunities to both the populace and incoming migrants. By the 20th century, Chicago had became an influential, major city in America.

Like many industrialized states in the early 20th century, Illinois prospered. He in particular spent much of his money in the Roaring Twenties, a period of time when the Western world altogether boomed in the aftermath of the Great War. Sure, he may have gone too far in his weekly splurges at speakeasies and booze runs with mobsters. He was unbelievably incautious, yet he didn't seem to care so long he lived in the blissful excitement of the Jazz Age. But then Black Tuesday came around the corner and knocked him down in to a depression.

The Stock Market Crash of 1929 sent the nation into an economic nosedive, putting an end to the Golden Twenties and triggering the start to the Great Depression. Both America and his States suffered a severe cold that lasted for a long time. To Illinois's woes, not only did his health worsen, but the luxury he once had was no more. He lost everything in the wake of the crash, including his loved ones who weren't safe from this depressing time.

☆☆☆☆☆

"Another round!" I slam the empty glass on the counter. It was my fifth glass that afternoon.

I slid Mr. David, the bartender and owner of Sucker's Speakeasy, my empty glass.

The disheveled, flabby, bald man in his late forties heaved a heavy sigh. "I think you have enough, bud..." He still poured me another round of bourbon anyway.

I brushed him off. "Nah! You can never have enough to drink!"

He softly smiled. "As much as I would like to serve my favorite customer, I can't let you have any more."

"Why not?" I questioned. "Is it because of my health? Mr. David, sir! I've survived food poisonings, building fires, a hundred bullets, and many more fucking things! I'm sure my liver can survive another glass or two." I held my glass, but didn't drink just yet. "If you're telling me to stop, won't you go out of business? Look at this place! Not a damn soul in this broken down bar!" I gestured around the vacant room.

Empty, round tables, polished and dusted, without a trace of ash or puddle of alcohol. The mahogany bar stools were seated by ghosts, lined up neatly in a row along the bar table. The shelves in the back were also organized. All glass bottles aligned perfectly side by side, all the labels perfectly faced me, describing every brand from the cheapest to the highest quality. It was nice to see what alcohol the guy had for once. Usually a first-timer at the establishment couldn't tell what liquor they were getting because of all the cigar smoke that would choke their sight. In addition to the loud jazz that played, their voice didn't sound right. Thinking they're getting a brandy, they'll get a lager instead. Ah, such wonderful times.

The place would've been crowded at the dark of night, full of gruffly, suited men and skimpy, flapper girls along. Mr. David would be the man who'll pass out the alcohol while his team of sexy, uptight waitresses would hand them out, taking orders of any customer willing to pay. Gosh, those gorgeous girls. The outfits they wore were almost illegal to be lingerie. Brimmed with crazy laughter,  jovial shouts, the applause, the finger snaps, the clinking of glasses, the tapping of feet, such sounds would echo all around me. Every weekend was a paradisal wonderland, welcoming folks with jazz, entertainment, and booze. Hard to believe the same, lonely bar hosted some of the wildest parties in this city. How I miss those days.

Mr. David's eyes grew dark, reminiscing with me over the untroubled past. "You're right, kid," he grumbled. "Not a damn soul. Nor any customer willing to come here. Not even the bad ones..."

I scowled. "There should be more people here. Sure, this depression sucks, but there should've been a couple of people around. At the very least, I was expecting to see your lovely ladies. You know as well as I those drop-dead darlings are the reason people come to this speakeasy. Like anyone would want come and see some balding fat-ass clean their jugs and fetch them peanuts all night. For shame, where are your girls?"

"I let them go."

I made an exaggerated gasp. "Go?! Go where? Poppy? Emily? Even Julie? You seriously let them go?! Don't you have a soul anymore?"

He got a good chuckle at my last statement. "As much as I like those perky birds, I can't afford to keep them any longer." He shook his head. "Ever since Wall Street crashed, people are having it hard, but in a bad way. Like, look at this place. No customers coming in, no money coming in. The people who do come don't stay for very long if you know what I mean... It's unfortunate, but I had no choice... No one had a choice..."

The jazz from the nearby phonograph continued to play in the background, replacing his silence. The chill upbeats from the trumpet didn't match with the atmosphere of this ghost bar. If there were people here, they would've probably danced their asses off and twirl away, swinging along to the sweet music. But no, not a damn soul in sight. The dizzy laughter was gone. All that kept was the record on the phonograph, going on repeat, alone to echo the past celebration as a reminder of the good times this bar once had.

Mr. David got a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. I offered him a light, and he willingly accepted my offer. He took a deep intake of the numbing tobacco before letting out a giant puff of smoke. His shoulders relaxed as his back leaned against the bar. He turned his eyes toward the bottles on the shelves, his absent gaze didn't seem intent on a certain bottle, at least from what I know.

"Twenty-five long years," he began. "When I first bought the place, it was in a sorry state. It used to be a brothel before the fuzz shut the place down. It was a rocky start, but I managed to fix the place up and get a constant flow of customers. Even with Prohibition going on, I managed to get away unscathed. The Mob gave me what I wanted so long as I pay them their dues. The cops were willing to turn a blind eye so long as I pay them of course. I played both sides without getting beaten or arrested. I thought I was invincible, but it would seem I was wrong..."

Mr. David proceeded to grab a large, clear bottle off the back shelf. He set the bottle on the bar table in between us. The wording on the bottle's red label was in a different language. Russian, perhaps. If so, my best guess what's in the bottle: vodka.

My fingers curled around my glass of bourbon. "What happened to the girls anyway?" I asked.

