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The old man kissed Sonya on her icy forehead and started for her
mother's apartment.
Now, outside the cracked apartment building, he ran his trembling
finger down the line of names until it stopped at “Georgia Escobar:
Apartment 447C”. He did not know what he would say to her- how he
could tell a mother that her daughter had been killed.
He sat for half an hour outside the building with that medicine bag
spotted with Sonya's blood until he gathered the courage to walk
inside.
After climbing three flights of stairs and wandering around
countless corners, James Parker stood outside Apartment 447C and took
a deep breath before he knocked on the door of Sonya's old home.
If the old man had any emotion left inside of him it would have been
rage. A tired old woman stood in front of him. Hair, dried and
tangled. Eyes, blood shot and dilated. Breath, sweet from the vodka.
Nails, unkempt. Skin, pocketed with lesions from the meth.
The apartment was cleaner than she, but the old man had a feeling
Sonya was the one to keep the place tidy. There were still empty food
containers and random clothes on the floor, but considering the owner
of the apartment, it could have been much worse.
He looked up at the old woman, “What do you want?”
He continued to gaze, seeing Sonya in her mother's eyes, “Do you
happen to suffer from migraines, Miss Escobar?”
“No,” she answered with confusion, “fuck off.”
With some reservoir of strength, James Parker stopped the door from
slamming shut. He pushed the door open and asked, “Why do you need
the Vicodin?”
The mother's eyes widened and she tried, again, to close the door
but James thwarted that effort; he pushed the door open and entered
the room noticing “America's Newsroom” on the television.
“You need to get the fuck out of my house, old man, before I make
you.”
“I just want to know why you need Vicodin, Georgia.”
But he already knew that answer now that he was inside the
apartment. Crack pipes, syringes, burnt spoons, lines of neatly
packed white powder. In a soft whisper he told her what he had been
dreading to say out loud, “Your daughter, Sonya, was killed,
picking up your drugs.”
There was more he wanted to say to her. He wanted to crush the heart
of this monster that was responsible for the death of the one bright
light he had seen in years. But he did not want to think about it
anymore. The old man did not want to talk about it; he wanted to fall
asleep. He was tired.
James tossed the bag at Sonya's mother. She caught and examined what
she held in her hands and knew James was not lying. Falling to the
floor, she managed to open the bottle before she could even start
crying.
Across the room from Georgia Escobar, the old man fell onto the
couch. With tired eyes he watched Lana Diaz on the television:
Please
help bring this little girl to justice. Shot on the streets of New
York in an apparent drug deal gone wrong, she was left to die. A
sketch artist has drawn this representation of what is believed
to
be the shooter-
Lana
Diaz held her finger to her ear and continued:
Back
to that story later. This just in,
America's Newsroom Exclusive: Pope
Roberto Franco VII
was
just found in possession of child pornography....
The
old man had heard enough. He lied down on the couch and wept.
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