Shouldering the Load

SYIC: Part 1: Survival — Chapter 38

The Metronome nightclub thumped under a Paul van Dyk knockoff pounding above a packed dance floor. The converted Episcopalian church swelled as New Year’s Eve revelers crowded the space. Balloons hung in nets overhead, ready to drop. Behind the DJ, a distorted version of the Chicago four-star flag — blue, red, and white — hung as a silent witness to the congregation.

Ilona Sanchez — late twenties, Hispanic, brunette, medium build — held a glow stick in her right hand as she moved in sync with the electronica. Her eyes darted through the pulsating lights while her lips shaped silent words.

Tonight, she’d dressed with care — leather pants, form-fitting blouse, blonde highlights accentuating her high cheekbones — and on her left hand, a princess-cut engagement ring shimmered in the intermittent glow.

Across the floor, a tall, indie-looking guy who could’ve stepped out of a Coldplay video was making out with a woman at least a half-dozen cocktails in. Ilona gazed at him and wiped a tear from her eye. She took a sip from her mixed drink, siphoning up the remains of the fruity alcoholic concoction, and staggered off the dance floor toward an empty, drink-littered high-top table in a forgotten corner of the room. She reached for her purse and thumbed through the contents. Expired orange pill bottles…