"Always a ladies' man, eh," he chortled as he poured ice cubes and vodka into the glass.

I smirked. "Well, they were the sweetest ladies in this part of the city. Especially Julie. That woman knew what I like and don't like. She always gave me the special treatment."

"It's too bad we'll never see them again," he laughed halfheartedly.

"What do you mean?"

He was about to drink his glass when I asked him. Reluctantly, he sat his glass down on the bar table. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes planted on the table as he tried to remember.

"After telling them I can't afford to pay them anymore, they left their separate ways. From what I heard, Poppy and her husband weren't able to pay the rent. As soon as they were kicked out of their apartment, they divorced soon after. She paid me a visit two weeks ago, telling me she's leaving the city. If what she told me is correct, she's currently living on a farm with relatives in South Carolina. She didn't seem upset when she left, so hopefully work on the farm isn't as bad as dealing with drunkards on a horny, Friday evening."

"As for Emily, she and her two boys went west to California. I don't know what she was thinking. The recession may be God awful, but you have to be really desperate to journey across the country to find a job. Even so, I hope she's okay. I doubt a woman like her would be able to venture very far. Then again, she's pretty strong to raise both her sons since her husband's death. Honestly, I miss her quite much..." He stopped there.

He grabbed his glass and proceeded to drink it while I watched him.

"And Julie?" I was afraid to ask.

Mr. David must've knew what I was thinking. As soon as he finished chugging the glass down, he slammed down before letting out a satisfied sigh, taking his time to absorb the strong burn in his throat. His face was beginning to look a little red.

"Julie," he spoke her name with a bittersweet heart. "She wasn't my favorite, but she did get the job done after breaking a few glasses and punching a few customers during the first couple of weeks on the job. By a few, I mean a lot obviously," he poured himself another glass, "I could've hired capable men in this dick-dominate society. Instead, I hired women. The poorest of women. I don't know why. There's something about women that attracts a different side to a man, one of which they try to deny and call weak. Such men are sore losers if they think my decision to hire women was a way to attract customers which I won't deny may be one of the reasons."

He gulped down his glass, drinking half the cup before slamming it on the table.

He sighed. "The ones I hired, they always gave me looks of pity. They looked like broken dreams, wandering souls in desperate need of salvation. A Southern migrant trying to help her newlywed husband start a publishing company. A broken widow trying to support her fatherless children. A dejected mulatto trying to find work in a White society. Despite the late nights and rowdy, they were ecstatic to work for me. The smiles on their faces, it was then I knew I made the right choice to hire them..."

"... And Julie?" I asked again.

He ignored me, continuing to go on his spiel. "... It was never in my intention to break their hearts, their dreams, their only way to survive. It pained me to see their faces become twisted like reality itself," he drank out of the glass again, "Remember the radio? Remember what they said? News... More news... Horrible news..." he chuckled to himself, finishing the rest of his second glass.

"... I should've listened," he proceeded to pour himself another glass, "The state of this country, I thought it would go away in a few weeks. Like many bastards, we refused the economy would go to shit just like that. Hahaha..." He drank again.

This time, he took a longer, larger gulp than usual. Drops of vodka began to drip onto his crumpled, white, dress shirt and black, stained vest. The man's face was a dark, cloudy red. His dark brown eyes started to become lazy, drooping all over the place as the rest of his slouched body. He looked like he was about to fall over any minute.

"Are you okay, man?" I asked worryingly.

He nodded as he finished his third glass, placing the glass on the table before letting out a gigantic breath of relief. "Of course I am! Why shouldn't I be?" he laughed. "What was I saying...? Oh, yeah! Now I remember. The state of this country, it's fucking Wall Street's fault! Those damn cronies turned the country into shit!"

"What were they thinking?! Those... Those assholes... I still can't believe a group of people were responsible for all this! The homeless people on the streets. The long lines for bread. Children crying to their mothers as wives cry to their husbands as men cry to their God who sits up there doing nothing for us..." He slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it! Look at us! Look how pathetic we are!"

"I was supposed to the guy who starts the best parties in Chicago. The guy who got the jazz. The guy who got the booze. The guy who got all the sexy bitches and snobby elites to come to him. I got the good life! But now look at me! A balding, fat dumb-ass about to be put out of his dream job! FUCKING DAMN IT!" He slammed his fist on the table, nearly spilling my drink over which still went untouched.

I didn't flinch in the slightest.

"... And Julie," I asked him again. Mr. David, his entire face and neck covered in a crimson blaze, gave me a puzzled glance that snapped him out of his rant. I repeated the question, "What happened to Julie?"

The drunk awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. He let out a tired sigh. "Sorry, kid... I got a little...distracted..." he muttered.

"No need to apologize, man," I said. "It's a rough world out there. Anyone couldn't blame you for feeling this way."

He softly smiled for a moment before it disappeared into a faint scowl. "... It broke my heart to tell I can't pay her no more. She sobbed like a babe, telling me I was her only source of income. That without my help, she was screwed. Yet, I still let her go..." he mumbled. He peered down on his empty glass, noticing the ice cubes have already melted. "... The last time I saw her was last year. I was walking around the city on my way to the speakeasy when I saw her standing at a bread line."

Without shame, he drank out of the bottle, taking a small slurp before continuing.

"She looked...pale and skinny. Like she went through some deep shit. She looked like one of those hobos on the streets, shivering in a patchy, brown coat and worn-out shoes. ... She used to be so beautiful, especially for a half-breed. I don't know what happened to her to turn from a beauty to a hag. From what I could tell, she wasn't handling the recession very well..."

