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Chapter 1
Eden
Dario La Rosa; 31. Eden Taylor; 24.
Opening my eyes, I listen to the sirens blaring around the neighborhood. It’s something you get used to when you live in Brownsville. It’s one of The Bronx's poorest and most dangerous areas, but I’ve learned to navigate the streets.
Sadly, it’s home.
The air is stuffy with the early autumn heat, and it has me kicking the covers off.
The AC must be broken again.
I have to talk to the building manager about the faulty heating and broken AC which is a conversation I never look forward to having.
I have to make a plan to buy another blanket, seeing as winter is only a couple of months away, and having heat in this apartment is never a sure thing.
I also have to talk to Sylvia about working extra shifts so I can pay the overdue gas bill.
God. Rent was due last week.
Letting out an exhausted sigh, I drag myself out of bed.
Digging clothes from the drawers of the dresser, I walk to the bathroom and turn on the faucets in the shower. While brushing my teeth, I pray the water will warm up, but when I hold my hand beneath the spray, there’s no luck.
I’ll have to ask Sylvia for an advance, or it’ll be me and cold showers for the next two weeks.
Taking off my underwear and favorite sleepshirt, I step beneath the cold spray and shiver as I rush to wash my hair and body. I keep hopping from one foot to the other as if it will help to warm me up, and the instant I’m done, I dart out of the icy shower.
I grab a bleached towel and dry myself at the speed of light before throwing on my jeans and T-shirt.
“Jesus.” I shudder from the cold, and rushing back to my bedroom, I put on my socks and boots.
When I’m fully dressed, I hurry to the kitchen to see if I have any coffee left. Not finding any, I open the fridge and take a sip of the last of the orange juice.
Wanting to avoid Winston, the building manager, until I have the money for rent, I open the window in the small living room and step out onto the steel grate to go down the fire escape.
Just as I head down the stairs, my neighbor, Tyrone, opens his window and pokes his head outside.
“Don’t run off. Your mother is passed out in the hallway.”
I shake my head and continue down the stairs as I answer, “Not my problem, Tyrone.”
“She’s your mother,” he shouts. “She stinks like the dead.”
“Just because the woman gave birth to me doesn’t mean shit. Let her sleep in the hallway until Winston throws her out.”
When I reach the alley, I glance up to see Tyrone shake his head before shutting his window.
Mandy, the woman who brought me into this world, has never been a mother to me. When I was younger, Tyrone always made sure I had something to eat while Mandy was out getting drunk or high.
The woman doesn’t have a motherly bone in her body and is nothing but a thorn in my side. I had to put extra locks on the front door to keep her out. She keeps breaking in and stealing my shit so she can pay for her next hit or her tab at the bar.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I shake my head while I walk to Ben’s Burgers, the diner that’s responsible for my second income. I always work the twelve to seven shift before heading over to the Ballet Company, where I work the night shift as a janitor.
If I’m lucky, Sylvia will let me work the morning shift as well.
Who needs sleep when they have bills to pay?
