21st and Corrums Street

"From that time on, I could postulate that he would be the one I would wed. No matter what." That was scurrying through head as I was getting on 21 and Corrums street subway for the long and excruciating trip to my lower west side apartment. As I board I find something strange and unusual about subway. Normally filled with struggling business men trying to make it big for there families, or homeless people who couldn't make it into a shelter for the night. It was empty. Completely empty. While sitting down, starring at the dirty seat, I started contemplating if what I've been experiencing over the last month was plausible, much less real.  My apparatus of myself has drastically changed over this last month of what some of us call "life." To me; Hell had frozen over New York and it felt like I had been the only one there for over 27 years.  During that time I had come to a conclusion that I was destined to be born a lone and to die a lone. My existence was pitfall. I was that person that you grew up with that you presume would come back to find you and hunt you down later in life for what some people said and did to me.  I was never loved. My mother left my father at my age of 2. Growing up with a single father that worked 3 jobs to keep the rent paid and just enough money to keep food on the table was difficult. The real turning point of my childhood was on my 17th birthday when my father bought me a set of water colors, one brush, 3 canvases, and an easel. He said " Ashleigh, Take this and go. Leave this god forsaken project and make something of yourself. At that point I did. I left and found a job at Art supply store in the West side of Manhattan and have lived in the same apartment since.  During this time, I painted and painted more than any one could conceive. Hundreds of mindless paintings sat in my 400 square foot hostel. Just of anything my brain could conjure up.  I would sit there and paint whatever came to my mind. I never sold a single damn painting, I was saving up money to have a gallery one day. Although my rent was high enough and my boss paid minimum wage so for the second time in my life I was poverty struck like my father. Who at this point was most likely dead of a OD on Coke.   One day in Mid March. I woke up and decided to attempt to sell my work on the road as a Vendor ( I did hate this menaces but money doesn't come easy) so I took my best painting, A view of Central Park lake. Hoping to sell to some Cheesy tourist who wanted some wanted some Memorabilia. So I went to the most prominent spot for tourist I could think of, Times square. As I arrived I claimed my spot next to the Toys R' Us. Watching all the little degenerate children walk out with there toys that I would envy to be able to purchase at this age. I placed my sign saying " New York Memorabilia painting 50$" I waited for some time for anybody to even acknowledge my existence. About 2 hours into it. A man looked down at me and said I'll take it. Didn't even ask to look at it or anything. I said "that will be 50$" He paid in full and walked off. At this point feeling complete. I walked back to the subway with cash in hand. As I was going to put the money in my purse. I had realized the man had written a note and placed in between the 2 20 dollar bills with his card. My heart dropped as I read what it said " Tom Green. Scholarship/Admissions, Juilliard School of Arts.  With his number written in the back. My heart sank, I was sweating contemplating if this was true life. I realized life went from a living hell, to The Garden of Eden.
The End

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