He drank out of the bottle again.

"... I wanted to see how she was doing. I thought I could help her out." He frowned. "Instead, I turned around and went a different route. I turned my back on her, making sure she didn't follow me... Honestly, I don't know why I did that. I didn't have much money, but surely I could've spared her a nickel or a dime, or possibly have her stay in my home if she was homeless. I should've helped her, but I didn't... I just left her, a poor woman, and minded my own business like the selfish, spineless asshole I was..."

His eyes looked at me strangely. It was then I realized he was looking at my full glass of bourbon. "Aren't you going to drink that?"

I stared down on the drink that sat alone between my arms. It whispered for a drink, trying to coax me into taking a sip. With a sickened stomach, I pushed the drink away. I got up from the bar stool, and dug around my pockets to pull out any change I have. All I could manage was a quarter and a nickel.

I placed the coins on the counter. "You can have it, man," I mumbled, slightly tipsy from the alcohol I've already drank.

Stumbling my way out of the bar, I nearly got to the exit when I heard a loud crash behind me. Turning around, there were broken glass shards on the wooden floor. A puddle of bourbon was pooled around stool cushion I originally sat at. Mr. David eyes bulge out from his burning red face like a deer caught in the headlights.

I couldn't help, but laugh at the stupid expression he was making. "Ha! You're drunk, man!"

He caught on and laughed loudly in return. "Damn right I am!"

Taking a moment to gain my composure, I retorted, "It was nice knowing you, my friend. I hope things get better for you soon."

He waved me off with a drunk smile across his face. "The pleasure's all mine! May we continue to live in this shit hole!" he bellowed again.

I pushed open the door that led me out into the gray, outside world. As I slipped through the door, I heard a cork getting popped open. I couldn't turned around, but I didn't. The door shut closed behind me before I could see what he planned on drinking. Since that afternoon, I never saw the fat bastard ever again.

~

The sun was beginning to set, painting the Windy City in rust and shadow. The crowded streets were beginning to thin out, however, there were some places that remain crowded. The people who stayed on the streets didn't have a choice. With nowhere else to go, they sat on stained, cardboard boxes and mildewed mattresses, coping in alleyways by damp dumpsters and along the cold, barren sidewalks. Some might've starved for a day before they were able to afford half a loaf of bread that's probably not fresh. Even so, it's better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing at this point.

Strolling down the street, I noticed a soup line spanning around a block. This February winter provided the desperate a warm broth full of small chunks of carrots and potatoes in a tiny bowl. It may not be the most appetizing meal, but it was better than a spoiled apple core or a piece of moldy bread. Fortunately for me, I still had some money left to afford groceries. At times, I was forced to skip breakfast or lunch if I wanted to stay on budget. Even so, I was grateful to have a mundane, but adequate meal of my choosing. For those shivering in line, they didn't have a choice.

I headed north of the city, walking about ten to fifteen blocks before passing by a garage. I stopped to look at the building, finding the brick wall rather familiar.

'Where have I seen this wall before...?' I pondered.

Upon seeing the dry, crimson splatters on the concrete did I recall what happened here a year ago. I took a step back in disgust, trying not to remember the grisly details. What happened here was a gruesome mess to say the least. Seven men murdered in execution style. They lined up in a row, facing the wall, before their bodies got riddled with machine gun ammo. The worst part about the massacre, it all happened on Valentine's Day.

I had to stay under the radar since that day. The fuzz were doing a hard crack-down on mobsters and anyone linked to their activities. I've talked to various people within the Mob, trying to get a hold of what actually happened. All I got were different answers on who committed the crime. Some say it was the Jewish Purple Gang. Some say it was Capone and the Italians of the South Side. Some say it was Cosa Nostra hit men. Even the police were suspected of being involved in the massacre. Investigators are still trying to get a hold on what happened. For now, the instigators' identities remain a mystery.

I left the place, already feeling uneasy by the atmosphere around the area.

Ambling up the street, I stumbled upon the edges of the city, looking out to see one of Chicago's shantytowns I personally dubbed Hooverville #2.

It would seem the town grew in size since the last time I saw it. Hundreds of makeshift huts made out of rusted metal sheets and dank pieces of plywood covered about fifty acres of frozen, flat land. Crowded, filthy, no plumbing, no electricity, not even clean water, it was ridiculous, especially in an industrialized city. No human being should live in such conditions, yet a population around a thousand live in such poverty. Some of them did have homes. They once had plumbing, electricity, clean water, food and money in fact. But now, they live in such deplorable conditions. A place full of dreadful misery. A prime example on what happens when the economy goes to shit.

From where I stood, I noticed a little girl adorning short, brown hair sitting alone on a tree stump. She was wearing one of those red checkered, potato sacks as a makeshift dress, a popular kind of clothing developed in the onset of the recession. In her feeble arms was a teddy bear the size of her torso. Its left limb was completely missing. Her eyes were looking in a certain direction, watchful like an obedient puppy awaiting someone's return, perhaps her mother. With the day coming to an end, I hope her mother comes back soon. I hate to see such a vulnerable child trying to cope in this unfortunate time, especially alone without anyone to help them.

Adjusting my trilby, I turned my eyes away from the shantytown and headed elsewhere within the city. I placed my hands in my pockets, digging out for a folded post-it note. I read the address that was listed on the yellow slip of paper, and checked my surroundings again.

I should be close.

