The study in the Hockley residence was silent. It was a small room with dark oak décor, lined with cabinets filled with files, sheets, and every important document related to the business—all of which now meant nothing.
Forty-nine-year-old Caledon Hockley sat at the desk where he had worked for the last fifteen years. His father had sat in the same seat fifty years ago, crafting a business plan that had led to the establishment of Hockley Steel, one of the biggest steel companies in the country. His father's death fifteen years ago had ensured his survival for the rest of his life, as he had inherited millions. A year later, his first child was born, quickly followed by three more each year after that. Three boys, and the first bore a girl, a beautiful girl who was the epitome of pure beauty. Her jet black curls, large blue eyes, and the pale translucent skin of her mother's. His wife Elena had been a shy girl from one of the most prominent families in New York City. She had borne him the sons he needed to carry on the family business; that much she was suitable for. But it had been his daughter Abigail who had affected him the most. He saw her innocence and purity, and as he had cradled her through her early years, he had learned just what true love was. During these years, his mind had cast back to Rose, his first love, the woman he had truly cared for. He hadn't treated her well; he knew that much. Her death had been the topic on everyone's lips for years after the tragedy. He had never forgotten her, and his guilt-riddled body just wore on, living with the hurt that he had caused.
That time felt like it was coming again; he had failed Rose, and now he would fail his family, his daughter. The stock market crash had affected the business more than he had let on to his family. His elderly mother sat comfortably, looked after by maids and under constant watch due to her dementia, but she still lived lavishly. His wife, who had never asked for anything, had given him all the jewels, luxury, and travel, for she had given him three heirs and his daughter.
''You need to produce fine boys, Caledon. Fine, handsome young men who will represent this family and give life to more boys to carry on this family name.'' His father's words had been. The pressure had been constant after Rose to find another suitable wife, a mother for his children. Nathan had not lived to witness his daughter's birth, and he was glad, for he would have been disappointed in his only son. Girls turned into whores, they needed training, and they brought shame to the family, but boys would turn into fine young men.
Pictures of those fine boys aged twelve, eleven and ten sat on the desk. A larger image of his daughter, who was now fourteen and would soon be preparing to leave school and court young men, finding a suitor eligible to become her husband. No man would ever be good enough for his precious girl. He hysterically pushed the picture onto the floor and heard it smash into pieces. He couldn't bear knowing his daughter's eyes were watching his demise. He felt the anger build up inside; he pounded his fists into the wood but did not even feel the pain. Empty brandy bottles cluttered the room, and cigar butts littered the floor. He flung open the top drawer of his desk and found a half-drunk bottle; shaking, he opened the lid, discarding it across the room and brought the liquor to his lips. He downed half of it, feeling the numbness kick in and the pain subside. He dragged the drawer out to find clippings mostly of his time with Rose: their engagement announcement, the Titanic sinking and her death.
He ripped them all into tiny pieces and began to feel his temper again. He ransacked the room; every award ever won, every document ever written out. He threw them all onto the floor, creating one big mess. He stopped when he saw himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. His hair was greying, the lines which had grown around his lines and the way his eyes had sunken in. He was his father's double, and his boys grew more like his existence. He couldn't even look at his reflection. With one swift pull, the large mirror crashed to the floor, with his blood leaking onto the glass. Cuts covered his hands, but he ignored their stings. He found his brandy again; he down the rest as he felt the continued burning. He found his way to the chair behind the desk again. His name tag sat on the desk of Caledon G. Hockley, and he laughed pathetically. He glanced down at his suit, black. The colour of his soul. The colour of his heart. He had lost everything he had built. He was a failure. He had no reason to live.
He pulled out the bottom drawer, knowing what it held. He didn't even shake as he held the cold silver gun. He knew what to do, for he had shot a gun on many occasions. He didn't even close his eyes as he raised the gun to his head; he opened his mouth, tasting the coldness, the metallic coldness. He knew there was only one bullet left. He didn't hesitate as he squeezed the trigger, then...black.
''He married, of course, and inherited his millions, but the crash of '29 hit his interests hard, and he put a pistol in his mouth that year. His family fought over scraps of his estate like hyenas. Or so I read.''
