Acquaintances (A Mafia Romance)

Fourteen.

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.