Turning onto a street, I came across a neighborhood of four-story apartment buildings made out of beige brick. Few people were outside. Nor were there many cars on the road. The only sound there was were the stray dogs that casually roamed the place. It's surprisingly to see people still live around here despite the growing homeless problem going around across the country. Somehow, they were able to retain a job even if their pay was cut down to the nickels. Somewhere in one of the crummy apartments, I knew one such person who had a job. But after speaking with Mr. David, I'm not even sure if they even live here anymore. Only one way to find out I suppose.

At the end of a street corner, I came across a large apartment building with a dark red exterior. I checked the slip of paper once again before heading inside.

For years, I constantly asked her where she lived, hoping to pay a friendly visit during one of those days. Unfortunately, she never budged to tell me. It wasn't until today did I found out where she lived. I thought she was stilling working at Sucker's, disappointing me when I learned she was let go. It was against Mr. David's policy to give out his employees' personal information. However, I managed to sneak around his office when he wasn't looking. I managed to jot her address down on a sticky note before getting out of there.

After all this time, I can hopefully check up on the one and only Julie Rose.

~

Julie was a special kind of flower, a Chicago rose born out of the weedy slums of the Garden of the West. Her mother was a poor, Black prostitute. Her father was a rich, White asshole. In the moment of their brief affair, Julie was born. Immediately, her father refused to accept responsibility, denying her of money and a father figure. Both her and her mother managed on their own, trying to survive the hardships of city life. Her mother managed to make enough money to pay for Julie's education. However, Julie, despite having to work spare jobs at a young age, wasn't able to afford a college tuition. Nor were any colleges willing to accept her background. Therefore, Julie had to find some way to get out of the poor class and make a stable living on her own.

I met Julie around seven years ago. I was doing a part-time job delivering booze to every speakeasy in Chicago. I wanted to make a little extra money, even if that meant getting my hands a bit dirty. Around 1924, I think, was when I met Mr. David for the first time. He needed a new supplier for his business since the last one got busted by the fuzz. Not only did my buddy and I give him the stuff, we also expect him to pay his dues for not only the alcohol, but also participating in our services. If he were to break his contract with us, well, thankfully he didn't. It would've been a messy, and the story would've end there.

Mr. David was a good man of his word for he always paid his dues. He would even get on our good side by offering us free drinks on him, allowing us to enjoy ourselves at his establishment. It was one of the greatest speakeasies I've been to. The entertainment was awesome. The music was top-notch. I especially love the ladies who worked for him. I tried having a chat with one of them, hoping to snag one for the night. In one moment, I saw a bouncy ass and gave it a tap. The next thing I knew, I got a fist to the face and blacked out that night.

When I woke up the next morning, I was in Mr. David's apartment. While I was out, he took me into his home, having me sleep on his couch. He explained in my dazed state how sorry he was for what happened. I asked him who it was who gave me the black eye. It was then I learned her name. As it turns out, Julie was beginning her job as a waitress at Mr. David's speakeasy. I wasn't exactly made at her nor was I the type to take my anger out on the ladies. However, I did want an apology from her if I want bygones to be bygones.

Thus, I went back to Sucker's Speakeasy the next weekend. Not only was I there to give him his alcohol supply, but I was also there for an apology from the one and only Julie Rose. It wasn't long after arriving did I meet her. The moment I saw the lady that was Julie Rose, I felt my heart getting strung like a double bass. My eyes almost popped out of my head seeing her prance around from table to table. My, oh my! What a beautiful babe she was.

Out of all the people in this speakeasy, she was the only one who stood out for her mixed-colored skin. Not only that, her medium, wavy, mahogany brown hair didn't fit in with the light haired, pixie bobs of the flapper girls. Her hair seemed to bounce and flow around like a dance number, twirling whenever she turned around to get someone's order. She would give them her attention, gazing down at them with these fierce, amber eyes that seem to glow out of the darkest pits of the bar. Her sexy, hourglass figure, a body the goddess Venus would be envious to have, came toward the bar, coming toward me where I sat waiting for Mr. David to pay his dues.

It was hard to believe an angel like her to exist in this world. In fact, why was a beauty like her doing here working for a sleaze ball? No offense, Mr. David. She didn't have to try to attract me. Her charm allured me like a crazed honeybee to a fragrant rose. The black eye she gave me, all in the past. I was more intent on getting her attention, and possibly have her come with me if you know what I mean.

But darn it! She wasn't into me in the slightest. At first, she ignored me. I knew the burning daggers she always gave me was a sign she recognized me from earlier. It was enough to convince to try even harder to impress her which most of the time didn't actually impress her. The only times she gave me her attention was whenever I make one of my classy comments did she give me her attention, giving me some smack talk or a slap across my cheek. It wasn't all bad being a victim of her punishment considering I've been noticed. If anything, her abuse made me more infatuated in her than ever before.

It was the same routine every weekend. I start a cheesy pick-up line. She calls it lame. I talk. She talks back with sarcasm. I spoke dirtily back. I then receive a slap across my cheek. The cycle repeats all over again, never getting old knowing it was her I was speaking to. Perfectly normal, right?

After a year of doing this routine, we started having nice conversations once in a while. While she was on break, she and I got to know a little more about each other. I wasn't afraid to tell her who I truly was nor was she ashamed to tell me her awful backstory. I felt sorry for her when she told me her reasons for working at Sucker's. I especially felt guilty when she told me how often she had deal with assholes and their inexcusable behavior, forced to take her medicine and endure their disgusting comments. She made me rethink my behavior, making me realize I'm no better than them. I apologized profusely to her, offering numerous times to pay for her to go to college or take a nice trip out to Paris or somewhere nice outside this congested city. She refused every time, saying it was a waste of money. I told her it wasn't, yet she still refused to accept my charity.

