A glaring bare light-bulb swings lazily overhead, stirred by the ceiling fan barely moving. Dirty sheets, rat turds on the sills, torn window screens inviting mosquitoes. In the Big Apple, this is where broke people like me end up. I dreamed of being a star, and failed. Now instead, I turn tricks to survive.
This is my life now. Gunshots filling the night, screams outside, neon blinking on the walls as I lay here, unknown, forgotten.
My last trick was my last. I lay dying, staring at the glaring bulb, sliced open, gutted. I think I met Jack—Jack the Ripper.