Chapter 7 - The Lower Depths
November arrived in Chicago with a bitter, biting wind off Lake Michigan that froze the gutters and turned the sky the color of wet slate.
In the small, freezing apartment in West Rogers Park, the heat had been shut off due to non-payment.
Chloe sat wrapped in three old blankets on her mattress on the floor. Her hands were raw and red from the cold. A single lamp illuminated the small room, casting long, menacing shadows across the bare walls.
On the small wooden table beside her sat three eviction notices from the Cook County Sheriff's Department. The final deadline was 5:00 PM tomorrow.
Her phone, now operating on a low-tier prepaid plan she had managed to pay for by selling her remaining designer handbags at a pawn shop for twenty cents on the dollar, buzzed on the floor.
It was a text message from her former bankruptcy attorney:
Chloe, the Chapter 7 petition for your boutique has been formally accepted by the court. All corporate assets are surrendered. Your personal liability regarding the unfulfilled client retainers remains active under state consumer fraud statutes. You are required to appear in court on December 14th.
Chloe let out a low, whimpering groan, pressing her forehead against her knees.
She had tried everything over the past four weeks.
She had called every friend from her high school and college years. None of them answered. Two had sent brief, cold texts telling her never to contact them again after seeing the video.
She had applied for entry-level administrative jobs at thirty different firms across the city. Three interviews were scheduled, but at every single one, the moment the hiring manager typed her name into Google, the interview ended within two minutes. One young human resources assistant had looked at her with open disgust and said: "We don't employ people with your lack of moral character."
She was completely, utterly bankrupt—financially, socially, emotionally.
She reached out with shivering fingers and picked up a small yellowed photograph that had fallen out of an old notebook during her move.
It was a photo taken sixteen years ago on the back porch of their old house in Evanston.
In the picture, Eleanor sat in a wooden chair, her head wrapped in a bright yellow silk scarf, looking thin and frail, but her smile was warm and soft as she hugged an eight-year-old Chloe, who was holding a plastic toy tea set.
On the back of the photo, Eleanor’s neat handwriting read: My sweet Chloe. My little miracle. Forever and always.
Chloe held the photograph against her chest, and for the first time in four weeks, her tears were not filled with anger, panic, or self-pity.
They were filled with an agonizing, crushing realization of what she had thrown away.
She hadn't just lost a house, a boutique, a fiancé, or a trust fund.
She had destroyed the only person in the world who had ever loved her without conditions, without limits, without reservation.
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She had taken a razor to the holy thing in her life, simply because she couldn't bear its light.
Chloe buried her face in the cold wool of her blanket and wept until her throat was raw and her eyes could produce no more tears.
