M
Mariposa
Guest
Original poster
Jeffry Stern
610 W Ash St
Suite 1200
San Diego, CA 92101
610 W Ash St
Suite 1200
San Diego, CA 92101
She walked over to the window where the sun shined bright over the Lower East Side skyline, opened to the Hudson River and Williamsburg bridge and the distant island of Brooklyn. The sun rays felt warm against her tense face. And she heard the cold howling winds of winter rush past the window. She bit the lower part of her lips as her eyes read the address again. The envelop in her hand was from her father. ‘Father...California.’
She made a decision. Mira pulled down the travel bag from the closet, a carry on, and picked a mix of her favorite garments from the closet and dresser, and folded them into the bag. She shoved a pair of summer flats, and a pair sneakers into the bag. Lastly a small cosmetics bag and iPad, and sipped closed the travel bag. A smiled crossed her face, the thought of going to California excited her. She walked back to the closet and pushed to the side several storage containers, searching on the left wall she pulled off a hidden wooded panel, inside was a peanut butter jar, and inside the jar was a stack of cash. She counted the money, a couple of hundred dollars, but not enough to get her to California.
Her grandmother sat at the sewing machine, her foot pressing against the pedal, and her hands carefully guided the fabric under the needle. Mira sneaked past her into the kitchen. She knew her grandmother kept the purse in the kitchen, and there it was on the kitchen table, in the usual spot next to the sugar bowl, napkin holder, and salt and pepper shakers. She grabbed it and opened it, pulled out a credit card, and set purse back on the table.
“What are you doing?”
It was Lucy, her aunt, and she saw Mira take the creditcard.
Mira panicked, ‘Lucy will tell.’ - it happened so fast, Lucy’s body is tossed across the room like a ragdoll, the back of her head hit the edge of the counter and fell backwards. Her body lays cataleptic on the kitchen floor. The sewing machine stopped. Mira cover her mouth in shock, her eyes wide open. ‘Is she dead, did I kill her?’ She didn’t mean to do it. She stood frozen with fear. The silence in the room was palpable and almost audible. Then the sewing machine started up again.
Mira made her way back to her room and grabbed her bags. She grabbed the shoe box stuffed with her father’s letters and shoved it in the travel bag, crushing the box, and hastily sneaked past her grandmother and exit the apartment. She didn’t bother to wait for the elevator and ran down the stairwells, jumping several steps at a time. Once outside she hailed a yellow cab.
“Where to?” asked the Middle Eastern cab driver.
“Penn Station.”
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