I respected her. A strong, independent woman. A true, hard-working American. A human being out of the rich monsters and immoral criminals of this greedy city. A beautiful rose out of the thorny brambles of this toxic world. The six years I've spent with Julie, I wished they lasted a little longer, possibly forever. Like a dream, I wanted to keep sleeping. But when the crash came down from the sky, it woke me up to a nightmare with no promise in sight.

Over a year ago, Black Tuesday sent a shock wave across the country. The world followed suit thereafter, plunging many places into a deep disaster. America and the States, including myself, were struck by a nasty cold. For everyone's sake, we were forced to gather at the White House to make it easier for us to recover, together. I could barely move out of bed. It was like my head was filled with lead. It was like my head was made out of Jell-O, always wobbling around whenever I made small steps to go to the bathroom. Speaking of bathroom, you won't believe how many times I threw up. It was that bad. Even now, I still have the sniffles and throbbing headache. Nor has my strength fully recovered.

I could've stayed at the White House a bit longer to recover, but I didn't want to remain in bed any longer. I was worried about my friends in my home. My boss, my underground boss, my colleagues, my contacts, I wanted to see how they were doing. I took my time to visit each and every one of them. After seeing a couple of my buddies, I found most fo them were either struggling to make a living, were broke-down poor, homeless, in jail, or dead. No one made it out of this recession without a scratch. No matter their background, no one was safe. Not even my friends. Not even myself. Not even a poor, fragile flower.

~

'This appears to be her place,' I thought uneasily.

It didn't help the crumbling hallway was dark. On occasion, the hall would light up with a flickering light on the moldy, yellow ceiling before blacking out. The whole interior of the apartment complex was cheap, cheaper than a seedy motel by a strip club. There were cracks all along the walls in this narrow hallway full of plum colored doors.

I stood in front of one of them, number #224 according to the gold number at the top center of the door. I knocked lightly on the door three times. I politely waited for answer, waiting for a while. Checking the time on my silver watch, I count down the seconds that ticked my, whistling to myself in the meantime. After a minute went by, I knocked again.

"Julie! It's me! Elliot! I'm here to pay a visit after all this time," I called.

Once again, I waited. Looking toward the end of the hall was a dusty window. The sky outside was a blood orange, the sun had nearly settled under the earth. I waited and heard nothing from behind the door.

Maybe she's out on the streets. She might be coming home on her way from somewhere. A job, a bread line, a friend's house perhaps. Then again, it's pretty late outside. She should've been home by this time.

Hearing no answer, I knocked a third time, slighter harder this time. "Julie. I know I can be a dick sometimes, and I understand if you don't want to see me. Just... I really want to see if you're alright. If you want, call me a dick behind the door, and I'll be on my way. So...please answer me if you're in there..."

I must've looked pathetic constantly knocking on the door. Despite their cheap appearance, it would seem the walls were made out of titanium because no one had came out of their apartments to tell me to shut up. Even then, they're the least of my concerns. Unless I copied down the wrong address or Julie had moved out of this apartment recently, it would seem my search had led me to a dead-end. Maybe I should come back tomorrow. Maybe she'll be home by then.

I was about to go home, yet, I don't know why, but my hand was on the door knob. Subconsciously, I turned the door knob. I didn't think it would open. But it did. I heard a click, and the knob turned counter-clockwise with ease. Goosebumps crawled from my hand to my arms when the door creaked open, giving me a peak of Julie's apartment. I couldn't wrap my head around what I did.

Did I... Did I just break in to her apartment?

"Julie..." I cautiously called, poking my head inside.

There was no response.

Reluctantly, I went inside, closing the door behind me I came in. Analyzing the apartment, I was greeted to a dusty living room. A beige sofa sat along the back of a pea green wall. In front of it was a small, wooden coffee table that stood over a russet, oval rug. On the coffee table was a pile of envelopes, each one of them stamped in bold red with either "Notice!" or "Urgent!". All of them were open. I didn't want to intrude any further than I already have, so ignored the mess for now.

I went over to the front fo the room where aligned the wall were two white bookshelves. Each shelf was chocked full of things I assumed belonged to Julie. At the bottom shelves were music albums, full of vinyls at a discount price. "Avalon", "Broadway Rose", "Crazy Blues", "Do You Ever Think Of Me?", every song was alphabetized. I took one of the albums out, called, "Wild Rose." Being a huge music fan, I like her tastes so far. I'll keep that in mind whenever her birthday is around the corner. I put the album back where it was.

The middle shelves were chocked full of book. Personally, I wasn't an avid reader. She kept insisting I read some of the books she said were delightful. Seeing as I wasn't going to read them, she summarized their plot to me. Most of them seem strange in my opinion. Nevertheless, it was a part of their charm as she would say. There was The Side of Paradise and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz sitting on the first shelf. On the second shelf, there was Babbitt and Tarzan of the Apes. There were also other books, but they didn't interest me as much as the ones I've mentioned.

On the highest shelves was a collection of glass angels and miniature, porcelain rabbits. At the center of the second shelf was a gold picture frame. Taking the picture off the shelf, I got a closer look of the sepia photo. Within the photo was a little, mulatto girl in a puffy, white dress. She sat on a park bench next to an older woman, a Black woman in their late twenties who looked similar to Julie. The two had smiles on their faces, looking perfect before the photo was snapped. It was nice to see what Julie was like back then, bringing a small smile to my face. I placed the picture frame back in its original position before looking elsewhere.

