Letters.

New York City – a city where dreams lie shattered and broken on the filthy sidewalk. As an abusive lover is to their downtrodden partner, New York demands everything from you, and the only thing you get in return is a broken heart and a damaged sense of self. But this damaged sense of self was walking right on down Houston street and wasn’t going anywhere.

 

She wiggled the key once, lifted the door up slightly, and finally felt the give as the key turned in the lock. The door stuck a little before she finally got it open. As it swung open, she reached for the light before stepping in. The apartment was disgusting: rotten walls, rotten windows and rotten stench. But for now, it was home. The brightness of the lone, hanging lightbulb made whatever was making those scratching noises disappear in the kitchen. She walked over to the fridge and pulled out last night’s dinner. As she sat down and ate the cold rice, not once did she think this was not what she wanted. It absolutely was not what she wanted. But she had sacrificed so much to get here, her family too, so that there was no way that she would let a small thing like utter misery and despair get in the way of her living the American Dream. So instead, she sat down and wrote a letter to her sister back home. She wrote about the subway, she wrote about the 24 hour neon lights of Time Square, she wrote about the endless choice of everything.

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Letters.

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