letters

Letter Two

Henry silently rested on the couch, watching the sun climbing the horizon. His wife, Lily, sat beside him, her delicate hand atop his own.
It was time to go to work soon.
Lily could sense his apprehension, his fear of leaving the house.

"I'll be back later," said Henry at last. His words were stiff, clipped, unlike the kind demeanor he usually wore.     Lily kissed his cheek and watched as he stood to go.
Henry headed out the door, dreading another day of work. He believed he had made a grave mistake by moving from the West to New York City. He wished he were back with his brother, with a real home, with kind neighbors.
Everything was the opposite here.
He and his wife were living in a friend's apartment until they could get a place of their own. Their neighbors were unkind and curt. And no one here seemed like family.     Everyone in the city acted as if there wasn't a second to spare. Everyone was always running, always talking too fast in their harried American accent for Henry to understand. He was accustomed to the slow, kind talk of his own country. And even in the West, no one was bustling and running like the people here.
Henry had picked up the habit of hurrying for his own sake. Walking too slowly resulted in getting run over. Talking too slowly meant that the listener would grow bored and walk away. Working too slowly ended in losing a job.
Henry crossed the street, drawing his arms tightly inwards. He was lost in a sea of people and needed to be as compact as possible.
Down the avenue, across the street, round the block Henry went. He knew the way by heart, now.
At last the hat factory came into view--the dull, towering, grey block of a building that gave Henry chills down his spine. It seemed the factory always sat in clouds and shadow, no matter if it was a sunny day or not.     Henry already wanted to go home.     The only things keeping him from turning around were his feet, which took him into the Tower of Hell.     The familiar yet unwelcome smell of chemicals and material and must filled his nose. He hated it.
Henry, eyeing the new elevator warily, took the stairs to the fifth floor where his post was. Many were already seated and working. Henry didn't understand why they would come any earlier than they had to.     He sat by his post and began to work on a hat, nimble fingers aching and trembling and heart heavy. He could barely focus. His eyes were trained elsewhere, on the window, which let minimal light into the gloomy room. Dirt and dust clung to the window pane, casting an even gloomier outlook on the entire situation.     Henry couldn't wait to get the hell out of here. He hated making these hats, he hated the heat that crept up and down his back, he hated the people who worked around him. He hated the decision to move here.
He could have very well not come to America at all. But he had, and it was too late now.
The sun rose and fell. At last Henry found himself finishing up the last hat for the day and packing to leave. Joy absolutely exploded inside his chest, but only for a moment before he realized he had to get up and do the same damn thing tomorrow.
But it was over for today, at least.
He had made it.
His feet carried him again, this time in the favorable direction--away from the factory. He rushed down the stairs and out the door, breathing in the fresh night air.
Everything was great.
Great, until Henry was stopped by a group of protesters passing by. He recognized many of them from the factory. 

"What is this?" Henry muttered in his native tongue.

"You're not from around here, are you kid?" Asked one of them as he passed by. Henry didn't like his tone.

"No," he said quietly, trying to get around them. He was vaguely aware of the accent that laced his voice. "I'm not."
Henry received a blow to the face.
He could barely hear the protesters chanting about ending immigration.

"Go back where you came from," said the man, no longer walking with the rest of the group.
Henry just wanted to go home. "You're taking our jobs. There's no reason for you to be here."
Henry didn't respond and tried to get away again.
He just received another blow.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he turned away to spit it out. "Go home," said the man. Anger was written all across his face, and he once again threw his fist at Henry. Henry fell this time.
He braced himself for more pain, more punches, but nothing came. The clattering of the footsteps slowly faded out.
And Henry was left on the filthy pavement, mouth bleeding and head pounding and heart heavy once again.
Minutes passed before he could get back up.
At last Henry stood, shaking slightly. His breathing was shallow. He went home as fast as he could, though his speed was hindered by a limp and a pounding head.
He needed to see his wife.
She was waiting for him when he returned home. Henry fell into her arms, shuddering. She said not a word.
They just held each other.
Henry was so grateful to be here, at this moment, in this unfamiliar house. Though the outside was hostile, he was behind a closed door. And he had his lovely wife, who he knew would always be there for him. And he would always be there for her.
But terror still sat in the back of his mind.