At the corner of my eye, I saw a phonograph at the corner of the room. There was a disc on the turntable, the needle at the center of the rotating record. Nothing was the only thing it played. Perturbed by the strange silence, I went over to the phonograph to fix the problem. Lifting the needle, I gently placed the point tip along the edge of the record, allowing the music to flow once more. A soft saxophone echoed from the brass horn, playing in a somber solo that didn't help to ease the unsettling stillness of the room. Still, I let the music play in the background while I continue to investigate the apartment.

After spending five minutes in the apartment, I didn't find much out of the ordinary. Nothing appeared missing, so burglary is off the list. I doubt Julie would be careless enough as to leave the front door unlocked. Checking the door, the lock mechanism was still functional. How strange...

I should leave. I hate for there to be a misunderstanding, especially with the fuzz. I wanted to say Julie is doing fine on her own, yet I couldn't shake my mind at the thought of her leaving this place unlocked. There's something strange about the apartment I couldn't seem to wrap my mind around on. I don't know. I heard an increase in crime popping around the city. Plus, there's still more of the apartment I haven't checked yet. As much as I hate to intrude any further, there might be clues that'll help indicate where Julie is. Having made up my mind, I decided to inspect the apartment some more.

Regrettably, I should've turned back. What I saw next changed how I saw Julie from that point onward.

~ Warning: Do not read any further if sensitive to suicide. ~

I went into the small kitchen in the back. It was essentially a small hallway I had to enter from the right side. On my right was a stove and a sink between two counters, above were coffee colored cabinets. On my left was a long bar counter behind a framed wall, allowing the person in the kitchen to still get a view of the living room. I would've left and think nothing wrong happened weren't the blood I discovered on the bar counter.

At the center of the bar counter was a cutting board soaked in scarlet splatters. On top was a fruit knife. The sharp blade was also covered in carmine stains, already dry from what I saw. If I had to make an excuse, I would say Julie accidentally cut herself trying to make dinner, thus she left to get some help. Maybe that's why she's gone.

A sheet of paper sitting next to the cutting board caught my eye. It was also decorated with cursive writing and a couple of red spots at the bottom. Careful as to not touch the red, I delicately grabbed the piece of paper. Immediately, I recognized Julie's handwriting. It filled me with anguish reading what she wrote on the paper. I nearly ripped the note doing so.

To anyone who may stumble upon this note, I'm sorry.

It wasn't easy, but I decided to put an end to everything. It was a tough decision, I'll admit. I kept telling myself it would get better. It would get better. It would get better. Maybe it did, or eventually get better. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to see for I've already given up. I've given up a long time ago.

I don't know why I was put in these circumstances. No matter how much good I've done, I'll always be reminded of my place in this world. As nice as I was. As capable as I was. As hardworking as I was. To God above or no one, life didn't see me as any of those things. I kept telling myself it isn't the case. I kept living for I knew the few who saw me for my positive would grow saddened by my decision to disappear.

Such people were the reason I kept living. Mama brought me to this world, taught me such lessons, and sacrificed her health to give me more than what I wanted. Mr. David gave me a role. He gave me a purpose. He gave me a chance to make a living for myself despite all my faults. Because of him, I met Emily and Poppy who were like the closest friends to me. And then, there's Elliot. Oh, Elliot.

Elliot, if you ever do get this note, I want to at least apologize for the black eye I gave you when we first met. I wanted to apologize in person, but I haven't seen you lately. As much as a piece of shit you were to deal with, I appreciate our time together. For that, I'm thankful you stuck around. You'll probably be upset with me. I don't blame you. Whatever happens, I'm sure you'll be fine going on without me. Hopefully you're doing well wherever you are...

Like him, the few people I've grown attached to disappeared from my life when the world crashed. Mama died from a heart attack. The news gave me my first heartache. Mr. David was forced to let me go, giving me my second heartache. Both Emily and Poppy went elsewhere to escape the recession, leaving me behind in the broken city. I suffered two more heartaches because of them. No friends, no job, no food, soon I'll be homeless... I couldn't believe what was happening.

I tried to get myself together. I tried looking for a job. Unfortunately, no one was interested in hiring a woman or a half-breed. I thought about stealing. I knew I would get caught, and it wouldn't be too bad for a jail cell seemed better than living on the cold streets. However, Mama never taught me to be stupid, thus I kept my feet on the moral path. I kept looking for hope around the corner. I kept looking. I kept looking...

Cynically, I knew there was no hope for me. Even if the world got better, would it really be better? No. Society has always looked down on me as a low-class, illegitimate mulatto. I'll always be seen as an impoverished, unwanted failure, nothing better than that. I faced the world's torment every day, crying myself to sleep as a way of coping with the pain. The tears weren't enough, leading me to try other methods. Sadly, it wasn't enough. With the remains of my sanity, I turned to writing, my salvation, and in the spur of the moment I wrote down my final thoughts before heading out the door.

Like flowers, we bud, we blossom, we wilt, we die. That's how life works. However, I wasn't a flower, but merely a weed. Unwanted and hated, the world cut my life short, never giving me a place in their prosperous garden. I accepted this fact, and I'm willing to go through with it, even if it's unnecessary. Believe it or not, I'm still hopeful for the future. The cuts I've inflicted made me braver for things to come, the agony I've suffered is no longer painful. The light at the end of the tunnel was closer than I realized. All I had to do was accept there was no light to begin with. Then, it would come to me.

Where will I go then? Well, a better place I hope...

~ Julie Gertrude Rose

Julie... How could you...?

The letter in my hands fell to the floor. The saxophone from the living room came to a halt, ushering a silent scream as I trembled seeing the horror I found.

