That Body Was Mine

And just like that, I am dead. I have been defeated. With a few quick shots to the chest, and my final breath, I am done. There is no more of me. Where I once was, I am no longer. The brick behind me will forever be stained with my blood and a few bullet holes from that powerful tommy gun. Red on red, with the lake at my side. Yes, that body was indeed mine. Allow me to explain.

I was young, approximately 12 years old, when I came into the life I lived until my dying breath. My owner, Paul, had ordered me many customers. I hated them all. They reeked of alcohol and sweat and desire. Twisted desperation in their eyes, they were always hungry for more. I never could satiate them; they would always come back. There was nothing I could do, however. I was not my own person. It was him, Bruce, who came into my life and made me more independent. It was an unordinary day. The year was 1931, and I was approximately 15 years old. I once again had had enough of my life and attempted to run away for the umpteenth time. I never counted. The number would be too high. I was running down the street, away from the lake and away from Paul. He had his knife out again and I was sure this day would be my last. That is, if he caught me. I looked back for a moment, only a moment, when I slammed into another person walking with a newspaper in their hands. A man almost twice my size. Then again, most people were much larger than I, a malnourished youth. He hardly moved when I ran into him, and yet I fell quite hard onto the pavement.

“Are you alright,” I heard him say. But I had no time. I quickly jumped up and ran down the alleyway next to us. I hid behind a large pile of trash and prayed to a nonexistent god. I heard the running footsteps soon after, and a familiar voice.

“Excuse me sir, but have you seen a small girl running by here,” Paul asked.

“Yes, I have.” No. I was done for. “She went that way.”

“Thank you, sir.” I sat and waited for the running footsteps to follow my path. They never came. Instead, a pause, and then a gentle walking pattern approached my hiding place. The man I had run into came into view just above the mound of rotting garbage. He crouched and held a hand out to me.

“Are you alright?” His voice was quiet. I was silent. “He’s gone now. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” He looked young, not much older than myself, and yet he wore a fancy suit. That scared me. I quickly rose and darted away down the alley and back to the girls at home, if you could even call where I lived a home. I put the incident out of my mind. A stern talking-to by Paul a couple hours later, and I was fine.

It was a few days later. I was waiting with a few other girls on the corner when a familiar sight caught my eye. It was that man again. He approached me specifically.

“Hello. Do you remember me?”

“I do,” I responded.

“Glad to know that I am not forgettable. May I have a word?” I sighed internally. Of course he was just another customer. I began walking with him towards the room. Once we were out of earshot of the other girls, he stopped me. “I wanted to see that you were alright.” I looked up at him in confusion. “What I mean to say is, I would like to talk with you. Is that alright?” Perhaps he was one of those. There are a few who simply want an ear to listen to them as they rant about their sad lives. I nodded.

I walked with him around the block, but he did not rant. He asked me questions. My name, my life, my likes and dislikes, my aspirations. I hardly had an answer for most of his questions. Here was a man who just wanted to talk. Did such a person really exist? After we circled the block, he asked to talk again in a week. A week? Most customers came back after a couple days. There was something very odd about this man. Sure enough, a week went by and he came back. And the next week, the week after that, and again and again. A few months went by and he, Bruce, never failed to show up. It came to a time when we began to see each other more often. We would walk on the beach of the lake at night; we would go for drives to see the stars outside the city; he brought me gifts I couldn’t accept or had to hide from Paul and the girls. He told me of his family. Mafia. It is no wonder he wore a suit everywhere. Despite this, I loved him. And he loved me. It was us against the world. Two years after we had first met, the day came.

“Run away with me,” he said.

“What?”

“Emma, we don’t belong here. I can’t take over the family business. I haven’t the stomach for it. I hate how you must live, in the confines of that wretched building, no room to yourself, and owned by such a disgusting and cruel man. We could get away. To New Orleans. I have the means. We could go in two months.”

“Bruce, that sounds wonderful, but if we were to be caught-”

“I’ll ensure that doesn’t happen. I shall arrange everything.” I knew I could trust him. I let him do what he wanted and make the plans for our escape. I was excited. Heavily elated. I would be free from Paul. Free from Chicago. I would have won.

Then came the day. It was a week before the day Bruce had arranged to be our escape. I was working by myself, walking along the road next to a red brick building. A car pulled up and I stopped. Suicide doors opened and I saw them. Bruce and his two brothers. I didn’t have the time to even say his name. His eldest brother had already pulled the trigger. My body was no more. Defeated, I sank to the pavement. Only bullet holes and blood splatter. Red on red, with the lake at my side. Yes. That body was mine.