The Price of Love

Chapter 1: The Man of the Hour

I like to believe that I had an all around good childhood. I grew up on Long Island and I know, I know, most people have no idea where that actually is. So, let me put it this way... it's like New York took a tiny shit, but what a wonderful little shit of an Island it is. It pretty much embodies the idea of "It's a small world." There's plenty to do there though, plus a short train ride to the city wasn't bad at all. My parents provided me anything I could have ever wanted or needed, they raised me right, I always did good in school, and I never got mixed up in "the wrong crowd." So, then how did I end up here? Twenty-two years old, waiting to be questioned by the police, covered in dirt, my blood, not my blood... Well, in order to understand, we're going to have to go back to the beginning.

Open on the scene, my dad picking himself up after practically fainting on the hospital floor while my mom stares in awe of the tiny little bundle of joy that lays in her arms. That precious bundle is none other than, that's right, me. The room is bright and airy, and the sky is a particular shade of blue... JUST KIDDING. We're not going that far back. This story starts the summer after my high school graduation. It was a pretty normal day, except for the fact that my entire life was packed away in brown, cardboard boxes. I swung open my bedroom door after a light breakfast to find none other than my mother tinkering about some boxes on the glitter covered white fur area rug (what? I love glitter... And I just so happen to be clumsy sometimes).

"Hey Mom... Whatcha doing over there?

"Oh, just helping out, Honey."

"Really? Cause it looks like you're unpacking the box I just tapped."

I grinned as she hastily turned her head to face me. Her dark eyes lit up like she just hatched the world's most brilliant plan. She grabbed the first item that laid at the top of the box she just un-tapped. "Well, looks like you can't move out now!" She excitingly exclaimed. "You can't possibly leave without your..." she looked down at the item she had grabbed, "Your... Clothes hanger..." She looked back up at me as I sarcastically nodded my head at her. She flashed a smile and ran out the door, still holding the probably broken anyway hanger. "Gee, Mom, you got me there," I laughed. I took a deep breath as I leaned against the door frame, crossing my arms, looking at the only bedroom that's been mine one last time. It was unsettling how cold the now bare, white walls were. But I couldn't help but smile as all the pleasant memories I had there came flooding back. From pencil ticks next to the headboard, my dad had made from scratch to look like a barn door might I add, measuring my height year after year... to sneaking out the window with my best friend Brittany (Bree for short) when we wanted to see the first Twilight movie on a school night. I knew I was going to miss living here, but I also knew greater things were waiting for me in the city. You see, I had a plan. I was going to graduate from the Fashion Institute of Technology and then start my own clothing brand. I had it all planned out... There was no room for failure. That wasn't a possibility.

Now, let's fast forward two years, about a month before my twenty-first birthday. Unfortunately, it turns out I left out one small detail in my plan to take the fashion world by storm... It takes a shit load of money to start a brand. So, here I am, a Fashion Institute of Technology graduate working as a waitress at one of those 1920's themed diners. Yeah, it's just as glamorous as it sounds... Note the sarcasm. But people say I look like I belong there, with my beach-wave, bobbed, ombre haircut. I suppose that's a compliment... Right? Bree moved out to the city about a few months after I did to be closer to her boyfriend, Gabe. We're sharing a one-bedroom apartment together. And when I say one bedroom, that also means one bed. On the bright side, we finally achieved our childhood dream of having sleepovers every night, hurray...

Fortunately, Bree stayed at Gabe's apartment last night so I have the entire apartment to myself this morning... To dance in my black lace undies, charcoal Rolling Stones tee, and favorite cozy, grey, knit, crew socks. All while making chocolate chip pancakes of course. The sun peaks through our make-shift curtains (actually just a white shower curtain) and hits my eyes as I still lay in bed, stretching my arms out. Our giant pure white comforter basically consumes me. I rest my arms above my head as I stare up. We have a bunch of polaroid pictures from over the years, each dated, and hanging down from the ceiling on strings. It's kind of fascinating watching them twirl up there, soothing even. "Ah, today's going to be a good day. I can feel it," I think to myself as I spring up and turn on "This Girl" by Kungs and Cookin' on 3 Burners, my favorite song a few months running. The upbeat song instantly fills the small apartment consisting of only the bedroom and connected kitchen and sitting area. I slide my feet across the cold, wood floor in long, graceful motions as I make my way to our small kitchen overlooking a city street. We're too high up for anyone down below to see me in my undies and tee, dancing, flipping my hair back and forth like an idiot. Since Bree isn't around to be the germaphobe she is, I take the liberty of dipping my finger in the batter as I mix it. Oh... and to wipe up the batter that I keep accidentally flinging all over the concrete counter and exposed brick walls. I sing along at the top of my lungs, shifting my weight from tippy toes on one foot to the other and back again, allowing for Bree to enter our front door undetected. Her mouth drops in awe at the sight and she instantly pulls out her phone to film me on Snapchat.