June 5, 2006- 11:23
New York. The city of all cities. Also known as the Big Apple for tremendously obvious reasons. Opportunities sprout from left and right, top to bottom. From the crevices of alleys, to the open roads. Behind every door lies a hustle. Backs cracking, fingers typing, sweats breaking, tears rolling and brains working on overdrive. Here, you cannot simply do the bare minimum and expect to thrive. It's 110% or nothing.
Each neighborhood within New York's proximity seemed to be fabricated from a different substance. The architecture, humidity, population and moral values all differ. In its expanse, sections of the world has assembled. One will most definitely be able to locate the essence of any culture somewhere within the maze.
The slanted morning light gives everything a hazy look as it slices through the moist air. The whisper of a breeze lightly shuffles the scarcity of trees. The sound blends in with that of the honking and cussing of the streets.
We stand by as he follows her into the colossal, mostly glass building labeled Apple Bank. An olive skinned, slim woman with medium length hair, struts towards the reception. Each bold step of her long jean covered legs exert purpose. Her stalker takes a seat in the waiting area, leisurely tapping his right foot to the beat of an inaudible song. The french lady's arms fly up as she yells at the receptionist, causing her to almost immediately call security. Before they get to her however, she storms out. Running long, thin fingers through her hair out of visible frustration, she walks on. The stalker follows, and as if feeling his presence, she turns around. Oddly enough, the woman looks right through him, turns around and walks on.
June 5, 2006- 19:52
On the third floor of the run down establishment is what Jonah Bright called "the dopest place in New York", back when he rented out the apartment two years ago. At the time, his main attempt was to make his daughter and wife see the place as more than just a dump. To this day, the same yellow bucket from a year ago collects the water dripping from under the sink. The ceiling fan dangerously hangs from its wires and the kitchen cabinets are somehow all vacant of doors.
Despite everything, the place remains clean. The tiled floors are always vacuumed and the cream colored walls appear fresh. They don't know this but before they moved in, the one bedroom apartment was a hiding spot for druggies and runaways. Now, it is quite simply, warm and inviting.
Jonah paces the floor and tries his wife again, while his newly six year old little angel plays with her Legos at the dinning room table. She has an 'I'm six' pink badge pinned on the white shirt below her dungaree.
"Daddy?" her miniscule, high pitched voice sounded.
"Where's mommy? She's been gone since this morning. She promised to be back in time to cut the cake."
"I'm sure she's on her way Baby."
Just then, his phone rings. He answers without checking the caller ID, in hopes that its her.
"Hello. This is the police department. We're sorry to inform you but a Natalia Bright has been found dead in an alley an hour ago. We found your number on her phone. We need you to come down and identify the body."
The feminine voice lacks sympathy. She talks as if she's telling a co-worker that their shoelace is untied. She continues to speak, but he cannot seem to make out any of it. Jonah drops to his knees, allowing the phone to slip from his hand and onto the ground. What hits him first is the hard cold fact that his beautiful, loving wife of seven years will never walk through the doors of their small home again. She will not be there to support him and to make their favorite dishes. She won't be there to take photos of their daughter on prom night, to attend her graduation and to see him give her away at her wedding. What hits him next, is the realization that he is now a single parent. That all he has to live for now is his daughter. And that is somehow enough to keep him going.