Omertà: Bound by Debt

The clock struck 8:00 PM with a hollow clang that echoed across the nearly empty diner. One would think I had an alarm clock in my brain with the speed at which I tossed the apron over my shoulder and while nodding towards the girl clocking in for the night shift. My lower back ached from standing for hours, and my feet were screaming inside of my knock-off sneakers, but not wanting to seem rude, not like I gave two shits about empathy and kindness at this moment, I still offered a small smile anyway cause she was doing me a favor. I really could not go on for the extra two hours that remained in my shift, I was beyond exhausted from working four jobs today. Anymore and my body will give out. “Thanks for covering,” I muttered, voice hoarse from calling out orders and faking pleasantness all day. “No problem,” the girl replied, barely looking up from the register, not like she cared for the small talk that could have followed if she did look up.. All she wanted was to go back home and sink into the bed. I pushed through the diner’s side door and stepped into the chill darkened evening. The air was heavy with the scent of motor oil, cigarette and city grit, the sky bruised purple as twilight settled over the streets. Puffing out a breath, I zipped up my threadbare hoodie which could barely do much against the cold, and started my lonely walk home while the wind kissed my cheeks. I know it’s evening and nowhere is safe but why can’t I shake this feeling. Like something is off. Like someone is watching me. Shrugging it off and not wanting to stress my mind, I stopped at the crosswalk and scanned the street to ease my mind, but there was no one following me, no one lurking in the shadows. Still, my stomach churned and twisted like it knew something I didn't and that was not a good sign. You’re being paranoid and that does nothing but confuse your soul, I told myself. But the air felt too still. Too dark. Too cold. With a deep breath I consoled myself and pressed forward, heels tapping the cracked sidewalk as I made my way down the familiar path towards home. My mind wandered—as it always did lately. Life has been in a steady decline since my mother passed. Grief settled like a blanket, heavy and inescapable. Releasing a sigh I recall how my mother had been the glue that held our little circle we called family together. After her death everything seemed to take a turn for the worst. Without her, her husband, my father had unraveled like a poorly stitched seam. Gambling became his escape, a very unwise choice if you ask me. Alcohol, his second skin. And me…Sloane? Very simple, I became the one picking up the shattered pieces, I became the sole provider of the house as the one that was meant to do the providing is still grieving never healing. I could still hear the harsh but direct words from last year from my college advisor: “We’re sorry, Miss Monroe, but without payment, we can’t allow you to register for the next semester.” That was the day I dropped out. Not because I wasn't smart enough, God knew I had dreams, and still do. But dreams didn’t pay rent, and ambition didn’t buy groceries. Reality demanded sacrifice. So I sacrificed. I worked double shifts, took up side gigs, even sold some of my writings online when she could. I did all of this to keep the lights on, hot water running, and the fridge humming. And for what? So my father could throw whatever spare change we had into poker dens and liquor stores? I have tried talking him out of that habit but he told me to worry about myself and let him be. This I have tried doing. Still, he was my father. The only family I have left. And as bitter as I was, love remained. Love, and obligation. Finally the apartment building we stayed in came into view,an aging three-story complex wedged between a pawn shop and a convenience store. The exterior paint was chipped and tired, like everything else in my life. But the soft light from the hallway window always comforted me as I came back from work but it was different to tonight and this only fueled my paranoia. Tonight, it was dark. I slowed my footsteps. Something wasn’t right. Trying not to make the stairs creak, I ascended the steps quietly, trying to ignore the way my pulse had quickened. I fished out my keys from my pocket, my hands trembling as I approached the door. As I tried to fix the key in the hole, I realized that something or someone had already beaten me to it. It was already open. Just slightly. I pushed the door open fully and I f*****g froze. The living room was in disarray, cushions slashed open, drawers overturned, the brown coffee table that has seen better days was shattered. Glass crunched beneath my shoes. My heart pounded in my chest. Then I saw them. Five men were armed and cloaked in shadows. One of them stood with a gun pressed to my father’s temple, forcing him to his knees. Blood dripped from the side of his mouth; his eye was swollen shut. “Dad?” I whispered, but it came out broken, strangled. At that moment, I knew I f****d up. Every head turned towards me. I didn’t even have the time to run or scream. As two of the men came to my back. My father looked up at me slowly, like it physically hurt him to lift his head. For a moment, it was just the two of us in the room, frozen in time. His eyes locked onto mine, and in that stare was a lifetime of everything unsaid. There was regret, deep and suffocating, the kind born of years of bad choices and broken promises. There was disgust, not at me though, but at himself, the man he’d become. There was resignation, a grim understanding that this was the end of the road, and he’d paved it himself brick by brick. And there was tiredness, the kind that burrowed into his bones. He was a man worn thin, broken beyond repair. But there was no fear. None. Because he’d already given up. He didn’t fight. He didn’t plead. He just looked at her like an apology, silent and useless. Then, the trigger was pulled and the sound went off, Bang!. The sound tore through the apartment like a thunderclap. I watched my father’s body slump to the floor before my brain could even process what had happened. “No—!” I choked out. Another man lunged forward, something metallic flashing in his hand. My knees buckled. The scream never came. My vision blurred at the edges, dark shadows creeping in like tendrils of smoke. Even my body swayed like it was not mine, refusing to cooperate. My chest was tight, and my legs felt like stone. The last thing I heard was someone barking orders in a sharp, foreign accent. Then came darkness.