There was a tiny trail of blood on the ground from the kitchen to a dark hallway. The hallway contained two rooms, one on each side. The one on the right was an unoccupied bathroom. As for the other room, possibly a bedroom, the door was closed; the blood trail continued underneath it. My shaky hand was already on the cold door knob before I thought about what was inside the room. I should've paid attention. The quiet apartment, the urgent notices, the playing phonograph, the blood-stained knife, the morbid note, the trail of blood, I should've known something like that was possible. Yet, this was Julie I was talking about.

'She would never do such a thing,' I kept telling myself until I opened the door.

Then, I saw the body...

"Julie..." I held my breath.

There was no answer.

Underneath the burning yellow light of a ceiling fan was a rope made out of white bed sheets suspending the body of a woman of average height. I couldn't see the face. The woman's long, wavy, disheveled, mahogany hair hid her ghastly expression. Her light blue dress barely hung on her bony shoulders, making her pale body seemingly float like a ghost. I caught the dry, dark red slashes on her wrists, draining the color from my face when I further saw what ended her life. She couldn't breathe. She choked on her swollen tongue, writhing in agony, suffocating before becoming unconscious within a matter of seconds. Her strangling body would twitch, jolting uncontrollably until losing circulation. The woman's frail neck wore a violet collar underneath the tight noose as her head rested off her left shoulder. In a matter of minutes, the woman that was there was gone; left behind was an empty husk on a rope.

According to the autopsy, the woman died two days ago from the 16th of February, the day I found her. At the age of 24, Julie Gertrude Rose died in the Great Depression.

I could barely recall the turbulent emotions I felt seeing her lifeless body. Guilt, rage, sorrow, the shock of the discovery took a hold of me. I fell to my knees, grasping my throat as I choked on severe coughs and agonizing sobs. I wheezed. My lips trembled, trying to form audible words for help, only to muster out the same profanity from my hoarse throat. My vision became a watery mess, dripping onto the floor in addition to what's left in my stomach. I couldn't look away. It was impossible to look away.

I screamed.

~

I can't seem to remember anything after that scream. From that moment to my visit with the psychiatrist, it was cut out from my memories like a film strip. In fact, I barely remembered what I did up until my visit with the psychiatrist. Thanks to them, I regained some of the memories of what happened that day which even then I wished I didn't remember them...

After recovering some of those memories, I continued living in my own depression. During most days, I was in bed, living under a layer of blankets in silence as I recovered from both depressions. I tried to rest my eyes, but every time I do I see her dead body hovering over me, staring down on me with lifeless eyes. Even during the few times I went outside to run some errands, I always seem to find her at a bread line, a street corner, sometimes she'll sit with me at the bar. I tried to forget, but the image of her bruised, crooked neck and blue lips moving without making sound haunted me like a curse. Fear and guilt weighed down my head every time I encounter her phantom face.

No matter how hard I tried, I can't seem to ever get rid of her. I wanted to erase every single memory I had with her knowing she was the reason for my melancholy. Taking the easy way out isn't an option, that I knew. Drugs... I don't know if that would help. If I did try them, everyone else would know, and they'll stop me. For their sake, I didn't. Still, I couldn't seem to evade my torment. Seeing as I can't get rid of her out of my mind, I ended up accepting her presence. Not only do I recall the details of her corpse, I recollected pieces of the suicide note she left behind.

I... I couldn't imagine what she went through in my absence. Alone without hope, she slowly cripple to a stop, wilting on a noose without anyone to save her. Sometime during my year-long absence, she gave in to the darkness. Frail like the stem of a flower, she couldn't bare the weight anymore and snapped under pressure. She gave up and died a lonely death. Knowing I wasn't there when she needed me most, it filled my heart with remorse. It would've been heartless of me to forget what happened to her, and move on just like that...

The memory of her death wasn't the only thing I recalled in my head, there were other memories of Julie that came before her tragedy. It was then I remember to smile, digging through a treasure trove of bizarre, yet heartwarming nostalgia. The night she gave me the black eye special. The days she slapped me every time I flirted with her. The first conversation we had when she told me her tragic backstory. She would always give me shortened summaries of her favorite books that made me smile. The few jokes I told her that genuinely made her laugh. The one dance we shared together. I also remembered asking her out on a date, but I ended up backing out out of embarrassment. She did accept my bouquet of roses and violets which made my day at least.

... I couldn't forget the memories I had with Julie. Even though she brought me pain with the worst memory I had with her, she made it up with many wonderful memories of our time together. Destroying those memories would not only betray her, but myself as well. For her sake, I should enjoy the life I still have. And for her sake, I should look forward to life and the better.

Slowly, I found myself able to walk again without this guilty feeling in my chest. I haven't seen her ghost since being relieved of this feeling. I've convinced myself the last memory of Julie wasn't the real Julie. Somewhere in this world, Julie is a terrific writer who'll punch the ball sack of the next guy who tries to touch her. And who knows? Maybe I'll see her again. Until then, I'll keep my best memories of Julie to heart.

~

"So that's what happened..." Ivy (Indiana) drank half her pint of beer, taking in deep gulps.

After telling her my story, her face barely changed in the slightest apart from her face getting slightly blushed from the alcohol. She didn't seem too upset with me over the missing phone calls which is good to know.

"Sorry for worrying you," I softly chuckled, taking a sip out of my cocktail. "The drinks are on me, so feel free to drink as much as you want."

She heaved a heavy sigh as she rubbed the back of her neck. "After hearing your story, shouldn't I be the one treating you?"

