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Crime and drug use is rampant in this area. I should know, almost twenty years of my life were lived on these streets.
If you don’t hook, steal, or deal, you starve.
Opportunities in South Hebron are impossible to come by without connections. The few jobs that exist are shit and pay shit.
Abandoned by the Garden City council due to the absurdly high crime rate, the area hasn’t received any funding or development for at least three decades.
I’m twenty-two, and there’s been no new buildings, no improvements to the roads or infrastructure that I can remember. The area is lucky that it happens to share a water treatment plant with Elim or everyone would probably die of poison and thirst.
The neighborhood has been left to rot, probably in the hope that everyone will die or kill each other off.
Then the mayor can pave over the entire place and make it one great big parking lot graveyard.
Carefully weaving around the trash that litters the ground, trash so old it’s practically embedded in the concrete, I fight back the memories I’ve buried away.
Memories of walking to the corner store with my dad so he could buy his scratchers, under the ruse that we were really going to buy me ice cream.
Memories of my mom squeezing my hand so hard it hurt as she led me through a back alley to meet with some strange man that smelled funny.
Memories of the landlord tossing all our shit into the street after my dad passed away. My mom was so pissed, so focused on screaming and cussing him out, that she didn’t bother to stop any of the people that scurried up to pick through our stuff.
Everything of worth, everything little thing I cherished and valued, was gone before I got home from school.
I thought I left all of that behind when I married Kyle. Left behind the nights of not knowing where I was going to sleep or what I was going to eat.
Safety.
All I wanted was safety for once in my damn life.
And yet I’m right back here, with a baby…
Uncle Mickey’s building, like most of the other buildings around here, was probably built in the late 1800s. At the time it was built, it was no doubt considered a luxurious mansion.
Now it’s dilapidated and home to a shady businessman.
Stopping in front of the door, I take a second to note that someone slapped on a fresh coat of red paint but didn’t bother to fix the cracked window.
Before I can pull open the door, a man barges out, bringing a thick cloud of cigar smoke with him. I manage to dodge the door in time but fail to dodge him.
He doesn’t even glance at me. Muttering to himself, his face tight with anger, he shoulders me out of his way, nearly spinning me completely around in a circle.
Any other day, any other place, I’d give him a piece of my mind. I’d chew him out for pushing a lady holding a baby.
But I know better than to piss off anyone dealing with Uncle Mickey.
Not unless I want to risk getting a knife shoved between my ribs.
Uncle Mickey’s clients and employees are unscrupulous, at best.
At worst, they’re scum of the earth. Willing to scam, steal, and kill to make a buck.
I watch the man walk down the street for a few heartbeats, just making sure he’s not planning on coming back, then shake off the encounter.
Pulling open the door, I step inside.
The foyer is empty and unlit, but from the light coming from deeper inside I can see a billion tiny specks of dust floating around.
The air is musty and reeks of cigar smoke. I doubt Uncle Mickey has cleaned a thing in years. And he sure as hell wouldn’t hire a maid, too much of a liability.
