New York Almost Killed Me

by Megan Apostol, Canyon Crest Academy '23

June 10, 2020

Untitled artwork by Amy Ge, Torrey Pines High School '22

Fog hauntingly swallowed the tops of bridges and buildings. It smothered the negatively crude vibe, preventing it from slowly leaking out of the city. Busy locals hardly seemed to notice the fog changing to smoke. I choked over the pain of involuntarily inhaling the pollution. I panicked at the sights around me, the smoke, and wondered if I could escape, if I could change what was in the streets of New York.

I was a cat in this bustling city. A cat with barely four lives. Now I have one and will never go to New York again, if I can help it. Not until I went to this place, full of life, did I know that I was a cat because I began to die, time after time.

The Bird (it)—half dead, helpless, unknown sex, most probably a stubborn black coffee table cleaner.

Quickly walking, with hands deep in my pockets, I focused my eyes straight ahead. While I was on my way to the Big Apple Hotel, I stumbled upon The Bird. Its eyes could barely stay open as it huddled with a rag, as alone as it appeared. I stopped. Stared. Strolled away. Why? Because never would I want to be sighted as a tourist. I chose to blend in with the crowd, ignorant and self-centered on many levels. Like me… As I turned the corner, I peeked back at The Bird. A homeless man cradled it in his arms as he handed a gun to it. The Bird shot me with a bullet of guilt.

Three lives, stay cautious and safe. New York crime rates are high. Higher than a drunk. In fact, they are rising every day.

The Boss (he)—white as snow, married (strangely), cocky as a rooster can get.

The Maid (she)—black as ash, soft, gentle, God bless her.

After clicking button number 6 in the elevator, I tried removing the bullet. Each time though, it dug deeper. “Floor 6,” I stepped out. From down the hall I could see The Boss screaming at The Maid. Each word felt like fire, burning my skin. And hers. I turned the corner and waited to listen. Not once did The Maid talk. She stood there like a ball of water repelling his insults. I could have, should have, barged in and protected her. But, ignorant and self-centered, I casually strolled to my hotel room, ignoring the burns on my skin. If anyone saw me, they would not have noticed my burnt skin as it was already as black as ash from fire before The Bird shot me. Maybe they would not even see me at all. Tears choked me. The Boss heard me. The Boss ran. The Maid ran. He helped me up like he never had held a gun in his life, which he never did. The Maid did. She shot me with a bullet of grief.

Two remaining lives. I want to tell you how much I love you before you both go. I hope you enjoy the vacation.

III

The Shopkeeper (he)—elf from the North Pole, full of words that pull green voices out of you, suspected robber.

Early morning. 5:24 AM to be exact. The brisk air pinched my skin with sharp nails. Taking shelter in a nearby shop, I was surprised to see various collectibles, jewelry without tags, designer clothes and purses with jaw dropping prices that make a shopper go crazy with joy. I looked around and saw The Shopkeeper.

“Hi, ma’am, is there anything I can help you with?”

“How much is this purse?”

“As much as you like to offer for it, no set price.”

With green language I replied, “...” and confidently walked out of the door, flashing off my new purse. 911. The Shopkeeper scoffed at me for my smart aleck response, aimed and shot me with greed. I still have the bullet, maybe even two. It hurts the least.

One life. Oh well, I tried.

I hate to break it to you, but these events did not happen only in New York.

Well, I don’t actually hate it because it is the truth.

Bullets of guilt, grief, and greed are everywhere, just waiting for their next victim.

Perhaps in New York. Perhaps in…