"First off, you're poor," I pointed out. "Second, I've already drank enough of my sorrows, so I'm holding myself back for now."

At first, she wanted to argue, but hesitated for a moment. Instead, she went back to drinking the rest of her glass until it was empty.

"You know, I never understood you and some of the others," she muttered while waiting for the bartender to refill her pint.

"What do you mean?"

The bartender handed her the refilled glass.

"... Did you really love her?" she said in a serious tone.

The blues quartet at the back of the bar played on as a few snaps and claps went off behind us. I waited for the crowd's applause to die down before answering her.

"Yeah. I cared for her," I calmly said. "What about it?"

She blinked her eyes before grabbing her glass of beer, taking a small sip of it before answering me. "They're different, you know."

"I know."

"You don't know," she concurred.

"I-"

"Elliot," she stopped me, "not only do I feel sorry for you, I'm also upset you got yourself involved in another person's problems." She looked straight into my eyes, her own showing her frustration and concern. "It's one thing to involve yourself with the Mob. It's another when you involve yourself in a love that could never happen. You know who we are and you know who they are. As much as we look and behave like them, we live in different worlds they wouldn't understand. There's no reason getting yourself mixed up in their problems. Nor is it a good idea to stick by them for very long..." 

Her crystal blue eyes went back to her pint of beer, taking a huge gulp before slamming down the glass.

Harsh. Then again, I shouldn't be surprised. This is coming from the woman who loves automobiles more than people. I know she means well, but her words bothered me. As said before, I wasn't the type to take my anger out on the ladies. Even so, I do have a few wise words I want to say to her.

"Unlike you, I like people believe it or not," I began, getting her attention. "Why, you may ask? Well, I see each and every human differently. No two souls are the same, each one budding, blooming, wilting, and dying every day. A tractor, you can always maintain and preserve forever. A human being, no matter how much care you put into that one person, they never last forever. With that in mind, I always reached out to get to know every single person knowing every single moment might be the last time I see them."

"You can't avoid people forever. It's impossible to shut them out of our lives. The same people who drew our borders. The same people who built our towns and cities. The same people who influence us. We're connected to their lives as they to ours. Our problems are also theirs. Whether we like it or not, they'll always be around to live alongside us. To say we're different from them, I honestly don't know what you're talking out."

Taking a sip of my glass, I expected her to get straight into arguing with me. I waited to hear her excuse, but nothing came out of her mouth. Not immediately.

"... Love doesn't last forever," she muttered. "Yours is no different. Knowing you, I won't be surprised this happens again with another woman you flirt with." She placed a hand on my shoulder, staring intently at my brown eyes. "What I'm trying to say is I don't want you to hurt yourself. I can't stop you from getting into whatever stupidity you encounter. Just...don't hurt yourself for it."

She let go of my shoulder before going back to her pint of beer.

I took out a cigar out of my coat pocket in addition to a lighter. I ignited the cigar, taking a generous amount of nicotine before exhaling a heavy, gray smoke cloud.

"Will I love again?" I sighed. "Absolutely. Will I be heartbroken again? Most likely. Will Julie be the only one I love? No. One day I might fall for another person who is not Julie. They'll either die painfully or die peacefully."

"Despite knowing their inevitable end, I'll do my best to remember the best of them. Without them, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Even if I get hurt remembering them, I appreciate that feeling..." I softly smiled. "The feeling of nostalgia. It's sad, but welcoming. The only thing I fear is becoming an asshole and forgetting these wonderful people. They're the reason why I feel human..."

When I looked back at her, there was a pitiful frown on her face. She proceeded to ignore me, going back to finishing her glass of beer.

Sigh... Whatever. It may be awhile until she gets the point. Still, that's truly how I felt after losing Julie. Somewhere in the future, a hundred or more years from now, I'll fondly remember her like it was yesterday. Anyone else I care for along the way, I'll feel that way, too. Even after they're gone, they'll always live on in my memories.

As we were listening to the music, Ivy spoke up out of nowhere. "You said you cared for her. Then tell me, what will be the one memory of her you'll always remember for the rest of your life?"

I thought about her question carefully, thinking with consideration on what to say to her. With a smirk, I replied, "I once used this as a pickup line, "Roses are red. Violets are blue. We go well together. Like a dick and boobs." She kicked me in the balls and told me to go suck donkey cock afterwards."

☆☆☆☆☆

+ The Crash of 1929 brought an end to the luxurious peace of the Roaring Twenties and kickstarted the not-so Great Depression. In effect of Black Tuesday, people became jobless, coinless, and homeless. Hoovervilles sprang up as people struggled to cope with the economic depression. Unfortunately, some weren't able to overcome this crisis; the suicide rate jumped to over 20% during the initial four-year period.

+ Compared to the rest of the chapters in this volume, this story was certainly one of the darkest, especially in concern to the suicide that was shown around the end of the book. The reason I chose to include the scene was to add an emotional impact to this era. I thought by having Illinois know Julie, it would make the loss seem much greater. Even though Julie Rose and Mr. David were made-up character, I saw them as representatives of the Roaring Twenties. Most likely I'll feature them again in future stories regarding the 1920s.

+ According to Wattpad content guidelines, depiction of self-harm and suicide is considered mature (17+). The warnings I placed slightly ruin the story as it made the ending predictable. However, I'm aware there are readers who are sensitive to this kind of subject, so I took the precaution to place an extra warning within this story. I'm hoping this story doesn't get a mature rating for this one chapter. Even if it does, this chapter won't change to fit into that everyone rating unless stated otherwise.

~

Feel free to vote or comment any thoughts on Illinois or the chapter here.